Dead Ones

Prologue 1: Tin Cans

The flickering light shimmers on my face. Small, inferior, little flame. Yet it keeps me warm. The scrapings from the bottom of the can which contains the fire can be heard sizzling faintly. I stare into the blaze. So fragile, yet powerful. It could be snuffed out with one simple puff of wind, yet it could consume an entire city, if you let it. I was like that flame, in a way. With heavy lidded eyes, the dancing flame in the can entrances me. I cannot, or chose not, to look anywhere else. My mind raced with many thoughts. The very same thoughts that are in my mind whenever I give my conscious time to roam. "Why me?" "Where is everyone?" "What happened here?" "Where is she?" I ponder these things often. I myself do not know the answers to these questions. Having an answer, a sign, anything, will help ease my mind. It is quiet around me, promoting the wandering of my mind. The wind rustling though nearby buildings is the only noise in the dead of this night. That, and the faint crackling and sizzling of the fire.  I draw the large knife on the appendix of my belt, and a stone from my pocket. I began to slide the edge on its coarse surface. Each time, knowingly, making my blade more and more deadly. A tool, of many uses, but in this world, there is mainly one use, and for that use, it must be sharp as a razor. With the experience of sharpening bladed weaponry several times before, I can feel free to let my mind wander as I work with my hand and stone. I remember my former life before all of this. I remember my lover. I do not know where she is now. The only place I can assume she is, is home...

Grinding away at the material of the blade, I am lost deep in thought. The movement of my hands, like machines works by this point.  The rhythmic motion is soothing, even though it harbors a disturbing purpose. I remember every detail about her while I worked on the weapon. Her fair skin, long, strawberry-blonde hair, a fit, yet curvy physique, and rosy cheeks. At least, whenever around me. But the most noticeable features about her were her smile, and those eyes... Those captivating, hypnotic icy pearls. Even if she was tired, drained completely of all energy, her eyes still had this spark to them. I remember every day, walking in the door, returning from my occupation, and being greeted by an ear to ear smile, and those lovely eyes. "How was your day love?" She would always ask. I regret getting annoyed at her asking how my day was constantly. I do realize now she just really cared and she would try any way to get me to talk to her. I am not a very talkative man. I take my pride in my silence, and listening.  Now, in this life, I have no one to talk to. I would give anything for just one more conversation with the one person I loved so dearly. She is the world to me. Life could be going horribly, my day could be bad, my job could tire me out, but she made everything better. I miss her every moment. I think of her when I can. I got so lost in my delusion, even inhaling through my nose, I could faintly smell her vanilla and sandal wood scent. It made me smile in spite of myself. I missed her dearly. I wanted her back. Where is she now? Is she safe?? This overthinking seemed to have overwhelmed my body. The usual second nature action became sloppy, and in my haze, the blade caught on the stone, and slipped. I had opened a decently deep incision in the thicker part of my hand. Swearing under my breath, I dropped both the stone and the blade. I attempted to find a pad of gauze in my pack without bleeding all over my belongings. Keeping my things clean was achievable, but I myself, forget it. By the time I had slowed the crimson flow, I had been stained on each hand with scarlet. It wasn't a terrible wound, and would heal within days. The smell of the wound might attract unwanted attention though. Best be careful when migrating, especially if I choose to do so at night...

I needed to plan a route of travel to my destination. I was nearby too. A couple days trip by foot, if I keep up a constant pace. I was located somewhere in the South East sector of New Hampshire. My destination, Bangor, Maine. I know a couple days trip on foot sounds improbable, but having served in the Army Special Forces, multi-mile hikes with several pounds of gear almost seemed like a walk in the park. With my current supplies, most likely weighing under twenty pounds, this trip would be easy, if I was smart. I left the building I had stayed in the night before. With that, I began my trek up North...