𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢.

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[ i. slowly they go ]

october 9th, 2010

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FOR THE LONGEST TIME, no one could truly agree on when the world ended.

Sure, for some the world seemed to end with the age of technology. And—God—with the way things were looking, robots surely were about to turn on the people any day now. For others who were not so convinced by the rise mini terminators, well, for them, the world seemed to end because of the overuse of fossil fuels.

Know what that means? Global warming. Yeah, it got a little hot. Too hot for a lot of people, supposedly. But so what? Regardless of what anyone actually thought, they were not allowed to make the final decision. Their voices meant nothing.

So, who has the power to decide when the world ends? Does anyone?

Because as far as Greyson Hunt was concerned, no one could say when the world got to end. And if there was going to be any shot caller at all, it was the goddamn world itself. Granted, Greyson always thought the world would have succumbed under the far-reaching grasp of disease. His father did, too. In fact, a lot of people—the smart people—thought the same. So, when people started to cough and fevers began to rise, and the death toll steadily grew into the thousands, Greyson did not really think anything of it. Disease was what society had started to topple down into and he had predicted that. He had accepted that.

On the other hand, he did begin to give a damn when—after an unnamed disease had ravaged most of society—the dead began to rise up to feast on the living. Because no matter what kind of crazy conspiracy theory Greyson heard on the dark side of the web, he would have never, in a million years, suspected that the rising of the dead would result in the end of the world.

The fall of civilization happened slowly, strangely enough. Funny how the world works like that, right? When anyone thought of the end, they likely expected it to happen quickly. Well, not this time. Not for Greyson. While going about his daily schedule, attending his ordinary and boring college classes, it took a while before he began to notice the disappearances of his classmates and neighbors. From out of the corner of Greyson's eye, dorms around him emptied, familiar faces vanished, and his once lively campus slowly crafted itself into a ghost town.

And if it had not been for his roommate, Greyson probably would have disappeared, too.

Greyson could remember vividly that in the fallout of the pandemic that the street riots had been the worst part of it all. From outside his window, it was the slums of the suburbs versus the local police departments, and eventually both sides were destroyed. One day the riots were going, violent and endless, and then the next day they were no more. The streets became deathly quiet; eventually the only sign of distress came from the gruesome sights of burned belongings and shattered windows.

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