oak yacht
The world was already dying by the time the dead finished it off. Some blame fungal infections; others blame something defrosting in the Alaskan or Siberian glaciers. But whatever it is, it turns festering corpses into hunger-driven carcasses feasting on the remains of an old, decaying world.
The year is 1993, four weeks since the last FEMA message. Four weeks since the military hastily evacuated most of Oldham County towards that of Knox, leaving you and a few others behind in their wake. Four weeks since whatever made the dead walk appeared on the doorstep of the world, and not but a few days since the last fighter jet was seen jutting over the Kentucky sky. You know it's October, but most can't remember the day.
Either way, the radios are dead silent. The world is all but dead- now reanimated with the lives of a few dedicated to marching onwards in life, defiant of whatever caused the dead to rise. Some say there are still holdouts in Alaska; others say the military fled to Greenland. One thing is for sure- you were left behind, and you're not even sure they were taking hitchhikers.
All you can do now is march forwards. Unsure of what the next day wears. Hope drives you forward, but dread lurks around every corner. The question is- how much hope do you even have left? Will you be torn apart by hordes or starve in your safe house? Or will you rage against the dying world- finding hope amidst new horizons?
pine sonnet