Some thoughts should never be conceived. Some questions should never be asked, because they have no answer, and the questions themselves serve only to haunt with grinding guilt and second guessing.
My hands felt electrically charged. My blood was ready to burst from my veins and my heart was beating a manic rhythm. I was frightened out of my wits but I was catching a familiar, addictive adrenaline wave. I was ready to taunt the reaper.
Man, I’m just trying to get you lighten up a bit.” “Murphy, we’re looking at a thousand rotting corpses. Lighten up?” “Life is what you make it, man.
So fuck Dan. Fuck the police. Fuck the doctors. Fuck Jerome. And fuck the infected!
I went into the living room and looked down at my mother’s torn body and shook my head. It was surreal. I guess some people in that situation would have crumbled, some would have cried, but I’d emotionally disconnected from life a long time ago. ...
He was dead. I was fixated on the horrid bite wound on my left forearm. For a long time I watched, hypnotized, as the blood oozed and dripped.
