The sickness hit hard, and it hit fast. Before long the dead piled up with few left to tend to their decomposing bodies. The handful of us that remained–and could still walk–left town a week after the initial wave of sickness swept through. There were six of us, now there are two. Only John and I remain, and John is coughing up blood.
We’ve not seen another living thing since we started on our journey–not even a bird. I find myself wondering what I’ll do when John is gone. Why carry on when the world is dead?