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It had been Dave's idea to take the shortcut through the forest. It was also Dave's idea to take a right on the path instead of a left.

So there they were, Will and Dave, trekking in the middle of the woods on a hot July night. Foxfire glistened behind a bush, casting a pale, eerie glow on their surroundings. Will fingered his rifle for the fiftieth time, clicking the safety on and off. It was something he did when he was bored. Click, click, click.

Dave and Will had first seen the message on the old black and white television in the den. The newscaster, his tie half hidden behind scrolling white text informing the public that they had to go to a rescue station, had said that volunteers were needed to help secure the area. They would be provided with some pay, coffee, and ammunition for their guns.

Being two hunters, Dave and Will left their house immediately and signed their names- in childlike, shaky letters- on a clipboard. They had decided that it was probably better to just go together instead of in one of the designated groups, because the group they would have been assigned to was being followed by an irritating reporter with slicked back hair and a nice suit. They would rendezvous with the main group in the early morning hours near the lake, and were given their maps before being waved off.

"Will, can you stop clickin' that fuckin' gun? It's givin' me a fuckin' headache." said Dave, not even turning around.

"Fuck you, man. I ain't stoppin' doin' nothin'," responded Will, continuing to click the safety..

"You listen tah me, dickface. I'm older than you, and when I say shut that fuckin' thing off, you better-"

There were three of them. They came from the trees and bushes, emerging like ghosts from the summer greenery. The things grabbed Dave and Will grabbed his gun. He put it on his shoulder and sqeezed the trigger.

The safety was on.

It was that brief second that changed everything. The first creature, a fat man whose cheek was hanging off his mouth like a noodle out of a child's mouth, buried his head into Dave's hair. A large piece of scalp hung out of his mouth when he pulled out, and he slurped it up like it was jello.

The next creature ripped into Dave's throat when Will finally got the safety off. His nerves were completely shot, but his first two bullets got the zombies in their respective heads. The third bullet, to Will's dismay, struck Dave in the chest. Dave slowly sank down to the earth, a bloody mess, his pleading eyes never leaving Will's. Then, as if a plug was pulled somewhere in Dave, he simply blanked out and died.

Through tears, Will managed to get the third zombie in his sights. He fired, splitting the creature's skull with its force. He then slung his rifle over his shoulder, inhaled and exhaled, and kept marching onward. He ignored the now moist area near his crotch.

That was... what, seven hours ago?

Will was now hell-bent on finding survivors, trying to make it so Dave's death was not in vain.

The forest was now less dense, and the sky was graying with the impending dawn. His mind wandered to the last survivor he had found, an old man who died within five minutes, both of his hands clutching his stomach in a futile attempt to hold his intestines in. Will blocked out the image of what was probably happening to that man now, but the sounds of intestines being slurped up caused his bile duct to jump up and down. He bent over for a second, but no vomit would come. His mouth was completely dry.

Will pushed himself up and looked around. There was a group of three zombies about three hundred feet away from him. He shot all of them, and fancied that he'd heard other gunshots. Perhaps another group is not far from here, Will thought. He hawked and spat, and when he was wiping his mouth he saw it.

Behind the bushes was a small white house. Will pushed his way through the rhododendron to get a closer look at it. Most of the windows were cracked, and there were pieces of wood on some of them. There had been a struggle here. Perhaps someone had survived! The very thought caused Will to smile and push his way towards the house.

After shooting two lingering zombies, a woman in a blouse and a man in a black suit with one driving glove on, he reached the back door of the house. It was hanging open. He pushed it, and it surged away with a definite creak. He walked in.

Walking slowly and stealthily so he wouldn't startle any residents, he looked around. First, he looked at the bathroom. It was clean, and appeared as though nobody had used it for a while. He looked through one of the semi-boarded windows and saw the still-smoking remains of a truck. The way the black smoke billowed off it was almost hypnotizing, and Will had to shake his head to stay focused. The survivors are waiting for rescue, you dolt, thought Will. He continued on.

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