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The stairs were bloody, as if something had been dragged down off of it. He walked up the stairs a bit, and at the top was a pool of blood. He started walking down again when he heard the creaking of a door.

Slowly unslinging his rifle, he started down the stairs. There were footsteps in what was probably the living room, slow and steady. He walked down the small hallway as carefully as he could. He then saw the door that had opened. It was a cheap white one, and it wasn't open a few seconds ago. Was it a creature or a survivor? Will put his dirty hand on it and pushed slowly. It went back to closed silently, and then Will saw him.

A black man, wearing black khaki pants and a white workshirt holding a small deer hunting rifle, was slowly making his way toward the window. He wasn't one of them, and Will figured he had spent the entire night in that shithole basement cowering in fear. Will put his gun back on his shoulder and took a step forward. The man was almost to the window.

"Hi!" Said Will, and the black man was just about to turn around when a shot rang out. A hole formed in the black man's forehead, and blood sprayed out of it. The black man turned around, and in his final fleeting second of life he saw Will standing there. He hit the ground, dead before impact.

Will had never felt so infuriated in all his life. He had found someone who had lived, a survivor who needed help. A regular man who heard racket and went out expecting safe harbor and those people killed him. Will's thoughts were interrupted when he heard some talking.

"Great shot!" Said the faraway voice. It registered with William as the voice of the local sherrif, bandleader of the main posse. "That's another one for da fire."

Will straightened his coat out and clicked the safety off of his gun. He turned around and let himself out the back door. Yes, he would look for more survivors and probably find them. Yes, he was looking forward to saving lives and mending wounds.

But first he was going to have a word with that fuckface sherrif.