THE PLOT

There is nothing left. Nothing left but the heavy scent of death and decay pervading the senses of those left. Those suffering as days turn to weeks and weeks to months. Do everything they can to survive. To live. To breath. Anything to avoid becoming those monsters that used to live under the bed but now take lives for some unknown reason. For sustenance. Or sick demented fun. All there is left to do is survive. That is all one can do if they wish to see another sunrise. To breath air. To hope for the end of whatever horrible thing that has begun. And survival comes in a package of violent and terrible things. Survival is the smell of gun powder and the pain of recoil. It is the sound of skulls splitting and bodies crumbling. It is the vision of death clouding everything real. There is nothing left. Nothing left but the instinct to survive.