The already familiar beeping sound dies down from the incessant assail from mere minutes ago into a more tranquil, spaced-out beep, informing me of the declining levels of carrion circulating in the air going from “You better duck-tape that shit to your face” to “you can breathe now”. I make my way down this dilapidated hallway. Pieces of rubble, rags, bags, food cans, and bullet shells litter the floor. They tell many a tale of what may have occurred here during the mayhem.

I take extra precautions to avoid any pieces of live-flesh that may be strung about the floor, but it ends up being unnecessary. Unlike the previous floors, this one is almost untouched. The heavy feeling at the back of my neck residing unto nothingness, though you can never be too secure, it’s when you think you are the safest that you are in the biggest danger.

I inspect a single open door hanging open wide. It rests languidly on whatever is left of its hinges. I don’t know what keeps it from falling down, but it would be a really bad thing for it to fall down while I’m here.

I stick my back as close to the wall as I can manage and peek through the doorway. I know I’m being uselessly cautious, I’m aware that no spotter or flesh freak is waiting inside for me, but the survival instincts and pure mind-numbing repetition-drilled-tactics kick in, to keep me safe while on the stalk, I rather lose a few seconds than lose my life.

The room is empty, barren of life and probably of useful things as well. The entirety of the furthest wall is gone, leaving a chill breeze running down the entire department and giving a good view into the department complex in front.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

I step inside, my finger anxiously resting next to the trigger of the bitch, waiting for any situation that will make me pull it and pray for the bullet to hit the target. But as I make my way through every room, I end up deciding the place is secure and holster the weapon. Letting it hang on my back.

I move close to the big hole in the wall and, taking into account the sheer silence, I remove the gas mask covering my head and take a long, hard breath.

Finally, some air.

Looking at the street level gives me a sense of adrenaline. The streets seem to be barren of life, but everyone knows that’s not the case at all. They are just waiting for you to believe that.

“Long way to fall down.”

How many floors had I gone up to? I make a mental head count.

Twelve, Twelve floors of jack and shit.

In the main bedroom, I find someone, or better said… someone’s remains, just sitting on a chair, a skeleton picked almost clean only ragged and tattered clothes remained on it, the almost pure white skeleton had a big portion of its cranium gone and without much effort, I find the culprit just lying on the floor, a revolver.

“Broken,” I speak to one but me.

I still take it with me since it could be repaired. No ammo, one shell on the floor.

I notice a piece of yellowed-out paper resting on top of the nightstand. It remained firmly stuck thanks to the heavy glass ashtray pressing on top of it.

“What happened to you?” I take the suicide note into my hands with morbid curiosity.  

The flesh, the rotten, the decay. I stare outside my window, witnessing this sad parade.

They’ve gone away. Only the sorry, meaty puppets remain. A façade, a soulless container of flesh, a putrid alteration, a mocking imitation of them staring at me from the groundswell. I only wish to get away.

“Sad fuck, sorry I’m the one to find you out… I can barely read, bud, so I don’t know if it’s any good or not.”  

I decided to keep the note and left it inside my journal along with the others, not the first one to leave one behind, but he was one of the more unique ones. Sadly for him, he is just another note in my collection now.