The sounds of a song fading as the radio nearby starts losing battery life….
A large mass of walkers heading away from the deserted city…
Two patches of heavy dirt mount over the side of the shop…
Graves. Two Graves.
The young man loads two heavy bags of artillery over his shoulders, A piece of shrapnel- a disfigured bullet shell hung carefully from his tags. His younger sister’s bandana around his neck. Jerry had been bitten, but refused to tell Amy…and for that… he lost her. His expression had turn cold- he lost the one thing that mattered to him. He worked for days on the nearby vehicle that his sister had been trying to fix to get to him. He would go upstairs of the gun shop to a small condo and lean against the railing- strap on a silencer and take out some slugs that would get close by. He glanced at the radio- He could call them, but they don’t need him. He walked past it and cooked himself something- counting out inventory, ammo, he was running low on medicine.
He couldn’t keep without medicine- so he geared up, touched the slab he used for Amy’s grave for a moment, before heading into the city, keeping low as he got closer- he stepped into a pharmacy, debris and pills spilled over the floor, jumping over the counter, he took out a walker inside- grabbed as many schizoid prescriptions as he deemed necessary, along with pain and other miscellaneous medication.
Slipping out of the pharmacy, he held his gun close- thinking about other places to maybe hit while he was this deep in ground zero.