It was peaceful, unmoving, as I walked through the now abandoned and decaying refuge of the city. People were gone, much to my relief. They had gotten out in time, otherwise bodies would have been everywhere... or maybe they all stayed inside and I just can’t see them?

I doubt they stayed.

An entire month in the city’s catacombs is where I had been, exploring, lost, unexplainably not starving or growing thirsty. If I hadn’t seen a calendar when I had gotten out I would have been inclined to assume that I just lost track of time and was only down there for perhaps two or three days. But then again, given what happened I may have been down there much longer than a month.

Pausing in my tracks I look up at the sky, squinting against the Sun, my mind tripping over itself and asking a question I’ve had for an entire month below and the entire three months above since: “Am I dead? Did I die exploring the catacombs?”

Then I hear a shout, and I turn to see a person, waving at me, asking if I’m okay, if I’m hurt,

if I encountered something dangerous.

Why did you stay?

I don’t want to do this

but I no longer have control

over these things.

Stop looking for survivors.

The person walks up to me,

asking if I’m in shock,

if I have anybody with me,

if I need help.

Humans are so trusting

and caring,

they didn’t deserve this.

He’s alone.

And now he’s on the ground

bleeding out at my feet.

Tears are streaming down both our faces, and for the first time in over half a month I feel deep regret. I shouldn’t have come out from there, I should have stayed down there and rotted. I shouldn’t have opened that tomb and brought this out. If I had stayed down there bombing the city wouldn’t have been necessary.

But instead I keep walking, finding a dirty puddle to wash the blood off my hands, new clothes in an abandoned department store.

I don’t have control over where my feet lead me, over what my hands do.

I want this to stop, I want it to end.

The man is standing in front of me now, staring at me, blood leaking from his throat. Had he followed me? If he had it was clear he had gotten this far before loosing control, and without any further advances on me he walks away. Calmly, put together, and into the city to make himself look normal.

I wish I could stop him, kill him again so he wouldn’t have to endure this life. But my feet walk away.

I just wanted to go home, but whatever this is, it won’t let me, and I don’t think it ever will.