A New Life
America; a place for new opportunities, wonders, hopes, and dreams. A place where the smallest of men can stand tall, the underdogs are cheered for, and where new ideas and innovation are daily life. It is a place that Artyom, like many others, once hoped to call home; but that was long ago, before things changed and humanity fell, brought to its knees by its own foolish arrogance and greed.
Shopping cart in hand, Artyom wheeled into the next aisle not finding anything that he or the gals might particularly enjoy; that was another thing about America. It had so many choices to offer. There was never just chocolate, or just soda, but countless varieties and brands, each for your enjoyment. Even with a whole year under his belt, Artyom was still amazed by the size of the supermarkets here. Unlike the ones back home, the shelves were normally lined with brands and colors stretching as far as the eye can see. Unfortunately for him and his little group, there was nothing worth taking today. Giving one last, futile attempt at finding something edible, Artyom sighed and wheeled his cart to the aisle’s exit.
Least he found some nearly expired cake mix, it’d provide a nice meal and lift spirits on his birthday; something that he looked forward to only to preserve his humanity and upkeep morale. The cart stopped abruptly, jolting both itself and Artyom. He looked up, nervous and alert, but let out a relieved sigh when he found nothing but a thick shard of glass halting his cart’s wheel. He maneuvered his cart around it, disappointed in himself for not being more alert, and in the fact that such a place might not have someone to clean it ever again.
Artyom stopped short of the exit, at the register, and looked back, scanning the store for something he might have forgotten or missed. He found nothing and wheeled the cart out into the large parking lot filled with cars long abandoned by their masters. It was quiet today, and the metal giants of the the city stood silently against the clear sky. High visibility, and no trouble. A good day after all. Artyom thought.
He maneuvered past the zigzagging cars, his cart’s wheels grinding audibly against the concrete pavement, his eyes darting from one blindspot to the next. With each car seemingly more ominous than the last, his mind drifted to the 9mm Beretta gently swinging with his right leg as he walked, his pace and pulse quickening.
“Almost there.” He breathed, his mind already prepping his muscles to draw and fire.
He maneuvered past a blue minivan blocking the exit path, its doors open and keys left in the ignition, abandoned and rusting. Once clear, Artyom bee-lined for the orange 2011 Dodge Challenger, scavenged and repaired by its owner herself; Rainbow Dash, who leaned casually yet alert against her car’s trunk. Artyom and the others still rolled their eyes at the damn thing every time they saw it, thoroughly convinced that it was too costly of an endeavor to repair during the apocalypse, but like its owner, it stood smug and proved everyone wrong. Both had earned everyone’s apology, especially Artyom's during a raid gone wrong; it was the same day that Artyom had decided to berate Dash for her salvaging a fast car over a more fuel efficient one. Unfortunately for his ego it was the same day that the car’s speed and rugged capabilities, complemented by his adrenaline fueled driving had earned him a dent in the car, their lives, and an endless amount of chastising from her over how right she was and how like the the car’s front bumper, her feelings toward him were dented.
Mosin Nagant in hand, Dash brought her attention to Artyom and pushed herself off the car, opening the trunk.
“Light load today?” She asked her scavenging partner; she eyed the poorly stocked cart with disappointment.
“Yea.” Artyom grunted, lifting a few gallons of water and placing them in the car. “Shame, we haven’t even raided this place before.” He added, reaching for the rest of his supplies as Dash kept watch.
“I guess that’s what we get for scavenging in the city.”
“Yea, but we’re running out of places to look. Any further and we’d be overrun by hordes.” Artyom reminded her dolefully. “Our problems just keep getting bigger, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” He sighed, securing this trip’s goods.
“Hey, don’t think like that! Least not today.” Dash consoled. “We’re all trying our best. There’s nothing you or anyone can do to change things. Besides, we only have a month left before we can go back and take you with us.”
“And what if we can’t Dashie! Ever think of that, huh?! What if we can’t go back, if something happens and we’re stuck here?! What then Dashie?!” Artyom demanded. “What do I do to help you then?” He asked, defeated, and slumped over the open trunk; he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and angry at himself for letting loose.
Artyom had asked himself this many times before, back when he had just come to America, still an immigrant and still naive. Back when the TV’s warnings of parasitic fungi spurred nothing more than a rise in demand for air purifiers and clothed masks, when the most important thing to Artyom was memorizing his new American address and what route to take to his Manhattan job from his Long Island suburban home.
Life seemed far more interesting, uncertain, and unreal when this all began; especially when Artyom, the Ukrainian brony immigrant, had met the most human looking Twilight in the middle of a terrified, panic driven horde running from the first “infected” -- if you can even call the product of a rapidly growing, parasitic fungus that turns the human body into a swollen plant nutrition factory simply “infected”-- human. At that moment offering a ride to the confused, lost, and scared women and her five friends was a sure sign that life, although cruel and demanding, was still full of surprises and wonders he could never hope to understand; much like what he imagined to be the American lifestyle.
But like supplies and morale the magic soon faded, buried and lost with the sands of time. It faded after Artyom had his little brony meltdown, after he took it upon himself, the immigrant, the task of protecting and caring for the mane six using his knowledge of his new “home”; it faded once the reality that this was no cartoon show, no slice of heaven on earth, and the mane six were real people with real problems that needed real solutions. There was no magic or script to guide them and make everything better in the end. This was real, and Artyom soon found his problems like himself: in way over his head. Twilight had told him their portal back home would be open in a year, and back then it felt like it would pass quickly, leaving Artyom with an unsatisfied thirst for adventure and story to tell; instead the eleven months up to this point left him scarred, hopeless, and grim. Turns out death and fear were far less exciting when met in reality; a lesson Artyom had learned in the vivid deaths he’d witnessed, forever seared into the deep confines of his mind. Hopes for salvation dimmed with every passing day, and soon hope of that faded within Artyom as well.
“I’m sorry. We have enough problems as it is. There’s no need for me to bring you guys down too.” Artyom apologized, glancing at Dash remorsefully.
His rainbow-haired friend sighed, her eyes scanning his face for clues as to what to say next.
“We’ll make it out alive. You’ll see.” She told him conclusively, resting her rifle on her shoulder as she gave Artyom one of her stubborn smiles.
Artyom chuckled lightly knowing full well that once Dash had her mind set there was no point in arguing. He gave their supplies one last look and closed the car’s trunk, leaving his hand on it as he turned to face his closest friend.
“Well you were right about the car, so I’ll take your word for it.” He smiled.
Out of the mane six, Dash had been the most persistent when it came to volunteering for scavenging trips. Artyom had been reluctant at first, being the only one with any clue as to where to look and the only one other than Twilight used to walking; the few times his friends had taken him target shooting weren't too bad either. He’d always insisted that the girls should stay home completing tasks that would hopefully keep them out of trouble, safe things, like reinforcing the barricades, keeping tools and home clean, and finding new ways to upkeep morale as well as making a list of things needed to do so; he was looking for ways to keep them sheltered from the hell around them. Like the show insisted, everyone refused to just sit back and let someone do all the dangerous work, chastising Artyom for thinking they were all incapable. However, to his relief, Artyom managed to shake even Applejack, convincing her that she was needed to get the tough tasks done at home and most importantly, protect the others while he was gone. Pleading and reason aside, Dash didn’t bother herself with Artyom’s attempts to shelter her ego and self-assuredness. She pushed her way past him when he refused to unblock the doorway and took her seat in his S.U.V while verbally expressing her displeasure with his dilly dallying. His complaints fell on deaf ears while the persistent ex-pony ignored him despite knowing full well that she didn’t even know what the metal contraption she was in was called.
Defeated, yet impressed by the accuracy of her stubbornness and bravery Artyom had to begin taking her with him for most trips. And he was glad he did, for as much as he wanted to think of himself as the glue holding everything together he had to admit that Dash was responsible for taking the risks they needed to survive, often dragging him along with her and standing her ground when he refused to endanger her any further. He was a helping hand, but without the efforts of the girls he’d never have made it past the first week. Soon enough he was sure that he needed them more than they needed him. Still, had it not been for him the girls would not have had the knowledge and guts they needed to be capable of surviving on their own, and for that he was certain he earned his place in the group, at least for now. Of course life with them had not been the magical adventure depicted in his favorite cartoon show, and there were times that everyone had been at each other’s throats, ready to do things they would later regret. Friends agreed and friends fought, but the ultimate test of life or death couldn’t separate the close knit group. Friendship must have been a magic more powerful than Artyom could grasp, considering cities and civilizations fell as people turned on one another, more concerned with their own safety than that of humanity as a whole while a pandemic tore the very foundations of society asunder. Whatever was responsible for the apocalypse did one hell of a job at breaking nations, but to its dismay it only brought Artyom and the girls closer.
A silhouetted, slow moving figure caught the corner of Artyom’s eye from behind Dash’s head. “Infected.” He alerted, springing into well-rehearsed action and racing Dash to the car doors. Supplies secured, the duo only hoped the roads back home were as clear as they were when they had first taken them. “Dashie.” Artyom said, catching her attention just before she opened the driver’s door; she looked up and listened with panicked attention. “Think I can drive?” He asked meekly. His rainbow-haired friend smirked and rolled her eyes as she opened the door and got into her car. “Didn’t think so.” Artyom chuckled, opening his door and climbing inside as well.
The car’s tires screeched as soon as Artyom’s door shut and the duo sped off the way they came, through long abandoned roads and ominous streets. The car sped through the quiet lonely city, filling the desolate streets with the quiet hum of its engine. Dash and Artyom sat in silence; Dash focused on the road as Artyom partook in one of his favorite activities, sightseeing. He was still a tourist in his own country, having been forced out of the city before he could call it his own he still enjoyed marveling at the city painted in the postcards he once treasured as a child. The parasitic fungi that had brought the world to its knees had hit hard in the major cities, where it thrived and spread like wildfire. It had ravaged the beating heart of America and left nothing more than a skeleton of steel and concrete. Without humanity to keep mother nature under its artificial grasp, she had begun to take over what was once hers, encircling skyscrapers with her leafy fingers, re-painting the streets green with grass, and slowly weathering the creations of her once favorite children.
Artyom looked out his window through the eyes of a wonder-stricken child. To Dash, the streets were narrow and restricting, the colors dull and faded, and the architecture moody. To Artyom, it was a wonder seen through a green tinted screen; it was an example of the potential humanity had to offer and a gloomy reminder of what humanity has lost once nature had shifted the tide of their war. Cars littered the streets like candy spilled by a toddler, and Dash grunted softly, only minorly annoyed with the task of maneuvering their ride around them. Once past the rusting obstructions the duo were met with the sight of the living dead walking the streets; Dash accelerated, rocketing the car through the streets and dodging anything that strayed onto the road.
Although tense Artyom could not help but feel remorse for the souls that once occupied the shells of human shaped, plant parasites that walked the earth. Like him they too once had hopes, dreams, petty complications and problems that paled in comparison to the problems of those less fortunate.
“Shit!” Dash yelled, hitting the brakes hard and sending Artyom flying into his seat belt as the car screeched in protest.
A gruesome human-like corpse turned to face the orange car that had grinded to a halt before him. His slanted posture began to twitch as long dead muscles contracted under order of a foreign presence in his head. He collapsed onto the car’s hood, moaning loudly through lungs long deflated; his existence meant nothing more to him than the food that would never satisfy neither his, nor his parasite’s hunger. Crooked and bent legs, covered in the jeans that it once recognized as its own, stumbled forward, sending him closer to the tasty treat inside the metal container he was on. He moaned once more, alerting his brethren of the task he had undertaken, and asking them for their help. A loud crack filled the air and a bullet bore its way into his skull through the sensitive and fragile wiring of his master, forever freeing him from its grasp. His body rolled off the hood as the car once more sped up, deposited it like every other nameless soul unfortunate enough to fall under the control of the parasite.
“Nice shot.” Dash breathed, relieved that their problem had been dealt with before it damaged her car.
“Nice driving.” Artyom replied, falling back into his seat and rolling up the window he had just been leaning out of; he reloaded his 9mm and once more secured it into its holster.
The rest of the journey out of the city was quiet, and soon Dash and Artyom exhaled, relieved to have the rotting city behind them as they sped through I-495.
“You excited for the party?” Dash asked, hoping to make small talk during the boring drive.
“When Pinkie pie throws a party, I’m there.” He quoted absentmindedly. Truthfully he was not the least bit concerned with celebrating today. He had the girls and that was enough; there was no need to waste extra supplies on him.
“Well you don’t seem too enthusiastic about it.” Dash responded, eyeing him for a moment before facing the road once more. “I mean, apocalypse and all I guess that Pinkie might be losing her touch-”
“No no no, no... no! That's not what I meant at all!” Artyom exclaimed, shaking his hands in an alarmed fashion. “Pinkie’s parties are still great, hell without her I’m sure we would have eventually gone crazy from being cooped up in our home for so long. It’s just...” Artyom sighed, slowly sinking back into his seat. “I don’t really see the point in making a big deal over this. With supplies running short, I just think it would be better to not burn them up so quickly over nothing.”
“Never stopped you from nearly getting yourself killed for supplies on our birthdays.” Dash answered matter-of-factly as she navigated their ride through rows of scattered and abandoned cars.
“But, that was different.” Artyom retorted.
“Different how?" Dash demanded, facing him a penetrating stare before returning her attention to the road. "We all had birthdays, we all gladly used up supplies that could have lasted for far longer. Point is, despite the madness around us we still found joy in each other. You’re our friend and unless you don’t think of yourself as such, there shouldn't be a problem with anyone.”
“Thanks.” Artyom answered, defeated. He still didn’t like the idea, but at least he knew the girls didn’t consider it as much of a waste as he did. Artyom let his head drop onto his seat and shut his eyes in hopes of salvaging a few moments of peace before once more dealing with the world and its problems; his mind left alone to wander.
~~~
“This is it!” Artyom exclaimed, adrenaline and excitement still coursing through his veins as he parked his S.U.V in front of his home. After all it wasn’t everyday that he got to go home early on account of an “infected” co-worker; not to mention bring home six girls.
“That’s all?” Dash asked, eyeing the two-story, plain, beige colored house.
“Well it has its charm.” Rarity added sympathetically.
“Hey, it was all I could afford when I moved here!” Artyom retorted bitterly. Getting over the shock of calling the girls by their names was one thing, but that didn’t mean he had to deal with their criticisms too.
“Girls!” Twilight scolded, looking back from the passenger's side to frown at her friends. She returned her attention to Artyom. “I’m sorry Artyom, it will do just fine for now. Thanks for bringing us here.”
“A home’s a home. Mighty kind of you Artyom.” Applejack added.
“Thank you.” Artyom said, glad to hear some appreciation for his effort.
He killed the gas, retrieved his keys, and got out to open the doors for the gals.
“Here, make yourselves at home. I’ll finish up some stuff and meet you inside.” He commanded, giving his keys to Twilight as he eyed his home.
It’s not that small. Artyom told himself, still bothered by the earlier criticism enough to not hear Twilight’s answer. I mean it’s not huge, but it will do. He assured once more. He leaned against his car for a moment, looking over his dull, ordinary home. With only three weeks to settle in he couldn’t really be blamed for how boring and unlively his home appeared. He took a few more moments to justify the size and appearance of his home before snapping back into reality and bolting through his front door, reminded of the mind blowing miracle that were human ponies in his home.
Oh boy. He thought, suddenly aware of how full his plate really was. Standing in the doorway with his hand still on the handle, Artyom looked around the first floor and felt reality setting in; they might look human, but they’re still ponies… and they have no idea what the hell human technology is. Artyom let his hand slide off his handle and fall to his side as he observed the girls tinkering and experimenting with all the wonders human innovation had to offer. Applejack toyed with the kitchen, recognizing all but the shiny slim box that was the television and the nearly flat aluminum pad that was his Ipad. Twilight was examining the living room, eyeing his small dark oak bookshelf and its measly collection of classics and fiction. Fluttershy found company with his pet cat, kiki the white persian kitty. Rarity and Dash could be heard upstairs, most likely tinkering with his room’s contents, probably with his computer; he winced as he heard what sounded like his laptop falling from the office desk.
Artyom sighed and closed the door. He rolled his eyes at the thought of how he could introduce the girls to the wonders of the internet and more importantly, keep them away from the horrors it had to offer. Mid-way through taking his shoes off and hanging his coat the sudden realization of not knowing the whereabouts of a certain formerly pink girl hit him hard; more specifically, the damage she could do. Luckily Pinkie came bounding down the stairs holding what he assumed to be another one of his electronic devices.
“Hey Artyom, what’s this?” She asked, drawing Artyom’s attention from taking off his shoes.
“Hm? Oh Shi- No!” Artyom yelled, leaping toward her and grabbing the barrel of his 9mm Beretta and shoving it away from Pinkie’s eye. “How did you get this?!” He asked, alarmed as to how she managed to take the gun from his locked office safe.
“Found the key in the hidden compartment in the third drawer of your office desk. Where you always keep it, duh.” She answered nonchalantly, leaving Artyom with a puzzled look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Applejack asked, peeking out of the kitchen with concern.
“Everything alright?” Dash called from upstairs.
“Yea, just need to teach you guys about gun safety.” Artyom answered. He made sure the gun was in fact unloaded and safe.
“Uh, everyone. You need to see this.” Twilight said, uneasiness in her tone.
Gun still in hand Artyom and the rest of the girls were called and assembled in front of the living room television Twilight had turned on. The heptad of friends stood sullen, listening to the breaking news and watching a plethora of military and law enforcement officers herding frightened civilians.
“Panic is sweeping the streets of Manhattan as law enforcement, C.D.C, and D.o.D officers struggle to control terrified civilians, and vacate and quarantine downtown Manhattan. Citizens and tourists alike are forbidden from going home after fleeing from their jobs and attractions in an attempt to save themselves from the attacks of fellow infected co-workers and sightseers. Local law enforcement has blocked all roads, highways, and streets in an attempt to prevent those suspected to be hosts of a new parasite from further infecting the great city. Those believed to be infected are reported to be extremely aggressive, unpredictable, and surprisingly, cannibalistic; extreme caution is advised when dealing with “infected” individuals, and if you suspect that you or a loved one may be feeling odd, report it to your doctor immediately. Residents in or close to downtown Manhattan are advised to stay indoors and as sanitary as possible since recent reports suggest that the parasite is airborne, but may still survive on surfaces for an unknown period of time; scientists and medical personnel are working hard to identify this new threat, but both urge sanitation and awareness as the current effects and treatments are unknown. Chief officials and the mayor are currently refusing to give any statement as to what they plan to do and how long this will last. Panic and fear spread through the city as residents clog highways in an attempt to flee from the potential threat; Mayor Bloomberg advises people to remain calm, reassuring them by saying that this is all protocol and the situation is being over exaggerated, but skeptics claim that military and federal interference suggest much more than simply protocol.”
The news anchor stopped, letting Artyom’s house fall dead silent as seven pairs of eyes remained glued to the horrifying images of armed guards threatening to open fire on any that dared to draw too near to their line of defense; even without their knowledge of weaponry, the girls could sense both Artyom’s and the people’s uneasiness at the presence of the strange devices.
“Just in, we have a local reporter stuck inside the quarantine zone who managed to set up communication with us; we’re establishing a connection right now.” She informed. A separate screen popped up with a troubled and clearly flustered reporter on it. “John, can you hear us?”
“Yes I can Carol, thank you for having me. I’m currently on the edge of the exclusion zone and as you can see, riot police and soldiers are threatening to use lethal force in an attempt to control the massive crowd.” The reporter shouted, desperately trying to be heard over the roar of civilians shouting insults at the tense guards. His camera man showed the disparity and fear within the crowd and the cold unwavering guards. “As you can-” The reporter began before being cut off by a deafening scream from the crowd.
People ran and shouted, scattering in whatever direction they could, even if it meant getting beaten and shot at by the officers to escape what appeared to be other people eating each other. The cameraman zoomed in on a cannibalistic man, seemingly no different from anyone else other than a pale greenish complexion and dried blood being covered by a new layer of the crimson liquid. The reporter tried once more to speak, but soon he and his cameraman were charged by frightened fleeing civilians and the connection was cut.
The anchor stayed silence for a moment, clearly in shock at the sight that had unraveled before her, but realizing that she was the reassuring face to millions of frightened Americans she refocused and collected herself.
“As you can see the situation is currently out of hand and the safety and stability of the city is at question. Stay at home and stay safe New York. More at seven.” She finished, looking down and covering her face with her hands before the camera cut out and a commercial filled the screen.
“Looks like we’re going to need that lesson now more than ever.” Artyom said gravely, breaking the grim silence.
~~~
“Hey Artyom, don’t tell me you’re tired already.” Dash said, bringing Artyom once more into consciousness.
Artyom yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes; he opened them to the silent empty neighborhood he recognized as his own.
“Quiet as always.” He observed, glad to once more be met with the silence of a ghost town, far from any infected threat. The neighborhood, like most places near the city, had evacuated during the great panic and left behind barren buildings and everything else they couldn’t carry. In truth, Artyom hoped that the eerie silence was not the calm before a storm.
“Lets hope it lasts another month.” Dash said. She drove the car up to their home and parked it next to Artyom’s S.U.V.
“I’ll get the supplies, you head on inside and see what’s up.” Artyom commanded. Dash nodded and left the keys in the car as she left.
Artyom stayed seated, watching his rainbow-haired friend make her way up the driveway and into the armored makeshift fortress they called home. He turned his attention to his home like he had done a year before. Like its inhabitants, the two story house had also changed into a more dreary version of itself. Its windows were hidden behind sheets of spiked metal, its roof, re-purposed for a sniper’s den, was littered with pieces of wood and rusting metal; likewise its lawn was covered with deadly traps that hid the once healthy green grass underneath. Worst of all, like the change in his friends, Artyom was also responsible for its transformation.
The infected, lack of supplies, and other deranged survivors combined did not trouble Artyom more than the fact that it was he who was responsible for the change in the girls. They were no longer the innocent, naive, and lighthearted gals from the show he fell in love with. Sure they had their old qualities and personalities, but something was different. The spark of innocence in their eyes was gone, replaced by the cold hard stare of a survivor. Their sense of wonder and adventure was long parched and drained to leave behind a colder understanding of reality and what is necessary to stay alive. He sighed; he always convinced himself that he taught them what he did out of necessity; always told himself there was no other way and that he couldn’t keep them sheltered and locked up like he wanted. Still, there was an everlasting worry of what they might do when they get back to their lives, back to where they belong. Life obviously would not be the same for them, and their experiences on earth will forever change them. The question was, for the better, or for the worse? That was something Artyom’s guilt tormented him relentlessly for, and a mark he would forever have to bear.
That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get there. He reasoned. And I’ll damn-well be there to help them get over it. He resolved. With his mind at ease and focused on the obvious “surprise” party, Artyom leaned over and grabbed the car’s keys. He exited the vehicle and collected this trip’s spoils, making his way up the driveway and into his shared home. A relieved sigh escaped his lips as he relinquished the supplies into the arms of Applejack and Pinkie, who after a quick hug and greeting, escaped to the kitchen to prepare a “simple” dinner. It was nice to be home again. Despite the house’s threatening and overbearing demeanor it provided a warm and lively home for Artyom and the gals. On a cold, winter night, the home provided the warmth and security of a close knit family that shielded him from the cold, icy grip of the winter elements and frozen undead. On a chilly November day, shrouded in fog and eerie silence such as today, his home and friends provided the necessary comfort to warm his cold melancholy heart; and for that he most most grateful.
“How were things at the fort while we were gone?” Artyom asked, a blissful smile on his lips. He hung his light patchy old jacket and untied his worn shoes; taking note of how well they filled those of a tired, heavy-hearted soul.
“Quiet. Applejack patched up the tower upstairs, Rarity refurbished our winter gear with that sewing kit you found, and Huxley’s A Brave New World was a great read; thanks again by the way.” Twilight answered, like she always did, giving Artyom a short and sweet review of day’s events.
“I finally got kiki to stop being so picky and eat something.” Fluttershy piped up, glad to have finally won the conflict between her and the prissy white kitty. Kiki, displeased with the idea of her losing to the caring, yet enabling girl, leapt away from Fluttershy and expressed her side of the story and dissatisfaction to Artyom via meowing and rubbing against his leg, eliciting light-hearted laughter from those who witnessed her retaliation.
“I’ll be upstairs. The supermarket we raided was nearly barren of anything serviceable, and I don’t feel like the city will have enough supplies to be worth the millions of infected we would have to deal with, so I’ll check the maps again; maybe I’ll find another store or market we could scavenge for supplies.” Artyom said, running a hand through his hair.
“Artyom dear, must you find work for yourself on today of all days?” Rarity asked, concerned with the speed that Artyom managed to dampen the mood with their troubles.
“Problems won’t go away on their own, like on every other day, Rarity. Thanks for the concern, but I’ll relax when we don’t have to struggle to survive.” Artyom added, starting his way up the stairs.
“There’s no point in surviving if you don’t get to live once in a while darling.” Rarity retorted, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrow at Artyom, who’s back faced her on the first step.
Artyom paused, racking his brain for a witty comment or excuse to get to work, but it failed to find an answer to a truth he had to accept. He half-turned, leaving his left hand on the railing as he watched Rarity quietly giving him a look of disapproval; he sighed once Twilight, Dash, and Fluttershy got in their silent agreement behind her.
“I’d rather worry now and let you all live, than live now and have you worry later.” He finally said, continuing his ascension up the stairs and away from the the sighs and disappointed sounds from his friends.
He entered his office and sat down into his comfy swivel chair, fitting perfectly into the indent his body had made in the soft foam. The office room had transformed into a planning room, replacing his laptop and shelves filled with office supplies with maps, markers, pins, and notes not far from those you’d imagine a movie detective to have. Hours would go by as Artyom scanned maps, graphs, and data of all sorts; he predicted horde movements based on population density, typical weather conditions, and the region’s topography to find places where he would likely find supplies and minimum trouble. Like a detective with an unwavering determination to find his killer, Artyom poured over his maps and data, scanning over the x’s and marks he previously made, hoping, searching for a place to scavenge. He groaned, frustrated with how much an almost complete year had drained his resources. Pen on paper, he marked, erased, examined, and prayed till he was left with a heavy black circle around a point on a local map.
Benson’s Gun Shop; that was his goal. Well outfitted with arms, ammo, and a variety of tools to maintain them lead Artyom to believe it was the perfect place to go. Relatively isolated and capable of arming a fairly large populous meant that chances of it being completely empty were slim. That and its location meant running into the original shop owners was just as likely as running into the undead, given the fact that such an armory could provide an angry, trained, and protective staff the means of defending it. With enough guns and ammo to survive a deep-city trip or raiders, Artyom was sure he they could survive another month until problems would begin to pile up once more, but again, if all went well he and the gals would have long since escaped their hell on earth. Artyom leaned back into his chair, satisfied with the thought of him having a new game plan. His attention drifted to the sudden darkness outside his window, and his fatigue caught up with him as he realized he had spent yet another evening planning.
“Pinkie!?” Artyom gasped, caught off guard by the sudden blindfold around his eyes and the stealth of his random companion. Over the year he had grown used to her shenanigans, but her stealth had left him wondering how his heart was capable of withstanding so many surprises.
“Shhh!” She instructed, grabbing his hand and pulling him up and after her, causing him to stagger after her.
“Pinkie!” He laughed, trying his hardest not to fall down the stairs as the energetic girl rapidly bounded down them, dragging a laughing and disoriented Artyom behind her. While Artyom struggled to regain his balance, she ripped his blindfold off and paralyzed him with the sudden brightness of the living room.
“SURPRISE!” Everyone yelled in unison, accompanied by Pinkie’s party-horn ringing in his right ear.
Artyom’s vision adjusted quickly, taking in the six cheery faces, their party hats, and the assortment of balloons and streamers far too quickly for his brain to process, leaving him standing there, open mouthed and thunderstruck. Once his brain caught up with what was going on and he could feel the giant, wonder stricken grin on his face, he found the strength to speak.
“Where… where did you get all this, and when did you find the time to put it up?” He asked, mystified by the cheery, screaming colors and lively energy of the room. His previous birthdays were spent working or in the calm company of his Ukrainian friends back home, and a party of such magnitude spurred images of the grand colorful parties Americans and Equestrians were always portrayed to have, leaving him with the impression of a dream come true.
“That empty party store you scavenged to get supplies for our birthdays had a locked storage room filled with more stuff. While you were out scouting that grocery store, we grabbed all we could find and got home before you came back.” Dash proudly notified.
“It’s a good thing you get absorbed in your maps, because we thought there would be no way we could set up all of the stuff we found without you finding out.” Twilight added, resulting in agreeing laughter from the rest of the girls.
“I...I don’t know what to say.” Artyom answered. He never thought the girls would put so much time and effort into doing something nice for him, and the gesture left him feeling warm, confused, ecstatic, and light-headed all at once.
“You just going to stand there and gawk, or are you going to party?” Dash asked, tossing a cold beer at Artyom; he caught it reflexively and gave it a thoughtful look.
Alcohol wasn’t a great ingredient to mix into the chaos that was an apocalypse, and its effects could endanger their quiet safe haven. However, the gals and he were a responsible bunch. He knew a year of hiding in death’s shadow was enough to instill within them an instinct for silence and caution. But maybe it was time for them to blow life’s restricting door off its hinges and let loose for a night; if not for his birthday, then at least for everyone’s morale. What’s the point of surviving if you don’t get to live once in a while darling? He quoted mentally, giving the bottle a smile.
“Let’s party!” He exclaimed, twisting the top off his drink and letting the velvety liquid cool his parched throat and ease the tension in his head.
And so one bottle lead to more spanning over the course of the night. Everyone laughed, cheered, celebrated, and danced, throwing caution to the wind as they all partied for a well earned night of de-stressing and bonding. Music, games, and a movie gave ways for letting caution and fear melt into bliss and comfort. For the girls, it was a way to reminisce and remember their life in Equestria, to remember once more what they were surviving for. For Artyom, it was a year marking his greatest change in life. He had come to America in hopes of changing his life for the better, and oddly enough, it had provided him exactly what he came here for. God bless America. He cheered silently, sipping his third and hopefully final beer and gazing over his friends. They were the sole reason he remained calm, collective, and assertive in his decision matrix. He had nothing when he came here, no friends, no family, no life. Somehow, through the sick and twisted plans of life he managed to gain what he valued most while losing everything.
Chaos and hell bring out the worst in people. When no control and no restrictions are there to civilize man, when all safety nets and norms are ripped out from under him, insanity and greed rush to fill in the gaps. It was easy to succumb to greed, to feel overwhelmed by the sudden freedom man has long since traded for civilization. When society hung by its last fraying threads, many succumbed to the insanity and greed that no controlling hand could prevent. Many had rushed to claim and steal valuables and supplies somehow hoping that they would bring comfort and riches in madness. People had deceived and fooled one another all to get one step ahead of everyone else in their flight from inevitable death. Blinded by selfishness and corruption, society had reverted to individuals and not a collective whole, forever breaking its strength in numbers and leaving humanity to face the trials of death and despair alone and weak.
Separated and weak humanity fell under the hand of death and his agent, mother nature, forever dooming humanity to an ironic extinction at the hand of the very thing that had brought it into existence in the first place; the very thing humanity had abandoned and forced to turn favor to a more obedient child. However there were those like Artyom. Those that found riches in others; those that found stability, security, and restraint in people and not guns or food. He had found the very leash to restrain him from plummeting into selfishness and insanity. Safely tied to earth by the supporting hands of his friends and new family, he and those like him found the courage, will, and reason to stare into the face of death. They were his valuables, his treasure, and his freedom, and he was ready to protect them with the fierceness of a dragon.
***
Artyom awoke feeling disoriented. A quick look around the room and he realized he was laying misshapen on the living room couch; further investigation lead him to discover that Dash and Twilight were asleep on either side of his shoulders and the noise behind him, toward the kitchen, and the sudden cleanliness of the place lead him to conclude that the others had woken up earli er and begun their choirs.He moaned, bringing a hand to his aching head; he silently scolded himself for making Twilight stir from his sudden movement. Last night’s events were slightly fuzzy -He could thank the alcohol for that- , but nonetheless he recalled enough to remember sharing a warm moment with the gals and huddling together on the couch to watch another movie.
“Artyom?” Twilight mumbled. She sat up and yawned, stretching while her eyes fluttered open.
“Sorry for waking you.” Artyom apologized.
“Oh, no problem. It’s about time I got up anyway.” She responded. “About time she got up too.” She added, nodding toward Dash who lay snoring quietly on Artyom’s side.
“No, leave her. I’m heading out to raid and if she found out I’d have to take her along. Chances are the place I’m heading to isn’t safe; I’d rather keep her away from harm.” Artyom said, using his arms to slowly lift Dash off and lowering her gently onto the sofa.
“If it’s dangerous then it’s best you take her with you.” Twilight said, a hint of worry in her tone.
“My goal is to keep you guys away from danger, not to take you to it; remember?”
“Glad to see you guys finally up.” Applejack greeted, exiting the kitchen to greet her two friends. “What's wrong?” She asked, taking concern in Twilight’s worried look.
“I’m heading out that’s all.” Artyom exclaimed, cutting Twilight off before she had a chance to speak.
“He says it’s dangerous and he refuses to take anyone with him.” Twilight complained, looking to Applejack for support.
“Hun, I’m no expert, but don’t you think taking Rainbow with you might be a good idea? She pulled your behind out of the fire many a time. Heck, I’d be glad to come myself if I can help.” She offered, putting a hand on her hip and eyeing Artyom quizzingly.
“I’ll handle it you two. Look, it’s best I head out as soon as I can since it gets dark quickly, remember?” Artyom finished, pushing past them and heading upstairs. “If you guys can get me something to eat when I come down I’d appreciate it.” He added.
Artyom made his way upstairs and cleaned himself up. He was thankful for gaining a few years of experience in home maintenance from the odd jobs he had in Ukraine, taking note in the luxury that was warm water provided by the caged up generator outside. Once bathed and clothed Artyom made his way into his room and retrieved his trusty 9mm Beretta. He gave his trusty sidearm a quick look over; once satisfied with its condition he holstered it. Artyom retrieved two more fifteen round mags before withdrawing a larger gun case from under his bed. He opened the case to reveal a scavenged Remington 870, complemented with 12.gauge buckshot; Dash had found it when they were returning from a seemingly unsuccessful attempt at scavenging the local police station. Artyom picked up the gun and shouldered it, deciding that it was the best suited choice for the narrow streets and shop interior; he filled a side pouch with around twenty five shells and headed downstairs. Once down Artyom was greeted with the enticing smell of freshly prepared eggs.
“Smells wonderful.” Artyom commented, waking into the kitchen and being greeted with five worried faces.
Artyom ate in silence for a few moments while his five friends glared at him with concern. They knew of his stubbornness when it came to keeping them out of harms way, so no one questioned him despite considering him foolish for his hardheadedness.
“Seeing as how you’re determined to leave, I just want to tell you to take care of yourself darling. Don’t worry about us, we can take care of ourselves, but out there you won’t have anyone to rely on but yourself.” Rarity said, breaking the tense silence and frowning at Artyom and his foolishness.
“Just take care of yourself and make it back in one piece.” Applejack commanded.
“Stay safe.” Fluttershy added.
“Use your head.” Twilight said sternly yet supportively, referring to his past mistakes.
“Pinkie promise you’ll make it back.” Pinkie ordered.
“Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.” Artyom answered, making the motions of this most sacred of rituals.
Artyom finished the remains of his breakfast just as Dash began to stir. He grabbed his scavenging dufflebag and machete on his way out, shouting a quick goodbye before heading toward his S.U.V. Door closed, keys in ignition, and weapons on the passenger side lead to quiet humming of the S.U.V’s engine as Artyom sped down the empty streets toward his destination. The eerie silence of a sunny day with no people around bothered Artyom despite having grown used to living in the ghostly remains of human civilization, and he turned on his cd player. He loosened up a bit as the music filled the empty silence of his car. Living in the evacuated and decomposing remains of Long Island had its perks, but the numerous dense wooded areas gave shelter and roof to a plethora of the dead; who festered and hid out of sight, waiting to prey on the living and rash.
Artyom did not know much about the parasite, but he managed to find out that it only lived in contaminated organic matter and retained its cousin's effect of dragging its victims to a preferable location for its survival; in Long Island that meant a lot of hiding spots for the vigilant undead, and a lot of sleep lost for their human prey. Artyom gripped the wheel tightly, slowing down to observe a clogged highway of cars parked haphazardly.
“Shit. Just as I was getting close.” He mumbled, inching the car forward.
Artyom moved the car slowly, trying to not get the attention of any remaining infected; the damned things were attracted to sound like moths to light, mindlessly honing in on the source until it stopped screaming, or until a louder one made its presence evident. As his car crept forward and covered yet another precious inch the distinct spine chilling barn owl screech of a zombie filled the air and ran up Artyom’s back. His attention snapped to his right, behind a silver sedan, where a single male zombie inched toward him, mouth gaping and arms extended. Artyom watched, horrified to find zombies rising like bears from hibernation from behind cars and out of the woodlands; like bears rising from hibernation, they too had a ravaging hunger to satisfy. Sense kicked in soon enough and Artyom realized his car was being swarmed from all directions. His attention shifted to the narrow break in between the shrinking chain of zombies large enough to fit his car, and he gripped the wheel tightly, letting adrenaline and instinct take control as he revved his engine and gunned it.
The black S.U.V soared through the gap in its predator’s ambush, screeching and swerving past other fallen cars until it once more reached clear road, leaving a mass of decaying undead in its wake. Artyom exhaled and punched his wheel in frustration making the car beep and Artyom curse again. He barely had a mile left till his destination, and now he had a horde of zombies aimlessly, yet tirelessly shuffling after him. He grunted. Worst part about the undead is their undying determination. The god-damned things just don’t get tired. He complained to himself. He’d seen walkers that he passed days ago show up next to their home from time to time, having aimlessly wandered in the last direction they saw food. Artyom complained about his ordeal a while longer until he pulled up to the mass graveyard/ battlefield that was the store parking lot and entrance.
He stopped his car on the road in front of the parking lot. The shop was part of a small collection of stores, and was located on the corner of the large extended building. Mystified, Artyom scanned over the heaps of bodies, both infected and human, scattered at the barricaded entrance. From the the variety of bullet cases scattered around the ground, Artyom concluded that shots must have been exchanged by both shop owners and civilians. Looking right, Artyom concluded that the infected must have shown up from the huge dense woodland across the street and finished off what was left alive, and possibly forced the gun shop staff to evacuate as well; Artyom hoped they have dragged the infected behind them and left the place devoid of the living dead pest.
Checking the time and finding he only had a few precious hours of sunlight left, he estimated the horde behind him will show up soon and got to work. He left his door open and car running as he kept his machete holstered on his back and his shotgun in hand. Artyom moved slowly, checking each corpse for any inactive zombies. Once satisfied with the security of the outside, he moved onto examining the building. The shop had boards and metal nailed in front of its two glass doors and windows, and shells littered the sidewalk next to the building’s brick exterior. A single corpse’s legs stuck out of a small break in the barricade and blocked off the only hole; Artyom looked sideways to catch a glimpse of the inside of the building, but upon leaning he found the head of a fire axe blocking his view of the interior and torso.
Artyom sighed, used to the gore, but disappointed in not knowing what he was up against. He looked up at the building’s green roof and noticed a single bullet casing peeking out. He took a few steps back and noticed the Swiss cheese like sandbags that lay riddled with bullets. Curious, Artyom decided that he did not have the time to tear apart the barricade and drove his S.U.V up to the store, parking it close enough for him to use it’s roof and get on top of the short, single story building. Once up top, Artyom was glad to find small piles of brass casings. The staff were defending from up here. He concluded, tracing the roof with his eyes until he found the latch he was hoping for. Jackpot. He cheered, heaving the heavy steel door and letting it clink noisily onto the roof. He peered down, looking into the dim shop and instinctively reaching for the flashlight he kept at his waist. Shit. He cursed, feeling the empty cradle his flashlight was supposed to be in. Disappointed, but not discouraged, Artyom tossed his scavenging bag down, letting it plop down and echo through the silent building. Nothing moved and Artyom deemed it safe enough to follow, dangling himself off the ledge before safely landing with a thud; he raised his gun and waited, listening to anything that might endanger him. Nothing moved and he let his guard down.
Looking around the shop it was obvious that the owners tried their hardest to lick the place clean of anything usable. Bullets littered the floor and were most likely spilled by the rushing staff, shelves lay on their sides, and the gun racks on the side of the walls stood barren and empty. Disheartened, but not beaten just yet, Artyom assessed he was in the front of the shop, and began to move toward its center, pushing past fallen over shelves and useless ammo; no need to carry ammo he can’t fire. Artyom soon found himself at the shop’s center, a giant glass display on his right and empty gun racks to his left.
“Hell yea.” Artyom exclaimed, spying a small stash of supplies left over on the far side of the store. He began to walk toward it. “Fuck!” He yelled, tripping and hitting the floor hard; his shotgun slide away from him.
Artyom looked back, noticing a cold, surprisingly strong hand gripping his ankle. Artyom stared at the soulless torso, gripped in panic and fear. The zombie was using its hold on Artyom’s ankle to pull the rest of its godforsaken remains closer, staring at Artyom with feral, blood filled eyes; it opened its mouth to scream, but only a weak exhale emanated from its deflated and liquid filled lungs.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Artyom panicked, flailing his leg in an attempt to kick off the deadly carcass.
Unshaken by Artyom’s futile writhing, the hungry corpse pulled itself ever closer, exciting its parasitic master with the thought of food. Artyom recoiled, kicking the torso in the head, loosening its grip, and turning to crawl toward his shotgun. Almost there! He rejoiced, reaching for his salvation.
“Damn it!” He yelled, feeling a familiar grasp around his calf.
The corpse had gotten closer, its determination peeking with food so close, and was now towering over a cowering Artyom. Instinctively, Artyom reached for the abomination's neck as it lunged to bite him, holding the snapping jaws away from his face he reached for the 9mm in its holster and fired a round into the damned thing’s forehead, sending it into a more permanent slumber. Artyom waited for the pain in his ears to subside, opening his eyes when he could hear again. Dammit, every zombie within a mile radius will come running after that. Great job being a scared pussy. He scolded himself. He got up to retrieve his gun and fix himself up.
Artyom returned his attention to his findings. Apparently the shop owners had taken everything they could before fighting had broken out, seeing as to how an Ak-47 and a few boxes of 7.62x 39mm ammo were left on the floor. Artyom bagged the goods and returned his attention to the few boxes of ammo and other firearms left behind. A .338 rifle, a Glock 21, a .357 magnum revolver, and surprisingly a .45 yellow boy rifle made up the rest of his earnings and left his bag feeling heavy and bulky with guns and ammo. Satisfied, Artyom began to zip up his bag as he heard the first of many thumps on his shop’s barricades. Soon moaning and loud banging filled the air as a horde of zombies had accumulated outside, craving the warm living prey inside.
God-damned it, already!? He complained, shouldering the heavy bag and staggering slightly at its unexpected weight.
Artyom returned to stand under the roof’s hatch, wincing at the deafening sound of moaning and banging coming from the undead. Shit, there’s no ladder. He realized, desperately scanning the shop for anything that could get hit back up. Think Artyom, think! He commanded himself, banging his forehead with his fist a few times trying to coax out a solution to his predicament. Adrenaline pumping, ears ringing, and fear running through his veins Artyom sprang into action. He pulled and dragged shelves, stacking them and using them as ladders to get to the top; once there he stopped to assess his situation.
Undead as far as the eye could see choked the road with their corpses. More poured out of the forest across the street, lured to the hunt by their brethren's screams, and others gravitated from the further reaches of the the road and neighborhood, lured by the sudden commotion and promise of food. They began to encircle the store, blocking every and any exit and drowning Artyom’s chances of escape like his car, in a sea of bodies. Artyom stood there staring at the mass of infected like a mouse into the eyes of a snake. He couldn’t just wait it out, no the undead were far too patient for that, he had to run. Now! He commanded, turning toward the back of the shop and sprinting. He came to the edge and tossed his bag and gun, following them to the ground with a roll. He picked up his gear the same time a few lingering zombies picked up the chase after him.
Artyom ran faster than he had his whole life. Living in a zombie apocalypse meant that running became second nature to those that wanted to survive, but a live horde chasing you inspires a newer, more potent fear each time making you rethink your luck up till that very moment. The sun was setting and Artyom had successfully made his way into and through the woodland and empty parking lots; if there was one thing he was grateful for, it was that the undead were slow to follow. He lead his pursuers in one direction, and once he believed to have lost them he doubled back and started toward where he suspected home to be, following the empty road from which he came.
A few moments of walking on empty roads and Artyom stopped to catch a breath, letting his heavy bag drop to his side. It was dark, real dark, and a lone exhausted survivor wouldn’t last long on a cold November day. Artyom decided to find a place to settle down and resume his journey in the morning; it would worry the girls, but at least he’d make it back alive.
He strayed from the road till he came across an abandoned suburban area. Cold and tired Artyom spared no time in making sure the area was safe. He picked a seemingly lonely house and was met with the blessing of an unlocked door. Entering quietly, Artyom kept his shotgun in front of him as he checked every nook and cranny to avoid another stupid mistake; once satisfied with finding nothing more than dried blood and signs of a struggle, Artyom locked the door and made his way into the bedroom. He gave the barren mattress a tired sullen look and turned the cracked family photos on the nightstand over, hoping to hide his trespassing to the most likely deceased ex-residents. He collapsed from exhaustion and fell into deep slumber.
***
Artyom grunted, annoyed by the sun in his eyes.
“God damn it, how many times did I tell you to not open the blinds in my room Twilight!” He yelled, getting up angrily to close his room’s blinds.
Artyom stopped, sitting upright on the bed he spent the night on. Disoriented and confused Artyom regained knowledge of his surroundings. He sighed and brought his hands to face and wiped away any lingering weariness. Freaked out about his sudden confusion, Artyom picked up his loot and set out to return home trying to not think too hard about his confusion.
A few hours of uneventful, mind numbing walking and Artyom was on the street of his home, only blocks away from safety, warmth, comfort, and the single most important people in his life; people who were a miracle in more ways than he could count. Tired and frustrated Artyom finally rounded a house to face the street his home and sanctuary was, but something was off. A sudden feeling of fear and dread arose from deep within his core and he found the panic driven strength to bolt toward his home, or more specifically the light blue sedan buried into the front of it.
“Dashie!” He screamed, dropping his bag and circling the smoking car to reach the driver’s side. “Twilight! Applejack! Girls!Anyone!” He shrieked, grief and fear solidifying their grip on his nervous heart.
Artyom ripped the door of the sedan open, ripping the barely-conscious man from his airbagged seat with resentful force.
“Who the fuck are you, where are they!?” He demanded, screaming and tearing up; a few drops of his saliva found their way onto the wrecked man’s face.
The man just silently looked at Artyom through hazy eyes as Artyom shook him, further driving Artyom into a hate fueled, beast like state.
“They… deserved...to die. We... all do.” The lunatic said softly.
“What!?” Artyom shrieked, in tears now.
He turned his attention to the man’s long shirt sleeves and ripped them off forcefully, mortified to find the thing he most feared. There, inscribed in ink and scars was the mark of a zombie cultist. After the outbreak there emerged a large group of religious fanatics that believed this was god’s reckoning and rapture. They believed that all must die under the infected, or as they called them, “God’s Disciples” and every new infected was another soul enlightened and freed from the horrible chains of mortality. They would go out of their way to attract zombies to any survivors they could find, and were often shot as a result, but never dared to hurt anyone on their own claiming that they could not steal a soul from god. Cunning and cruel the bastards often waited a long time until they had the best chance of attracting their “children” to those that needed enlightenment. Artyom had even seen a group of them mourning a heap of freshly slaughtered zombies; sickened and wary, he always shot first if he suspected someone might be a follower. Now, he stared into the eyes of his harbinger, the very man that single-handed took away everything dear to him. He stared into his merciless, cold eyes, searching for reasons, searching why; he found no pity, no remorse, no reason, only satisfaction and madness. Artyom’s anger and sadness twisted into uncontrollable anger and writhing hatred.
“Rah!” He screamed, frustrated, as he beat the man’s head in with his fists.
Blow after blow Artyom never relented, never lost passion behind every punch. Blood stained his skin, clothes, and face, painting his pain and misery on his body. He heaved his agony into the bloody pulp, only stopping to bend over and cry out in anguish over his misery. A sudden growl interrupted his bloody mental baptism. Artyom looked up, at a single corpse inching toward him from the gap in his home; he watched as one after another, more undead drew to his cries. From every part of his home, from around the corners, across the street, the infected that were responsible for the attack on the girls marched on dead legs toward Artyom. He took a moment to focus on the first zombie, looking into its damn blood-shot sockets; he shifted his gaze to the the missing fragment of skull, noticing that it could only result from the impact of a bullet, and was once more overcome with a new wave of rage and despair.
Artyom drew his machete and lunged toward the abomination, fueling his swing with his woe. Blood trickled down his blade, slowly dripping onto the concrete as Artyom stood over the corpse, berserk. Something within him snapped and he decided to pour his hatred and suffering into the brains of the undead. As he attacked corpse after corpse, he showed them his suffering through steel. He emptied his aching and bleeding heart through the aged blood within his attacker’s heads. He didn’t stop swinging until he had made sure that the very ground beneath each and every infected was stained in their blood and grey matter. Drenched in his sins and suffering Artyom shuffled upstairs, mindless of his actions, and took a long hot shower, letting the hot water burn off the blemishes on his soul and skin. Bathed and burning, he finally exited the shower and collapsed onto his bed, physically and mentally exhausted.
Artyom woke up hours later with the feeling of dried tears beneath his eyes; he realized he had cried in his sleep. Rationality set in, and Artyom sprang into action. The girls aren't dead yet. But they’re out there, alone, lost, with no idea where they were, and they need me. He motivated himself. He got dressed and scanned the house for anything missing. He found the crown, Dash’s car, and any guns left behind to be gone. Good. At Least they’re armed. Artyom comforted. Unfortunately, while stripping the house clean they didn't leave any sign of where they might be headed, and Artyom found himself in his planning room for seemingly the last time. He had a month to find them, but a stranger in his own country, he did not know if that was possible. Feeling defeated, Artyom slumped into his chair feeling sorry for himself. His eyes landed on a bare part of his desk and stared at it hopelessly for a while, wallowing in his self-pity. Wait a second! He realized, standing up and sending the chair rolling backwards with his force. A map was missing, and not just any map, but a local map that ended at the edge of Queens, not too far from here. Artyom rocketed downstairs, grabbing his supplies and guns with renewed vigor.
He inspected the very car responsible for his fate, and was determined to make it help him set things straight. Luckily it only needed minor repairs and could still get Artyom far enough to find another car. He tossed his gear inside and got in, setting his course for the most plausible direction the girls fled in. He looked at his home for the last time. This place had sheltered him for the most important part of his entire life and it had been the birthplace of his new life; and now it seems that it was now the place where he will begin yet another chapter of his life. He was about to leave it and his sins behind to go after those that made this house a home. He sighed and drove off with a heavy heart. He had to, was going to find the girls in less than a month’s time. He started his quest with the fierceness and determination of a dragon going after his stolen hoard; he had a promise to keep.