Open starter
This was the worst. The absolute worst.
For whatever reason, Bobby was among those blessed few who only felt coldlike symptoms when whatever was sweeping the continent dropped people like flies--and raised them as shambling, infection-wracked bodies desperate for consumption to maintain their unholy lives.
By the time the virus swept through a good chunk of Los Angeles, raising absolute chaos and anarchy, he decided to chug some cold medicine and take up arms.
He was shaking as he lifted a child up into a hiding hole her mother was waiting in before grabbing his shotgun again and turning to peek around the corner. (All the zombie movies seemed to be right. It was an efficient explode-y weapon for a fight.)
“Hello??” He really hoped there was a person out there and not another horrifying undead.