Snippet #2352254

Will was ripped from his doze by the harsh sound of an engine of something big. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there resting. It wasn't his smartest decision, either. But, thankfully, he now had Buster at his side, who had better ears and a better nose than he did. The dog was also up from his formerly rested position and looking to the window they were both facing.

Rifle in hand, Will stood up and walked to the closed window with Buster close behind him. With a harsh tug and a grunt, he forced the window open so he could stick the rifle out the window and look through the scope. The sound of the engine was getting steadily closer. In a matter of seconds, the source of the sound revealed itself.

Just yards from the house, a large black truck passed by. It looked like the same one that was at the scene of the first screamer. Had to be. There weren't many vehicles like that just sitting around. Not here. Not anywhere. Carefully, he spied through the scope towards the vehicle, trying to make out who was inside. The windows blocked his view from it, unfortunately.

From his perch in the window, he could see a lot of the town. This let him follow the path of the truck for maybe another few hundred yards before it disappeared behind a building, never to emerge back into his sight again.

He sighed and lowered the weapon. No good. As he was about to return to his spot on the wall, a scream tore through the air. This one, again, was not the one of a screamer. Instead, this one sounded like a girl in agony. A terrible sound to hear. No matter how many times it molested his ears, he could never get used to it.

Frantically, he searched for the source of the sound, but he couldn't see anything from where he was. He moved to the window at his left facing the town. After another few frantic moments of searching, he found the probable source. Crouched over something were several members of the undead. His finger feathered the trigger of his weapon as he debated his next move. Shoot them and risk giving away his position? Sit and watch while these monsters consumed this poor helpless girl?

The internal debate raged. So much of what he'd done didn't make any difference. Even when he stopped to help, people still died. Nate still died. The woman he wanted to rescue then still died. The man in the woods was still torn up. Tara still got infected. Despite his best efforts to help these people, they still met their end. This was the way the world was now. But, is this how he had to be? Harsh? Cold? Unsympathetic to the lives around him? He had been lucky so far not to meet his end. How long would that last?

Before he could make his decision, another girl had come running in, attacking the feeding corpses with just a knife. There definitely was a passion to her. If he had to guess, he would say that the girl who got attacked was important to this other one. With this marked passion, the girl quickly dispatched the crowd of the dead.

It was then that a greatly pained Will pulled himself away from the window and sat back down against the wall. For a moment he stayed there, tapping the side of the rifle barrel against his head incessantly. Setting the rifle aside, he stood back up, restless. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and paced back and forth.

There was nothing he could have done for her. By the time he had seen her, the dead had already done her in. The only thing that he would have accomplished by firing his weapon was alerting everything in the area where he was. More or less ringing the dinner bell. Over and over, he told himself this, hoping that it would make him feel better. It didn't. He had to occupy his mind with something else now.

First, he took off his jacket, his 'armor', and the shirt he was wearing underneath before he opened his backpack to take out a bottle of water and a piece of unused cloth. He took a healthy drink from the bottle before pouring some onto the piece of cloth, then finally, emptying it over himself. Long hours in three layers in this weather was rough sometimes, but it was a sacrifice he had to make for his own safety.

Will used the damp rag to wipe himself down, especially underneath the arm and over his lower abdomen. His gaze lingered for a while as he washed over his muscled abdomen which was marred by a rather large scar running up the left side of his torso. The memory of this wound was still fresh in his memory, though it was nothing from after the outbreak.

He'd been filming a scene with a motorcycle chase scene for a movie when he lost control of the bike and crashed. The accident had given him a large wound, and the surgeons had told him later that he was lucky to be alive. It was only the quick acting of the on-site medical team and the director that saved his life.

Slowly, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a relatively clean white shirt and put it on. With cloth in hand, he picked up his helmet and wiped off the dried and smeared coagulated blood from the visor. When he'd finished, he set the helmet down and closed the door in which they'd entered from.

This was a good a place as any to stop, at least for awhile...