Antony stared blankly at his television set, his features emotionless as the screen fizzled out into a blur of static. He took a moment to let it all sink in. "It's all gone now, then... This is it?" He'd contemplate to himself. He'd wipe his brow as a bead of sweat trickled down and onto the wet shemagh wrapped around his mouth. Other than being incredibly toxic and life threatening, the Haze seemed to trap or generate heat. Antony cast his gaze away from the television out to the crack between the boards on his windows. He squinted and looked up the yellow fog, it's rotten fingers picking at every crack and chip in his house. The Haze had been around for only a few days, but millions had already died. Whether they were fighting for food and weapons, or defending themselves, many people died. He stood with a sigh, a light gray t-shirt plastered to his skin with sweat and thin black jeans on his legs. He'd walk across his barren living room, turning the TV off as he passed. "It's a miracle the electricity is still on... Probably not for long." He'd walk into his kitchen, appliances strewn around and furniture upended, cannibalized for barricades. He lean over the sink, twisting the knob. Nothing but a few sad drips trickled out. Antony reached out and caught the drips on his hands, sadly contemplating. He'd rub the water into his finger tips and sigh, standing back up. He'd put his hands on his hips and survey the floor. His backpack was laying flat, several items laying around it. Food, water, clothes, etc. He's shake his head and kneel down, shoveling the items into the bag. "This is fucking crazy. I'm actually going outside." He'd say to himself. He'd toss his bag across his shoulder, swiping a hefty knife off the counter as he passed. He'd purchased the knife shortly after he was assaulted a few years back. He thoughtfully stroked his purple-yellow splotched cheek, looking toward the door. He couldn't help but let his tired mind wander back to the thought of his friends and family.
He hadn't spoken to his parents in a long while, and he was afraid he'd never get to. He thought of his neighbors; the few souls he could count on. He'd been festering in worry over them the past few days. He'd finally leave the house and see if his fears were to be realized. He looked around his small house in sorrow. He'd bite his lip as his mind washed away with memories. The pride of purchasing a house, house parties, having girls over, laying on the couch contemplating life, and countless others. He'd look across the wrecked rubble that was once his pride and joy, and then out to the unforgiving haze. All he could think of was the screaming he could hear from his home in the first days. The coughing, the vomiting, the gunshots shattering through his home. This was his life now. All he owned was the clothes on his back and the things in his bag. He'd approach the door and take hold of the hammer dangling by the hook on one of the boards nailed across his door. He'd pry the nails from each board, one-by-one clattering to the ground like his forgotten securities. He's throw the boards away with conviction. "This is my life. I won't die alive." He thought to himself. He'd dramatically kick the door open once the nails were all freed, the wood splintering and thwacking against the frame. He'd immediately cringe as the Haze began to creep into his home and onto his face, the familiar coppery smell invading his nostrils, visibility only about half a mile. "That was loud..." He'd turn his eyes to the house only a few paces away from his. Isabella's. He'd silently pray to the possibility of divinity that she was okay as he crept up to her front door, careful not to spook her if she saw him.