this is hell and we can't leave ( narrative )
An eerie calm fell over Boston. Bodies paved the streets, they piled up at doorways like snowdrifts and filled ditches. Graves in cemeteries across the city were left vacant, great gouges in the earth before each gravestone. Whatever had been controlling them, whomever had been giving them commands was gone and with it the zombie threat. Those who had been bitten fell into blissful unconsciousness, waking hours later to find themselves free of the disease that had changed them so much but not free of the injuries they had sustained in the chaos; their heads buzzed and the taste of human flesh was raw in their mouths. Buildings stood slouched into streets, power remained down. Overhead the oppressive clouds began to roll back, fizzing out as though they had never been revealing a beautiful late afternoon sky, cloudless and perfect.
Three hours after the end of the event the military moved in at last to join the ragged police force. News began to filter in through radios and the few working televisions in the area. Stay Calm. Do Not Panic. Everything Is Under Control.
Six hours after the end of the event a statement was issued by the government: A chemical agent had been released in the city, they suspected, and those who were responsible would be brought to justice through whatever means necessary. Jessalyn Dahl added her voice to the chorus denouncing the events in Boston as a heinous act of terrorism and that she and her people were more than happy to help the emergency services during this “troubled time”.
By the time night had rolled around survivors were stumbling out of their homes and into ruined streets. The city had been ravaged by the quake and the subsequent days. It would be days before power started to come back, weeks before water would be readily available across the city again, public transport was in tatters and half the police force was dead. It began to rain after dark, washing blood out of the streets, but rain wouldn’t be enough to cleanse the city of what had happened. Most residents suspected, in unison that night, that nothing ever would.