He Dropped It

Martin couldn't find his journal. He kneeled at his bed, and made to reach under it for the eighth time with 85% less hope than he had in the beginning that he would find it. The proper deduction of hope per try signified a NexGen characteristic the companies had only just begun to understand when the infection hit.

His hand rested on the carpet, just at the border between the shadow of the bed and the light. His fingers wiggled, almost imperceptibly. Then he brought his hands to his face, "I cannot. Cannot. Cannot. Believe this."

His hands fell from his face.

"Beth!!" he yelled, not without some aggravation.

"I haven't seen it, Martin!"
He rose from the floor, and trudged into the kitchen. Mom and Dad sat at the round, blue table, their knees touching.
Martin's hands were deep in his pockets.
"Oh, Martin." said Mom. The chair groaned across the floor as she slid away from the table. She rose, and hugged him.
"I'm sorry."
"It's stupid." said Martin, "I mean. Just memories, right? I haven't written much in it apart from the infection. This terrible time. The terrible, stupid time . . . lost."
The floor opened up beneath him, seemingly, sending his heart plummeting into that void between hope and hopelessness where the thought occurs, "Why even live?"
And the answer reverberates, "Because we must."

"I'm going for a walk."

Mom let him go.
"Martin." she said.
His walk slowed.
"It's more than memories. They're your memories. We will keep looking. Just be careful, and remember that we love you."
"I love you, too." he answered.

The cheap golden doorknob clicked the click of low quality merchandise as Martin turned it. His stomach turned. Forced into this cheap apartment, commanded to cohabit with whoever the remaining government ordered them to. Soon enough more refugees would arrive, and Martin would be sharing his bedroom with a stranger.

The hallway closed around him, causing his head to ache. He kicked open the door to the stairway, and made his way down, leaping down the last few stairs. He pulled open the door and was met by two gun barrels pointed right down his gob.
He rubbed his head, and looked at the Marines behind the weapons, "Really guys? Zed is going to come down stairs from the top floor of a heavily fortified housing complex?"
Their looks would have withered an oak as they lowered their guns. Martin brushed past them, hands in his pockets.

The sun struck his corneas as he walked toward the exit. It throbbed and soothed at the same time. The guards by the door were distracted, looking out into the parking lot. The glitch of radios could be heard throughout the lobby. It got louder when he exited the building.

"More noise." he complained, as he turned left. He walked, staring at the ground, and tried to enjoy the feeling of the sun on his back.

So many memories. Since before the earth became Zombieworld. Only a few days, but at least it was a record of the evolution; boarding up the house, Scotty, the first kills, blood, fire, and drama. Dogs. Zombie dogs. While he was gone the Marines went insane on the dogs, eliminating and burning every single mongrel they could attract. He was sorry he missed that. Must have made zombie mode in Call of Duty look boring.
The chatter washed over him.
"From the South!" someone screamed.
Martin heard the tanks before he saw them. He stopped abruptly on the sidewalk and watched them race past.
"Didn't know those things could go so fast."
The armored parade lasted only 30 seconds, but its ambient rumble was felt until they stopped. Martin ran toward them. The closer he got, the thicker the Marines became, all armored, some in spacesuits, jogging, running, but never walking. They began lining up.

Then gunfire, tittering across the streets, bouncing off the buildings, and the mountains. It was further South. And it was building. No one was stopping him as he ran to the line.

Only when he arrived did he realize . . . his family was on the other side.