Chapter Text
Hamilton was running out of breath, each inhale feeling like someone was holding him by the throat. His legs were sore from running as his knuckles were bruised with green traces of blood. The air was polluted with the smell of stomach wrenching guts; so much so that he could taste the fear of the victims. Each step that his feet hit the ground, he could feel the moist dampness of the ground, soaked up by the velvet red color of blood. The smoggy air whipped past Hamilton's face as he ran from his town, trying to reach the escape boat. He left his glasses at home, so he couldn't tell the difference of a running figure from a them.
While running, he felt a sharp ping in his arm, and while turning around he could see a sharp, clawed hand, sinking their fingers deep into his arm. He yelped in pain, out of breath to scream for help, as he tried to rip the hand off his body. In doing so, the ground gave way beneath him, and he slipped into the mud of disoriented limbs and blood mixed with green saliva. His head hit the floor hard, feeling the world spin as his head got warmer with blood. Hamilton was still trying to run, but the thing pulled him back with their disintegrating arm, their stale breath of rotten flesh creeping around the young boy. Eventually, he yanked his arm out of the thing's grasp, getting up with a quiver and trying to run again. He could hear the bone chilling scream rattle throughout the town, bouncing inside of his own head. At this point, his vision wasn't blinded by fog, but by the full tears collected because of the piercing pain screaming from his arm. He held onto his arm tight to stop the pain, but the pain only escalated.
His head was rattled with pain, pinching his nerves as his legs were aching for rest. The world was spinning, dancing, frolicking. He tried to take a breath, but the dust stuck in his throat created a harsh voice from his throat. His tears were thick and plump, falling from his face in streaks and clumps. When he tried to let go of his arm, he noticed all of the blood pouring from his wound. Hamilton took a long gaze at that velvet blood, covering his arm and thick with color. Hamilton took a gulp and closed his eyes, trying to forget the pain, seeing that his entire arm was coated with a red blood color like delicate paint he would use to paint his Christmas projects. The hand covered in a red coat, like the times were he would giggle, painting his entire hand red just for the laughs. The delicate fingers he had, that used to hold the hands of his mother, clutching his plump fingers around hers and running around the field, chasing our pet beagle in circles. Her face, Rachel. So kind and happy, loving, laughable. Her smile used to light up an entire room. Such a beautiful, young face with a kind loving heart.
He felt the world falling, as he started to loose consciousness, a smile planted on his face.
Hamilton flew awake by a gust of wind flying across the tip of his nose. He sighed, lays his head back down on the mossy ground. He looked up lazily up into the starry night with a tint of orange sunrise, still smiling knowing that he was now somewhat safe. He rested for a couple seconds until the sleeping bag beside him rustled and spoke with a warm silkness to her voice, almost like a mother's tone.
"You ok, Alexander?" She didn't sound concerned, but more interested in why he popped awake.
"Oh, uh, yeah," He replied lazily, groggily rubbing his tired eyes.
"Ya sure? That was some hearty yelps."
"Yes, I'm fine. Just, ya know, nightmares."
"Alright... Well, since your awake, let's get up."
The girl rose from her sleeping bag and stretched, taking a sip from her water container. Hamilton gazed into the girl's appearance. Eliza had the longest onyx colored hair of all time, having her hair constantly in a tight ponytail. She had a tight black tank top that was stained with dirt and blood, which went well with her jean shorts and belt that held medical supplies and some weapons. Her body did have some bruises and cuts, but overall she was still stunning, even in a complete apocalypse. Her face was chubby and square, her eyes pinched in the iconic Chinese fashion. The more Hamilton looked at Eliza, the more his face prickled with a blush.
Hamilton got up lazily and started to pack up his sleeping bag and materials and putting them into his backpack. He could hear the others of his group groggily get up as well, hearing several groans and cursing underneath their breaths. One of their crew started to complain about their lack of sleep and saying that if they started moving, they wouldn't get very far with our sleep deprived state.
Once he slipped his backpack on his shoulders, the rest of his group were just about up, rubbing their eyes and stretching out their arms. His group was such a diverse group of people, he didn't know half of them. There were about seven people of color, only two that were females, and he was sure that at least three of their group came from a different country. There was one black guy with a thick beard and tied back hair that spoke in the most indecipherable french known to mankind, and a salty, black man with a bald cut that always carried around a baby. He's refused to speak about his past, nor the child's past. The apocalypse must have hit hard on him.
"Alright, let's move out." A deep, bruting voice spoke, ceasing any other side conversations. George Washington was the leader of our group, and anything that he said, we all did. Just one glance at his scars and a blind eye speaks that you shouldn't test him at all.
We walked for a while, walking along the river line of the forest trees. The ten of us continued to walk through the depths of the forest for no reason. We had no destiny to reach, nowhere to go, and no place to call home. We have fought off all the rottens we could find, and try to assist and bring more survivors to our journey. But, after all, we are just random souls grazing the sad, deserted lands that we used to smile at, but instead we cower in fear, unsettled by the disappearance of people or rottens. For years we've been walking, doing nothing, and our crew had started to go insane. One of our men and started to see rottens out of nowhere, but they've just been going insane. Their boyfriend would always try to soothe their panic attacks, but nothing could calm the screams of fear. Hamilton's hypothesis is that he was the victim of abuse as a child, and is terrified of seeing anything moving in the distance, as it could indicate a painful night.
After a good four to five hours of walking, we arrive at a shed, where George goes first to check out the shed for dangers. After the coast is clear, we check inside and we can see several photos and lawn care equipment. Our french member reaches for the photos and examines each one. They are simple photos, all of the families apparently, and each one is printed on delicate paper, and each photo is a different family. Hamilton dismisses the photos and starts to rummage through the stuff, looking for a good weapon. There was a handy pencil case in a bright pink shade with flowers on it, which Hamilton grabbed for future use. Inside of that case was a small knife, which was coated with a green tinted blood. Hamilton got a shiver down his back.
There was a prominent gasp from one of our french member, as he held a hand to his mouth, his hand shaking along with the photos. One of our members went up to him. "Lafayette, are you ok?"
Lafayette took a second to breathe in, but nodded, smiling. "Yes, yes, I am ok. Just, this photo is my family."
Interest perked the man helping him, as he looked at his photo. He smiled, and nodded, observing the rest of Lafayette's photos. When he went through, he stopped dead as well.
"Hercules, what's going on?" George asked, dragging his attention from the tools.
Hercules gulped and responded with a concerned voice. "There's my family here as well."
At this point, the group as surrounding Lafayette, grabbing for the photos and looking at them in disbelief. Each and every single one of them gasped as they found "their" photo.
"Wait, let me see!" Hamilton grabbed for the last photo in the group and flipped it over to see the image he was holding. Lord and behold, there was his mother, smiling and looking at the camera, carrying a small Hamilton, giggling as he was reaching for her face. His eyes stung with memories, as his expression contorted into a tearful glaze. As he looked longer, he could feel a pain tingle in his right arm. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek as he glanced up, looking to George. He was as dumbfound as the rest of the group, as he had found his family as well. George gulped as he tucked his photo into his tank top shirt.
"Whatever this is, someone's got an eye on us."