Greasy rain dripped through leaking roof tiles and pipes unmaintained for years. Each step kicked up mold spores - even with a HEPA-filter mask, bile and vomit tried to rise as well. But I still followed the bright spot of the flashlight, making my way through the complex.
Everything here had a story, and I hoped to "plagiarize" a few. But its organization system was the end of the world, its index terror and panic as the dead rose and civilization fell.
A dame entered the office, late 40s, thin, red dress and ugly as only unnatural reanimation can. Jerking about like a movie on a poor connection. I've never really been good talking with lades, so I let my .45 speak for me. The whole room lit up with muzzle flash just long enough to see the skull split and small white shards fly into the far wall.
Wait. Listen. No other movement? Ok, quickly now, open cylinder, punch out casing, reach in pocket, find new round, reload, close.
It all becomes automatic, reloading whenever there is a spare moment - better than being caught a bullet short at the wrong time. Sometimes I even reload a perfectly fine gun just to switch out the ammo to make sure its fresh and ready.