They thrash mercilessly at the door.
            You cower in the corner, armed with a well-used axe and a rifle loaded with a single bullet incase you decide to abort mission. Everyone has turned into a flesh eater, a real life zombie, no thanks to the notorious Vikki Varlow Virus.
            You are the last one in Portland, perhaps the world, with a beating heart. You were immune to the virus when it went airborne, and when it tainted drinking water. You don’t know if you’d be affected by a bite, but why take chances?
            The hairs on your shaking arms stand straight in fear, and you try to control your sobs as the flesh eaters continue to wail and throw their filthy,decomposing bodies at the elevator door. You let out a gasp as the elevator drops down a few floors, one more and you would have been open season for the flesh eaters. Your young eyes take in the darkness. It’s gotten quiet now.
You think about how all this mayhem started two weeks ago with eleven year old Vikki Varlow, the cursed illness’s origin. The Vikki Varlow Virus is relentless, for twenty-four hours it ravages its victim’s body, stealing the life and then bringing them back as a flesh eater. No one knows why this happens. It just does.
            You rest your aching head on your knees and pray to a god you barely believe exists anymore. Memories flicker in your mind one by one, like a reel of film, memories of what seems like centuries ago, your little sister’s birthday at Oaks Park, the time busy mom stayed home to take care of you when you had flu last year, hanging out with your friends, and going fishing with your old man-you didn’t catch anything besides cold and his gaudy old fishing hat,but it was the best day of your life. Life was great then.
            Now look at you:scared, cold and alone, crying in an elevator at Lloyd Center Mall, a place you once used to hang out with friends but is now a hell crawling with flesh eaters. You push away the thought of your family out there in the wreckage, flesh-crazed,
and covered in the blood of their last meal. The cold realization that in order to survive you must behead them makes your stomach hot.
            You curse yourself for being immune. You pound your fists against the walls until hungry moans approach to investigate, you stop in frustrated fear. Now you have nothing to distract you from the scenario of being grabbed by skeleton fingers, torn apart and feasted upon, it makes your skin crawl.
            Your mind races with possible strategies to get out,but they all crash and burn the same way: each plan ends with, “when I get out I’ll go to…”
Where will you go?
Everyone has turned.
            Your heart jumps as your cell phone beeps. Someone has texted you. Can flesh eaters text? Pure joy seizes you as you read every word three times. You pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming. Your eccentric uncle is alive in Alaska. No one has turned there. They are making a cure and need you. Hope swells within your chest like a balloon. The remedy to this damnation flows through your veins in your blood-your heart pumps it by the second.
You are the cure.
You must survive no matter what.