A raspy choke of air filled the stone cold night, various stains of crimson layered the brick patterned sidewalks. That’s all it took to stamp the people of the once great nation with a deathly smile. No one suspected a single thing; the warning signs were simply just, “Wash Your Hands 30 Minutes A Day.” Ironically, the posters hung loosely by rusting nails in every dirty subway bathroom. I was the only one not sniffling, or had snot stuck to my upper arm sleeve from the tenth sneeze in a row. I didn't want to blame this on my excessive use of Germ-X that I’ve always used when dealing with the gross diseased world. I would just rather explain it in greater detail. Greater detail in how the world is now infested with smiling skeletons.

You see, when things began to tarnish and literally burn to the ground, it wasn’t hard to target what was really going on. It was a virus, not a natural one. Not one created from fleas, rats, or a bat. No, it was created from highly intelligent and threatened scientists who worked for the United States government. It didn’t start off that brutal, we had laws. The Proclamation of 2050: Only two biological children were permitted to one opposite-sex couple. It was voted on by our “democracy” when natural resources and food began to decline rapidly. Our population alone surpassed India and China combined. It was when the war started that we had been giving billions for what was lost. Refugees and wounded warriors began to flood our gates begging for help. Our new president Ally Reeber, abolished laws of immigrants in 2034, due to a rapid death rate of children caused by a newly formed common cold. A disease that was accidentally spilled onto the public by our government. The nuclear waste infused gasses affected only the children and older adults, and then spread to the rest in record time. The fertility rate declined and the population pyramid caved in on itself.

My mother was first in my family to catch it. Her and my worthless excuse of a sister caught it on the first day in the back of a steaming car. It was weird when they came home with the cough, I didn’t just quarantine myself in my bedroom, but I also regularly lubricated my hands with extra strength germ-repellent. The hospital smell in my room cocooned me from the virus. I say this is weird because my dog was also trapped in there with me, but he sadly contracted the disease. My father collapsed a day later due to lack of oxygen in the lungs, and my mother turned so pale you could trace your finger over the protruding cerulean blue veins that covered her body. My sister, however, quickly found out about her STD's, which only fueled Motrisus. She was found dead forty-eight hours later in her bedroom, naked. My mother, father, and dog followed my sister a day later in the same room. I remember the laughs echoing through the house. The disease morphed their still faces into a eerie grin. The image burned into my skull. I wasted no time leaving their remains behind. I never looked back. I could never go back.

It’s not that simple though, this virus is not something that can just be cured with an aspirin. Motrisus, as we call it, is not a friendly disease. It does not leave boils under your armpits, or make you bleed from your fingertips, no. It comes in stages.

Clockwork stages, and as the rampage stormed on, the hours clocked down to minutes. The first minute you begin to sweat, cough, and sneeze until you fall unconscious. In that state, your mind begins to cut and rewire into the odd patterns. You wake to being irritable for a second. Within the next minute, you are uncontrollably angry - murder angry. You will kill and destroy every single thing in your way until it is burning down, down, down. The following, the most disgusting minute, is when you begin to laugh so hard you literally puncture each and every organ within you, and your smile turns so wicked that it splits in half. The final minute, being the fifth minute, your skin liquefies and falls off of your body until you are now a walking skeleton with a vicious grin. Your body remains dead for a few days til the disease takes control of the brain. After the process is finished, you are now working for the government. Or, what's left of the government.

There’s always that flaw to your villain; however, whether it be water, a stone, a loved one, or simply an insecurity. The virus came with a cure and a contradicting DNA that can’t be infected. There’s only a few of us, called runners, who were naturally born with this DNA and a spiking attitude. We managed to find each other, the three of us, at a crossroads running from Wikeds coming in each direction except one. Washington D.C. Ryder, Jack, and I created our own rule of surviving; kill those with a smile. We wake up each morning with four hours of paranoid sleep and an aching back. That was on a good day. After being fully awake, we split a granola bar into three parts and journeyed on to the heart of the country. We knew when we got closer, not just because of our map, but because of the continuous overuse of the American flag advertising everywhere. The flags were the last shed of hope that failed the people of the U.S.A.

Tall shells of skyscrapers boxed my two other companions and myself in. Dusk fell over the city that had no name - all we knew was it was in the direction we wanted to go. Ryder, the leader per se, had his muscular body hunched over slightly in efforts of trying to scout of any danger. Brown, shaggy hair hung low right above his brows. His hand firmly grasped his AK-12 he called Black Beauty. Ryder was ready for anything. I always had a little crush on the tattooed veteran. I never felt scared when he was around. I turned my head over to Jack, the brains of the trio. He tells us of the times before the virus broke out. Black framed glasses hung low on his slim nose and he would have to push them up and sniffled slightly. Even with his extensive smarts, Jack was always the one to lighten the mood when all seemed hopeless. I valued him for his humor. His smile even made Ryder feel whole. His famous saying was: “I know we’re in Hell and all, but let’s go play hopscotch and hold hands along the fiery trail.” Sometimes, we

would actually skip and hold hands.

“You know, Ryder, you’d think by now you would learn how to split the granola bar evenly between the three of us. I’m beginning to raise suspicions,” I joked with a wink to Ryder, who already stuffed the “measured” amount into his mouth. Ryder was never one to speak with words. Instead, he was known for his infamous eye rolling and stern face.

“Skylar, when are you going to learn that Ryder has no time for being modest and kind?” Jack said to me with an exhausted raspy voice. He must’ve covered for Ryder’s night-watch once again, for the eleventh night in a row. We never stood up to Ryder, not seriously at least. He was known for his millimeter long tolerance and his biceps. Ryder didn't seem to fear anything, he had no reason to. His skills with weapons put Jack and I to shame.

When we came close to Wikeds, it was usually easy to tell. They made a clicking noise, the clicking being their bones tapping together and rummaging through garbage in search of human flesh. One could measure how close they were by the number of clicks. One click: Extreme danger. Two clicks: Danger. Three clicks: There was time to run without attracting attention. Four clicks: You’re okay to take another step in your direction. Five clicks: The ball is in your park to search and destroy.

We heard a familiar pop, making us stop dead in our tracks to measure, ...click...click...click. I could hear Jack and myself sigh in unison as Ryder rested his tense hand on his gun. Bullets are useless against the Wikeds; they could only put them down for about twenty minutes per bullet. After that, the bullets slide out of the bone, and for each wound, the Wikeds became stronger. If one were to use a simple weapon such as a bat, you could knock their skulls off, only then will they fully be put to rest.