1. Take the key, open door 31.
You crumple the note and throw it to the floor. In the darkness it looks a bit like a scurrying rat as it rolls up against a wall.
Jess touches your shoulder. You turn and she's holding the key in her hand.
"Be careful," she says, simply. You nod and take the key.
It slides into the lock and you turn the metal, hearing the soft click as the lock disengages.
You take a deep breath and push open the door. It opens silently, and you stand at the entrance, surveying the interior.
The room is fairly well lit from the soft gray light coming through the two windows inside. The interioris mostly normal, furniture, light fixtures, end tables, a couch. Up against the wall is a dead body, slumped in a chair.
Blood and dried brain matter stains the wall behind. His hand still loosely clutch the 12 gauge that killed him. Despite the mess, you can tell one eye is missing.
You step into the room, Jesse silently following.
There's another door to the left, standing open. You glimpse another window, part of a bathroom. As you look you hear a soft whimper, followed by footsteps and a soft jingle.
Jesse tenses and lowers her rifle, but you place a hand on her.
A medium sized black and white dog comes to the threshold of the bathroom door, then stops, cocks his head slightly, and stares at you.
You kneel and put both your hands outward, palms up. The dog continues to stare, it's expression neutral.
You lick your lips and whistle softly. "Come here. Come on, boy. It's OK. I'm not gonna hurt you," you say.
The dog whines, once, almost mournfully. It takes a single step forward.
"Are you sure this is wise?" Jesse says in a low tone from above and behind. "He might be infected."
"He's not," you say. "I can't feel him."
"What?"
"Nevermind. Trust me. He's not infected."
The dog is regarding the two of you speak, looking back and forth between you as you talk. His eyes are two different colors, one a deep brown, the other a startling blue.
You gently pat your legs. "Come on, boy. It's OK. Come here."
One leg lifts, but then is set down again. The dog looks unsure, eyes regarding you with a mix of emotion.
"Max," you say. "It's OK. Come here, Max."
The dog reacts to the name, and finally comes forward cautiously, muzzle low to the ground. He stops about five feet away.
You reach into your pocket and pull out an almost finished bag of beef jerky, the last of the food you have now. You remove a strip and hold it out.
The dog sniffs, and inches forward. You wait.
Finally he stretches his neck out tenderly and snatches the offered strip with his teeth gently, then retreats back to the bathroom with it before turning to regard you with one eye while chewing.
You stand and walk to the dead man.
From what you can tell, he killed himself by eating the end of his shotgun. Some blood is on the barrel, but it's long dry. You wrest the weapon from his grasp and hand it to Jesse, who immediately checks it.
"It's nearly fully loaded," she says. "Four shells left. Just down the one he... used."
You nod. The man is wearing a business suit. The room looks like a typical office, you have no idea what it was used for. You head over to a nearby table to see a folded note.
Brian J. Hawkins, last will and testament
To whoever finds this letter;
I apologize for the mess. I don't have much time left now, and even if I did, I don't think I'd want to go on living, locked up in here like this. After having seen your son murder your wife, little things like living don't seem so important anymore.
If you're reading this, it means you're still human. Maybe you're with the army, or the government. I hope so. It would mean that they're getting a handle on this, that this thing is beatable, that it hasn't spread. I hope so, but I doubt it. I've seen what the government and the army is doing. I don't think you're with the government, or the armed forces. I think you're probably a survivor, maybe looking for supplies, maybe running from those things out there that even now I can hear, screaming at each other. Mixed with the screams of those few who are left.
If you are a survivor, I want to help you. I don't know why. I feel like my entire life hasn't meant anything, like I was meant for something more. But then my son got infected and everything went to shit. My life is over, now, I know that. It's either the gun or living as one of those monsters, and that's not even a choice. I go now to see my wife. My son, I'll have to wait a bit longer for, I didn't have it in me to stop him, even after it was too late.
My only regret is leaving Max behind. I had planned to take him with me but I found I just couldn't do it. I left him a large supply of food and water, but most likely he'll still be dead by the time anyone finds this. I'm so weak. I should just kill him now, instead I have condemned him to live out the rest of his life trapped in a small room, and then starve to death, in a cage, with those things clawing the doom outside.
If by some miracle you find him alive, then I ask you only one thing in return for what I give you: take care of him. Either do what I could not, or take him with you. Find a place for him where he can be safe and happy, he deserves that much for his years of loyal service to me and my family.
Take the shotgun. It should be fully loaded, minus the one, of course. There's a box of shells in the medicine cabinet. I stockpiled some water, but I poured it all in the tub for Max. I'm afraid I don't have any food, what little was here I have already eaten.
Hah. Now that I actually take inventory, I don't have much to give you other than the gun. Perhaps some information will help you.
They came with the mist. It rolled in one day, like a wave of blood. Reports say it's coming from a large crater on the east side of town. I don't know what they are or why they're here. They seem to be carrying off the dead, always to the east. I've seen what happens to dogs who get infected. They've even worse than the humans, they seem smarter, even.
But they're not the worst. The worst are the ones who still look like us. They come in, they pretend. They let the others in. I urge you: Trust nobody.
The radio is saying that the threat has been contained, that a meeting place for food and water has been set up on the east side of town for civilians. What a crock of shit. Ted wouldn't listen to me, he didn't believe they were smart enough to do something like that, didn't believe they could talk and think like us. And after everything we had been through. Nancy got Bill, tore him to pieces right in front of us. We managed to lock her in her office, room 33. Still couldn't bring myself to kill anyone. I'm pathetic.
I can see my wife. She's telling me not to do it. But she's not real. I know that now, I can feel them inside me. They're almost ready. I won't give them the fucking pleasure.
It's time. Please take care of Max. He likes cheese, and chasing cats.
-- Brian
Jesse had been reading it over your shoulder. Her face is blank. You walk to the bathroom door. Max backs away from you into the corner. A soft pillow, covered in fur. The bathtub is down to a thin line of water at the bottom. Several bowls and plates, licked clean, scattered on the floor. An empty bag of dog food. Max stares at you.
You open the medicine cabinet and pull out the box of shells. Opening it, there seems to be a good number, around twenty more. You pocket it.
Walking back out into the main room, you take the shotgun from Jesse slowly. Max follows behind you, like a shadow, keeping his distance.
"What are we going to do?" Jesse asks. "And why were we led here?"
"I don't know," you reply.
Max walks forward and, muzzle still low to the ground, gently licks your hand.
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1. Take him with you.
2. Taking a dog with you is too dangerous. Finish it.
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