Information

Limp has a minion!

Is it my family or the Black Cat

Limp
Legacy Name: Limp

The

Graveyard Rreign
Owner:

Nikomas

Age: 11 years, 1 month, 4 days

Born: March 30th, 2013

Adopted: 10 years, 10 months, 5 days ago

Adopted: June 28th, 2013

Statistics

Level: 1
Strength: 13
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

The sound of shifting gravel reverberated among the dilapidated buildings. Weeds growing uninhibited between cracks in the sidewalk, the broken edges of windows dulled with dust. As Phil dragged his foot behind him with each shuffling step, tiny bits of dead skin flaked off to mix in with the small rocks, leaving a scarce trail of tissue in his wake. He had an arm, which looked suspiciously as if it were infected with gangrene, reaching protectively around his stomach. The fibers holding his abdomen together were just barely connected with a thread and a prayer. His other arm, as mangled as it was, with sizable chunks of musculature and bone visible, clung to a walking stick fashioned out of a broom handle. And he had a feeling he had a maggot in his neck somewhere, as it itched something fierce. Despite having only been infected for a week, Phil’s constant movement had accelerated his symptoms to his current state. But he had to get somewhere. Sometimes he wasn’t exactly sure where that was, but he knew he had to get there.

It had been a few months shy of a year ago that the outbreak had begun. Fingers pointed everywhere between weaponized government experiments and illicit foreign animal trading. People were dropping like flies: falling terribly ill for an agonizingly long time, then getting right back up and cannibalizing on the healthy, infecting anyone lucky or unlucky enough to get away. But with all the big-wigs too busy playing the blame game, barely any time had been spared towards concocting a proper cure before they too fell prey to the epidemic. Whoever had been left after the first few waves fled into hiding, with lockable basements and warehouses being considered prime real estate worth killing over. A smart, unattached few fled into the forests and mountains where those clumsy and practically brain-dead monsters couldn’t hope to follow. But when you have a young kid, and another on the way, sticking to what’s familiar is your only chance.

That’s right. That’s where he was going. Home. To Margaret, fit to pop any day now. And little Sammy. Though their house wasn’t exactly a storm shelter, and definitely looked worse for wear, it had held up for the most part. Why Phil had even left on that supply run when his dear Margie had insisted he stay was a reason lost to his decaying memories. But everything would be better once he was home again. Things could go back to the way they were. A life of wary caution in four walls. Teaching Sammy how to lay a zombie trap, and what salvage foods were best to take; coddling his wife to extremes so she wouldn’t exert herself.

Just ahead, Phil finally spotted with his failing eyesight the stop sign he had tagged early on: A four-point star to let him know he was close in case he got disoriented. But all these thoughts of his family had managed to restart what was left of his logical thought, paralyzing him for the first time in days. What in the world was he doing? He couldn’t go home, he was infected for Chrissakes! How could he have even led himself to believe that doing this was in any way okay? Yes, he wanted to see his wife and kid, but he didn’t want them to see him like that. Literally falling apart at the seams; a living corpse. No, they didn’t deserve that. But already, he was forgetting even the simplest details about them. Had Sammy gotten his eyes, or Margie’s ears? Was she the one who had broken her nose, not him? Gods, were they even real? Was he just imagining this family to give him one last reason to live?

Looking up, Phil’s gaze wandered until it landed on a brownstone that stirred vague feelings within him. That must’ve been his house. It had the same star etched into the wood of the door. Once again, he made to shuffle his way closer. Yet also once again he stopped. Had the curtain in the window moved just then? If he did have a family, maybe they were inside. Or maybe it was just the cat. Did he have a cat? After a while of just staring blankly ahead, the last of the humanity in Phil made its final decision. He would not go back home. He wasn’t living anymore, and he had no right to want to continue pretending to do so. Family or not, cat or not, that was no longer his home. Turning around, the weight of life seemed to slide off his shoulders as he slumped away. He had no more purpose. He had no more burdens. His hand fell to his side unceremoniously, as he no longer cared if his intestines spilled out or not. In both mind and soul, Phil was Limp.