"Every scar is a proof - I made it yesterday."
-Anonymous

But the slide of the glass door beside him made his body jolt forward, clutching his boxer for the last defense he had. But the faces greeting his eyes were filled with smiles and snorted after a good laugh that their faces had tears strike, wiping aggressively. Their eyes travel down his body, a good pale of white paper… naked. 
They laugh again, their bodies tilted backward, slapping each other so hard, continuing to laugh until their bodies were nothing but a red shade on that olive skin and a darker shade of midnight, now deepened.  
“Fuck!. Are you guys fucking okay?. What the fuck happened?. Did they do anything to you?. Your clothes still attach; they probably aren't into old men!.”  
His eyes widen then, ignoring the laugh and slapping, as his head ponders worriedly. He was out to find them; now they were here. He didn't waste any time as their thunderous laugh slowed down; he jumped onto his feet, leaped down, and grabbed their wrist, pulling them to run.  
“Do you guys know where to run?. We should go back to the redwood outpost first. And find help!.”  
He pulled them; however, he turned around as their legs dug deeper into the floor, so hard that he couldn't move their bodies an inch, except their legs were shuffled across the floor, trying to drag down their old asses.
“What the fuck is wrong?.”  
He spat as his head swayed left and right to see if they came. His ears are trying to catch any pounding on the floor. He ignored the pain in his left arm, more painful now that he tried to pull Blythe, who is twice or even thrice his size. It was not just throbbing; it was as if he were trying to dislocate his bone. 
He released them right after the futile attempt, looking into their eyes with now lively concern.  Those two stopped in their tracks; they sure knew how he looked for the past two months being in the tent. His eyes were dead; he refused to talk; he ate just because Blythe was forcing him; that was for a couple of spoonfuls of food, and then he turned away, refusing any more food until a few mouthfuls the next day. 
They knew how dead he was, how fragile he became, how thinner he got each day, each week. Now, those eyes shone, alive, with swimming emotions behind them. He had the energy to talk, even make himself run and jump from the fifth floor (which they were misunderstanding, of course).  
Caine hesitated on his next movement, afraid if he touched the man, he would dig deeper into his skin, worsening his condition. He opened his mouth, but he tried to create a suitable train of sentences. His eyes shone with a great concern, which Walter saw with an even more twisted, confused look.  
“Why don't we take a seat first?.”  
Blythe asked, feeling out of place. He looked unsure before stride, passing Walter and demanded silently to follow.  
“I don't know what kind of drug they gave you or what kind of convincing they did, but we need to leave, as of NOW!.”  
Walter pressed, worried. 
He still looked around, his body stiff, tired slowly dissipating the longer he stayed, not forcing his body to move. It was as confusing as his eyes roaming even more, as if it was a maze; the glass was one way to assess; he could see clearly things inside, the stained white mattress, the hallway was narrow on both sides, just like the dark hallway on the fifth floor, except these hallways were bright and narrower than the one he saw up there. 
Perhaps another dozen rooms, confusingly, there was a round, sturdy table and a few stools around it, decorating and preparing for anyone. At the middle of the hallway?. However, he does not say anything; another thought occurs to him: the maze could minimize any sudden attack and minimize their numbers greatly; if anything, it gives more points to the people who built this than to invaders.  
Blythe was already on his seat, steaming hot tea in his hands, as he slurped the liquid slowly. But, Walter sees it, the tense on his big muscular body, and the slow trickle of sweat, which disappeared behind his thin black cotton shirt with half sleeves; Walter might get the gist of it, but he couldn't understand their reasoning at all. 
By the look of his shirt, which lacks any defensive or offensive tools. He appears nonchalant and even carefree the moment they open the glass door; the same goes for Caine, except his cowboy hat still adorned his head. The way Blythe can sit and drink hot tea, and some biscuits laid on a white porcelain plate in front of him. 
This, whatever it is in front of him, wasn't an act of someone needing help or any danger. They weren't even worried. And the guards weren't in a hurry to come and throw them into anywhere they could in this maze of a house. The possibilities ran in his head like a waterfall, loud and clear, and pouring even more.  
They were threatened? They were brainwashed? They found their family? But Blythe doesn't have one unless Caine does and convinces Blythe to stay? They found girls here and decided to settle?, but he does not see any of their hair here. , or perhaps they swing the other way?, or perhaps they made someone pregnant?, or perhaps they found out they have a secret child?. They were here because they chose to commit suicide?.  Each coherent thought was flooding in, and one was more terrible than before; however, they seemed plausible, all of them.  
Oh no!. Perhaps it's all the above; they swing the other way and find solace in each other, so they come in the excuse of helping, but they want to take suicide together. They come and deny their feelings, so they search for someone to soothe the broken heart and find some girls, do nasty things, and find out they have a secret child, so they threaten and brainwash them to stay, and their family suddenly is here and does not approve of their feelings, so they want to take suicide together?. What if the pregnant girl is the same girl?.   
Walter gasped loudly, startling both of the men.   Is that why the guards do not make any hasty moves?.  Because they knew both of them would insist on staying?.  Perhaps they were planning to ruin these old men’s asses?.   
“Who's the poor lady?.”  
His eyes were set stone. Calculating how to eliminate the lady and the child so they can pursue each other. He can even eliminate all their family who opposed. He just needs locations and names.  Caine looks at him as if he just asked to marry his nonexistent daughter. And Blythe looks at him as if he just came out to announce he suddenly got pregnant himself.  
“What lady?.”  
Blythe asked, confused.  
“Whose lady?.”  
Caine continued after Blythe, though his intention was joking; however, he seriously needed to know what Walter truly meant. He grins as he enjoys Walter's widened eyes.  
“Why would you stay then?. And why haven't they come for my next boxer?. There's something odd here, and I don't know what. The only thing I am sure of is getting us out, you morons!. You guys don't even seem so eager to leave!.”  
Walter is seething, considering all the circumstances. His thought ran as fast as it could; it was easy to just force his emotions onto his surroundings. The rage that burns hotter by seconds, taking his head and swiveling to the edge. 
Without him realizing, his fist tightened, greenish-blue veins popped, stretching on his skin, crawling from his wrist up his arm, tangled with each other in a symphony of indignation. His temple was a web of veins, threatening his source of anger, the frustration and the adrenaline, as he had to survive those attacks and save the sorry ass now coming crashing like a wave, rolling under his skin, burning hotter and hotter.  
In a quick second, as he tried to find a way to soothe the anger, his arm flung to the side, punching the nearest wall. The victim let out a loud crack, the wood splinter flew, scattering in the air, the jagged, raw-edged hole puncturing to the other side. As quickly as his arm goes, the thick fog in his head faded, allowing thoughts to come laid in front of him.  
Caine sealed his grins, tight straight lines, as he smoothly turned to his professional self; emotions drew from his face, and his eyes were deadly serious as his body went rigid, ready to take any command. Those relentless military years have made his muscles act as a memory. Blythe gives a glance before sighing.  
“Man, you ought to act reckless sometimes. That's why your mama locked you up like a princess.”  
Blythe pulled Walter to the seat; at the middle of many entrances to hallways, there sat a table with a matching set of white marble seats. Now, anger fading from every inch of his body, he follows like a lost puppy, his head down, his shoulder dropping like a random weather they have now ever since the apocalypse started. He felt like shit; his head did not feel good, his memories jumbled like a swirling bright light dancing in a dark room. 
Dreams, nightmares, and reality mixed in his head; perhaps that’s why everything was on his last nerves. And it is frustrating how every last part of his body was on edge as long as they were here, in unknown danger, and these men straight up refused to cooperate!.  
“Walter, it’s not like we want to stay, but have you seen around?. I am sure you want to solve a few things here.”  
Blythe tried to reason with him.  Caine snapped out of his stupor, taking a deep sigh before he patted Walter's back. The seat on his right seems pretty nicely warm from the sunlight filtering through the big glass where Walter fell earlier. He sat having his back to the warm, a good warm as it was filtered. A slight smile adorned his cheeks, which Walter found ugly and stupid.  
Since the zombie apocalypse, the weather seems to change; it was cold in the day and hotter in the night, some days it was raining, and some days it was scorching hot. Yet, neither winter nor spring has ever greeted them since. It slowly faded, and after two years, it was only cold or hot, and nothing in between. 
So, it wasn't odd it was warm; any minute it might get rain, or days before it's happened.  Walter sat quietly, his thoughts once again trying to shut everything off and poisoning him with a thick and thorny rope and tangling him with his own thoughts, keeping him there, suffering and quiet. They say eyes are the window to the soul; perhaps the way his were slowly fading of any light was enough to be proof.  
“They're dead.”  
Blythe cut the silence. He crossed his arm, the biceps that have grown twice as much ever since he worked at the logging site for the Redwood outpost, making him look bigger and meaner, especially with his tight and straight-line lips, the stress on his eyebrows, creating fine wrinkles, and the sharpness in his eyes.  
“No shit. I already know that.”  
Walter spat. He glances at the broken walls on his left, dust and wood pieces laid on the ground motionlessly. He turned his back from the window where he fell; he anxiously placed his elbow on the moon-shaped cement's hard table. His eyes were on the walls in front of him, trying to ignore all the mazes; he once wondered what was inside before all of this mess, when he was having his time with Dylan and Sarah, and now he just wants to escape, but what about the people Uncle Joe has mentioned?. Who is good and who is bad?.  He really has no idea what was happening or who needs their help?.  
Caine sighed.  
“We were the ones who told them to place you up there, and we made them chase you when they saw you. It's all my plan to help you move and clear your head, seeing how you sleep the whole day, and now it's almost nighttime. If you're not aware, we would rather have you take things slow."
He nonchalantly exposed their little teasing idea. Blythe, who was sitting across from him, widened his eyes in shock. He literally dropped the unnecessary bomb, which doesn't help Walter’s case at all. Yet, he sat there, counting for Walter to reply.  Trust to be told. Walter did feel like his muddy-filled chest now expanded, as if his head was a little bit clearer than before, now that he could curse and judge these two instead of mourning and remembering all the nightmares every second. 
And he did feel fresh while taking ten laps easily. He did feel good. Maybe there are good things about him leaving the tent after two whole months, and now he can count how many days and months he spent inside the tent, having Blythe drag him out to have a little bath, though he isn't aware of his surroundings, and it feels like it was his first time seeing everything the day Uncle Joe came and asked for his help. And he realizes how his tent, from having ten tenants, is tight and suffocating; the last time he was there, there were only half of the original number, including him and Blythe, of course.  
“Good.”  
He whispered.  
“Hah!. Fifteen seconds.”  
Caine proudly crossed his arms, wiggling his eyebrows at Blythe, while the latter guy shook his head, annoyed with his childish behavior.  
“I am sorry, Walter. I should've stopped this child.”  
“No worries. Blythe, I don't know why I am not surprised that all of this was his idea. And, is it strange that I feel good after all of that, minus when my shirt and pants are being pulled like a pulling rope game, and I am left with this?”  
He points to his black boxer with white stripes on both sides. He landed his head on his palm, leaning onto the table, feeling like one thing is off his shoulder. He closed his eyes and now felt the warmth on his naked back.  The bright warm sunlight earlier has cooled down a bit. Reflected from the white leather mattress thing from within the four corner glass, filtered through and hitting the floor, spreading the warmth before the sunset comes in.  
“I miss this; I miss being here. Say, Blythe. Is it safe enough for me to visit my home?. I don't really understand what happens here, but I trust you, and maybe that guy too. From what I remembered, everyone supposed to be walking undead was really dead and decomposing, and if I calculate from what I remembered, perhaps a slow decomposition since a week ago or at the very least three to four days ago. Am I right?.”  
Walter peeled open one of his eyes and glanced on Blythe's way. He was deep in thought. All the trace of being mean was gone, and what was left was his wise looks and the shiny, dark bald head of his. That's what was left.  
“Your calculations are almost correct. It's a week-old decomposing body; oddly enough, it should have left a really, really bad smell throughout the place, and they were supposed to decompose earlier and faster. That's supposed to be a normal rate, but a week?. That's weird. Let me make sure tomorrow if it's safe. Rest for the night.”  
Blythe, for the first time, has spoken so wisely. At least when his head is clear. As far as he remembers, Blythe always spoke this way when he coped in his tent. Not that he cared back then.  
“I did sleep well.”  
Walter tried to not provoke him, which is an itch under his skin, and he needs to scratch that so much.  
“Tell me more.”  
Walter turned fully to the table. Blythe glanced at Caine, who was being good and quiet for a second.   
“Well, almost all the people left here are the residents. From what we've gathered, those zombies outside weren't in the same pattern as the zombies they handled every day; this is the word from most of the guards.”  
Blythe shifted on his seat. Letting Caine talk, he most certainly liked the seriousness rather than his childish behavior.  
“Those who seek shelter in here at the last minute that day, those were the guys you have met up there, at least twenty residents and five guards who were supposed to evacuate them but were too late to get into the truck. There are at least seven people who originally worked as cleaners in the main house and some who worked in handling paperwork and records, mostly women; the other four guys were said to be in the memorial days.”  
Caine turned to look at Walter. As if understanding by his looks, Walter nodded, giving him answers. Caine slightly smiled.  
“Yeah, I know those guys. The twins Sanchez, Ryan, and Jacob. If I am not mistaken, they were brought to the redwood outpost right away, since they were the only ones in their family, weren't they?.”  
He glances at Blythe, who only nodded. 
“They were reported, those zombies, instead of howling and groaning like the common ones out there. Those infected inside were screaming and calling like a human. They were calling their family names, talking more like complaining things, and said something like wanting revenge, wanting this person vice versa to be dead. There's a child roaming around calling for his mother, “Come out, Mom, come out, Mom, it hurts, help me.” 
Things like that. If they don't know better, they probably call them hallucinations from some drugs or something or not for the tearing, dangling flesh and the thick, gooey, black blood.  
“How's the mother?. Where's she now?.”  
Walter interrupted once again. He was feeling on edge, as if he needed to do everything at once, and he did not even know what he needed to do. His legs bounced under the table while both of the older men took notice of this; one was curious and another one was anxious about this behavior.  
“After two days of being held in tight and on-time security, she somehow escaped. Those who noticed she jumped from the five-floor open balcony, landed on the ground, perhaps broke her ankle, limped to her son, and tried to call her back. The child, however, recognized his mother, and blood poured from his eyes as he smiled before jumping onto the poor woman and tearing her every limb apart, dragging the body, piece by piece, before burning their house down and screaming, “We will die together, mother.” And the kids kept roaming that house afterwards, before he was eaten by other zombies. From what I get, it was as if the strongest deserved to be alive among them. Those outside were the strongest who had eaten half of them from fighting to death, I mean, death after death, you know what I mean?. Anyway, that's all before they died five days ago; they just dropped and were certainly dead.”  
“Well, that's the opposite of zombies outside. They stay in hordes led by the strongest, letting the strongest eat them, decomposing while still walking in the rotten body. They don't talk, more like the monsters they are, the instinct of monsters with a working brain.”  
Walter glances at Blythe, who now has a deep wrinkle settled on his forehead. And turned to Caine, who somehow looked pissed off.  
“And what situation is here?.”  
“Well, that granddaughter of that uncle Joe is the mother of that kid. And the guards who were instructed to evacuate the residents here are teaching the youngsters to fight. Well, you just wake up right in time with their training hours.”  
Caine laughed heartily. He was sure happy with the thought.  
“How are you not stressed while people are dead?.”  
Blythe grumbled in his seat for a moment. He tightened the muscles as he crossed his arms on his chest. Caine stopped in his mid-laugh abruptly, before tapping the table, somehow making the noise in that hard cemented table.  
“Well, I see death every day, and I greet death every time. That doesn't make it any better, but I chose to put them in my heart and swear to save the others who are still able to survive; that's how we are at …”  
Caine glanced at Walter. He sighed and stood from his seat, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes, as if trying to compose himself. Walter dropped his eyes onto the table, seemingly to drown in the pain of others. Blythe has his eyes set on the opposite man, as the said man has his eyes on the lost young man in his own feelings.  
“Someone dear to me once said, even when one loses everything in the ruins of civilization, they hope, and that hope keeps them alive and continues to fight for a better tomorrow. If we keep weeping for longer, what about the others who are still waiting to be saved?. That doesn't help to end these things; it's a continuous mourning until one rises for the fallen civilization. Don't let weeping hold you down while others hope you will come and save them. Now, adapt and survive and lend your hands to others who deserve survival too.”