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There Woogie stood, gun in hand. His finger is lightly pressed against the metal trigger. Everytime he breathes, the rather unpleasant smell of rusting machinery hits what is left of his sense of smell.
In front of him, the man stood. Black haired, with a fading green scarf that covers half his face. Jawhn was the mans name. The man who has been trying his hardest to keep Woogie from having to experience what Jophiel had.
Keeping Woogie from turning, and being shot as a semi-conscious being.
Woogie doesn't have long left. He can feel it, as the rot consumes his inner organs. The infection has controlled his actions before. Yet, never to the point that not even Woogie feels sane enough to let down his guard.
From the corner of his eyes, stands Zora. The most luscious hair in town, as Jawhn says. Zora is fully geared, and has spent the last year murdering nearly everyone on sight. If Woogie were to push the trigger down, she'd surely attack him.
That is the only reason Jawhn is still breathing, still trying to negotiate a way for Woogie to live. If Jawhn dies, who knows if Woogie would too? Zora seems determined to protect Jawhn from Woogie, and his violent actions.
The sickly disease shoots up in pain, something it does often. His gun drops to the ground, as Woogie moves his hands in surprise.
Next thing Woogie knew, he was fighting for his safety against Zora, his boots covered the fresh blood of the greatest friend he'd found in the ruins of Paradise City.
Zora was fast, strong, and patient. Woogie could hardly think straight. Zora's sword slices into Woogies torso, as Woogie falls to the ground, reaching backwards frantically for his gun.
In the rush of pain, and protection, he points it directly at her heart. He pauses for a second, as if coming back to his senses. But, he pulls the trigger anyways, closing his eyes for the possibility Zora finds her way to dodge, and harm Woogie once again.
When he opens his eyes again, he becomes acutely aware of the situation he's in. His clothes are covered in Jawhns blood, after he dropped to the floor. He moves his feet away from Zora's hair. She may be dead, but he's sure she'd appreciate her hair not being ripped by the texture of his boots heel.
Across his chest is a deep cut, directly from the weapon once belonging to Zora. Woogie would be lying if he said it didn't hurt like hell. He lifts himself up, like a zombie rising from what should've been it's grave. Woogie drags his heavy, dying body towards a small towel he'd spotted previously. He cleans the blood off of his chest with that towel, enough in hopes that he wouldn't die from blood loss, but rather the infection itself.
Woogie may not want to turn like Jophiel. To be a cruel, mindless, untrustworthy zombie. But he refuses to die to a dead persons sword.
A cough comes from deep in his throat, the familiar taste of blood.That wasn't enough for Woogie to be worried, he had coughed up blood many times. Yet, the panic set in when the footsteps of multiple people could be heard running down the copper parkour course, leading towards the facility.
Woogie couldn't be bothered to deal with another near death experience then the consumption of infection his body is experiencing, or the blood oozing out of his torso.
So, there Woogie found himself, pushing towards an abandoned camp he had found with Jawhn previously, in the middle of the woods that line the city.
The world was once beautiful, Woogie was sure of it. But, after the apocalypse, and the rest of humanities cruel actions, that beauty may be gone eternally.
When he finds the camp, with campfires, and a dark red tent, he lays himself down on the patch of grass in the middle of the camp, feeling his consciousness slip away. His body feels heavy, his brain feels like mush, and his coughing has only intensified in his trip to this hidden away campground.
He lets out a sharp, wet cough. The red liquid sinking deep into the soil beneath him. His skin feels as if it's burning, a burn of a deep green, taking the place of his usual skin.
The deeply cut wound across Woogies chest has started to bleed again, and the colour that flows from it sinks into his jacket sleeve. No matter where the man lies, the blood flows down, and his body aches.
Despite the majority of the pain he experiences being from the injuries, dying mind, and stopping organs, he's sure some of it origins from fear. The fear of dying alone, knowing his daughter would never be found.
His vision blurs the flames of the campfire, the green grass that spike up unevenly, and the scruffy maroon fabric shaped up into a tent. And those colours spiral about, like a kaleidoscope of the decrepit world he has been forced into.
The shapes in the kaleidoscope are a reminder of what his life could've been like. The beauty of his wife, the sound of her laughter, the warmth that filled his heart at her words, even on the coldest of days. Looking after his daughter, as she runs around the park.
He could've had that. And in another life, Woogie would. He isn't a huge believer in the afterlife, but as death takes home inside his body, he hopes maybe there is some truth to it.
His pulse slows painfully, the final moments of Woogies life catching up to him, snapping him out of his hope to live that life again. As he clings onto the rest of his consciousness, Woogie reaches to his pocket, holding the shaped metal.
He had seen what the infection had done to people. And Woogie had denied what Ish told him. He said that he wouldn't join Ish. And he'd rather die at Magics hands, then give in to the hivemind controlling him.
As blood blocks up his throat, he shakingly raises the gun towards his head, thumb on the trigger. Woogie tries to take a deep breath, but a painful amount of blood is let out instead.
For the final time, Woogie thinks about his Wife, his daughter. He thinks about the day he came home from work. The dozens he shot.
And, Woogie realised one thing. He is a selfishly desperate man. Everything he has done has been for his own good. He never cared about anyone enough. Cause, if he did, he wouldn't be coughing up blood in the dead of night, with the gun he previously killed his two allies with, jammed into his head.
The gun lets out a small click, before falling from his grasp. Woogie wished it wouldn't hurt, and it didn't. It never would hurt as much anyone elses deaths. Because those deaths had someone to mourn.
His limp body lays there, fully unconscious. Blood dripping out of his mouth. Woogie would never be found. He'd be determined missing. His flesh would decay into the ground, the occasional Zombie feeding on him. And, Woogie would die as a forgotten man, lost between the millions who are forgotten every day.