[ WP ] You are a citizen of a town that has bought into hardcore preparing for the Zombie apocalypse . Today is the day you all have been waiting for .

We prepared for every eventuality. 
 
 We walled the entire town with an impenetrable barrier only broken by a sturdy gate, manned 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. 
 
 Weapons stations were positioned every thirty feet, and every citizen carried at least one gun and one knife at all times. 
 
 Food and water, blankets, generators, ammunition, medicines, barrels of gasoline, all were stored in secure underground bunkers. In fact, the only structures above-ground were watch-stations and training yards. All the rest was meticulously managed plots of land, already producing enough food to sustain the entire town, and rows upon rows of solar panels. A fully functioning sewage system was installed.Living quarters were located in a network of bunkers and corridors underground, fitted with air vents, air filters, and automatic locks timed to match our strict schedules. 
 
 We drilled daily, and every person, child or adult, was rigorously trained and expected to adhere to the structure that the town ran by. Curfews were enforced. 
 
 We were safe, completely sealed off from the outside world, save for a carefully monitored communications system, updating us regularly on the efforts of epidemiologists all over the world. We all took shifts in there, flagging the WHO's alerts of possible outbreaks of disease. 
 
 We knew we were mocked, but we knew that in the end, we would be the ones with the last laugh. 
 
 For all our preparation, though, it still took us by surprise. And I, I am the only survivor. This is my story. 
 
 I should n't have survived, really. It was only chance that I was kept awake by nightmares, unable to find peace. I tossed in my ship-shape quarters long after the rest of the rest of the'town' was asleep. I could hear soft breathing from my neighbors; doors were impractical down here; we found what privacy we could behind curtains. Afraid of further nightmares, I slipped from my bunk, taking caution not to disturb the two others on the bunks below me. Company would distract me from the terrors in my subconscious, I remember thinking. So I padded through the corridors, my bare feet whispering on the grating beneath, to seek human comfort in the Communications shack. I punched my number into the code-box beside the only door in the entirety of the living quarters. The door opened with a hiss, and the rhythm of sleepful breath was replaced with the sound of gentle static and hushed conversation. The door closed quietly behind me. 
 
 I was greeted with a nod by the man and woman on duty, but otherwise they paid me little heed. It was not uncommon for sleepless occupants to drift to the communications room at the darkest hours of the night. 
 
 I regarded the screen idly. Nothing stirred, as usual. It was comforting to watch, assurance that we were safe. The woman broke me from my distraction. `` You mind holding fort for us for a few minutes? We're going to make ourselves fresh coffees. Can bring you one too, if you like.'' I waved my hand in acknowledgement. She and the man exited the room, leaving me to keep an eye one the faintly flickering display. The time in the corner read 3:08. 
 
 I must confess, I dozed a bit. The next time I looked, it was 4:21. I was alone. Even in the containment of the Communications room I could hear muffled noises from outside. The next shift should have been here twenty minutes ago. Could it be that I had missed the start of the zombie apocalypse? The rest of the town must have been industriously following procedure outside while I, alone and unnoticed, kipped in the safety of the locked room. Furious at myself, I snatched a gun from a rack on the wall, and, feeling ridiculous in my slightly-too-small pajamas, disengaged the lock to join the fray out-side. The muffled noises crescendoed into a thunder of sound. 
 
 Gunfire deafened my left ear. This threw me, completely. I had expected orders shouted and people to be running to their stations. But not gunfire. Gun use was restricted to above-ground. In the confines of the bunker, the gunshots, so many as to be indistinguishable from each other, roared. I saw blood, heard screams; not the screams of adrenaline-pumped squadron leaders, but the unmistakable screams of dying men. I saw raging, relentless bodies thrown together, biting, clawing, scratching, tearing. The grid was sticky with blood, the air thick with the churning stench of bodily fluids, rent flesh, and sweat. I tore myself from my stupor, leaping back into the Communications room. 
 
 The sudden silence was oppressive. My heart could not be tamed, nor my breathing stilled. My fingers, usually steady on the trigger, would not cease trembling. This should n't have happened. The apocalypse was supposed to happen outside, among the foolish skeptics that laughed at our preparations, not inside the fortress that was our town. My training told me to overcome my shock, to muster my courage, and to stand alongside my dying friends and send bullet after bullet into dead flesh. My limbs disobeyed. They scrabbled at the grating on the floor, and when it came up I threw myself into the space it offered. 
 
 Had I followed my training, I would have died heroically and horrendously. I would have been shredded by cruel, mindless beings -- once my family. Instead I dragged myself down miles of pipe, sobbing the whole way, unable to erase bloody images from my retinas. When at last I crawled into clean moonlight I could only lie on the ground and stare back at the mighty walls of our town, our fortress. 
 
 No -- *my* town. *My* fortress. Their tomb.
