A man named Barack Adipo, a Kenyan, found himself in handcuffs, being led away by three stern-looking army soldiers.
Barack had moved to the United States nine years ago at the age of 23, driven by fear of the HIV/AIDS epidemic that had ravaged his hometown of Kisumu. Although Kisumu was not hit as hard as Nairobi, the impact was still severe. His reputation as a "playboy"—having engaged in unprotected sex with multiple women—had heightened his concern. Upon learning about the epidemic, he promptly got tested and, relieved to discover he was not infected, made the decision to leave his homeland for Atlanta, Georgia.
However, Barack never anticipated that nearly a decade later, a different kind of virus would emerge, sweeping across the globe and transforming ordinary people into the walking dead.
Now, as he walked in handcuffs, he pondered how he had ended up in this predicament. After being granted entry into a military camp as a civilian, he had taken advantage of the situation by stealing a substantial amount of medicine, food, weapons, and ammunition. Unfortunately for him, he had been caught red-handed.
The soldiers escorted him into a small, dimly lit house. "Sit down," the captain ordered, his voice firm. Barack sighed and sank into the worn leather couch. The captain turned to the private standing nearby, his expression serious. "Keep your eyes on him. First Lieutenant Davis and I need to report this to Major Phillips." The private nodded solemnly as the captain and First Lieutenant left the room.
Minutes ticked by in tense silence, the stillness only broken by the occasional squeak of the leather couch as Barack shifted uncomfortably.
"Hey." Barack called out to the private, who seemed intent on ignoring him. "Hey!" he repeated, his tone more insistent.
The private sighed, finally turning his gaze to Barack. "What?"
"I need to go to the bathroom," Barack stated flatly.
"Then go," the private shrugged, clearly uninterested.
"You want me to piss my pants?" Barack shot back, incredulous.
The private merely shrugged again, a look of indifference on his face.
"Come on, man. Just let me take a piss," Barack implored, exasperated.
"Fine," the private relented, shaking his head in annoyance. He grabbed Barack by the elbow and led him to the bathroom.
Once inside, Barack stood in front of the toilet but turned to the private, who remained outside the door. "Can you unlock my cuffs?" he asked.
"No," the private replied, shaking his head resolutely.
"Well, I can't pull down my zipper with my hands behind my back," Barack argued.
"Figure it out," the private shot back dismissively.
Rolling his eyes in frustration, Barack sank to the bathroom floor. He pulled his knees to his chest and managed to maneuver his hands under his feet, freeing them from their restraints.
"There you go, wasn't so hard, was it?" the private smirked from the other side of the door.
"Haha," Barack replied, his laughter devoid of humor. He quickly unzipped his pants and relieved himself.
Once finished, he pulled up his pants, flushed the toilet, and went to wash his hands, grateful to find that the facilities still had running water. As he finished washing, the private stepped inside to grab him by the arm again. Seizing the moment, Barack headbutted the soldier, catching him off guard. The private stumbled back, momentarily dazed. Taking advantage of the opening, Barack kicked the soldier squarely in the chest, sending him crashing against the wall.
The private, regaining his composure, reached for his sidearm. But Barack was quicker. He lunged forward, grappling with the soldier. They struggled for control of the weapon, each man grunting with effort. Finally, Barack managed to twist the gun from the private's grip and sent it skittering across the floor.
In a swift movement, he used the momentum to deliver a powerful punch to the private's jaw, sending him sprawling. The soldier groaned, trying to get back to his feet, but Barack was relentless. He grabbed a nearby metal pipe that had been leaning against the wall and swung it down hard, knocking the private unconscious.
Panting heavily, Barack looked down at the soldier, who lay motionless on the ground. He gingerly touched his nose, wincing at the pain; it was definitely broken. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a cut above his eyebrow. Scowling at the fallen soldier, he spat on the man's face. "Motherfucker," he muttered, anger coursing through him.
Barack quickly shifted his focus to the soldier's uniform. After a brief search, he found the key to his handcuffs—his captor had carelessly left it on a clip attached to his belt. With a swift motion, he unlocked the cuffs and rubbed his sore wrists. Then, without wasting time, he began to undress the soldier , eventually donning the uniform for himself. He pulled the camouflage cap down low over his forehead, obscuring his face.
Once he was dressed, Barack climbed out of a nearby window, ensuring to take the stolen supplies he had been caught with. To his luck, the camp guards were lax in their vigilance. As he slipped away, they simply nodded at him in greeting, which he reciprocated.
As Barack put distance between himself and the military camp, he felt a mix of disbelief and urgency coursing through him. It had only been a day or two since the outbreak, and the country, or at least Atlanta is in chaos. The streets are eerily eerily quiet, punctuated only by the distant echoes of sirens and the occasional moan of the infected. He rubbed his nose again, feeling the sharp ache from where he had headbutted the soldier. Though he had managed to set it back in place, he knew it would likely remain crooked from now on.
As he navigated through the deserted streets, his eyes caught sight of a man frantically rummaging through the trunk of a parked car. The man appeared disheveled and panicked, clearly searching for something of value. Barack's instincts kicked in; he noticed that the man was alone, and his heart raced with the thrill of opportunity.
Barack unslung the AK-47 from his shoulder, feeling the weight of the weapon as he gripped it firmly. This was one of the firearms he had stolen. He approached the man with stealth, moving carefully to avoid making a sound.
With a swift, calculated movement, Barack swung the butt of the rifle against the man's head. The impact was jarring, and the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the pavement.
Quickly, he closed the trunk of the car, slid into the driver's seat and tossed the duffle bag onto the passenger side, a bag he had taken from the military camp, filled with supplies that could prove invaluable in the days to come.