The End of a Bloodline [Prologue]

[dmitri]

Dmitri quickly ran, pocketing his cell phone with one hand and fidiling with his keys with the other. It had only been a few seconds since he had hung up with his father, and seen the face of the woman who not ten minutes ago he had shot dead beating aimlessly against the door to his business. He leap-frogged his motorcycle, placing the helmet on his head with rushed anticipation. The Nagant he had used to do the evil deed hung loosley in his hoody. It was empty, so there was no use for it now, but should be able to return to the garage, or find the shells at his apartment, he'd have at least a little protection.

Igniting the engine, Dmitri turned back just in time to catch the glass on his front door, which read "D&M Repairs", being shattered by two angry fists. Further down the street, two men, looking to be in the same condition as the woman, blood stained and drunk, were stumbling down the road. As they heard the engine rev in Dmitri's bike, they came rushing towards him.
"Shit, shit, shit..." the male muttered under his breath, and gave the engine one last rev, kicking the kickstand out and tearing out of the parking lot.

The scene on the street looked almost normal. If you didn't count the fact that instead of liesurely walking to work, people were now in a full on run. He swerved in and out of cars, horns blowing and angry New Yorkers fighting in the streets. Were they fighting? Eachother? No. The struggles that were taking place were between citizens and whatever the hell they were. A nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. Possibly the longest one in history, but it was impossible for this to be real, right?

His attention was brought back to the front of his bike just in time to swirve away from one of those animals. His bike tilted, and he tried to shift his weight to the lifted side to balance back out. Twenty feet later and he was on his side, skidding, sparks flying from his ride. Another fifteen and the bike let loose, flying off into the road. The only validation he had was that on it's way it took off two of the infected's legs. His eyes glanced around him, people were being pulled from their vehicals and ripped into. Blood was everywhere, littlerally running in the streets.

He brought himself to his feet, and attempted to retrieve his bike. A wrench bash to the back of the infected's head temporarilly took care of that situation, and he leaned his ride back onto it's tires. The only thing that seemed to be damaged was the paint job. He quickly jumped back on and turned the key. Groaning, the engine failed to start. His shifting quickly around him, he attempted again.
"Come on, you piece of junk, they're getting closer..." by this time, the infected in the streets had left the bodies of the deceased and were on to new targets - Dmitri being the prime one. Finally, the engine turned over, and he reved it, looking for a way out. They had encircled him, cutting off easy escape. As he went foreward, he shifted his weight to the rear, starting a wheely and cut through the north side of the trap.

[dmitri]

The area around his apartment was teaming, though he managed to sneak through the back and up the fire escape quite easily. When he reached his balcony, he carefully slid the door open and shifted through. The balcony was attached to his room - thank God. Now he could reload that revolver he had been lugging around. Opening the drawers on his dresser, he pulled out the box of ammunition, and the holster tucked next to it. He slid the holster on, and as he began to load the revolver, he called out to his father.

"Dad? It's Dmitri. We need to go, get ready," silence. There was no answer from anywhere in the tiny two bedroom apartment. Suddenly, a noise from his father's room caught his attention. He pushed the chamber into his gun, and held it outright, walking out of his room into the hall. He glanced at the kitchen - the front door was open, and it looked as though a struggle had taken place. His heart sank.

"Father? If that's you, say something. It's Dmitri. It's your Mitya," he called out once more, pushing his back against the way right outside his father's doorway. He counted mentally, and on three, he rounded the corner, gun and eyes searching the room. On the floor, in a pile of blood, lay two men. Next to them, sat his father, slowly dragging himself along the ground.

"Father!"
"Mitya?" the elderly man responded in the Russian language. Grasped in one hand was a rusty 9mm.
"I tried to stop them, Mitya. They broke in. The bastards bit me... They bit me, Dmitri. Why did they do that?"
"I don't know, father. We need to leave. It's not safe. It's a riot, or something."
"I shot them, Dmitri. Many times. They just kept coming... I blew their heads off. I had to. They just kept biting me."

Looking down at his father's body, he had seen what he meant. His stomach was bleeding - badly. Wounds around his chest and arms indicated bite marks there, as well. What the hell was going on? As the realization that his father was not leaving this apartment alive came into his mind, Dmitri's eyes began to well.
"I don't feel well, Mitya. I want to just stay."
"We don't have time, father. There is more of them. And they will be coming."
"I saw Mr. Hughes get bit before the break in. It didn't take long and he was like them. Wanting to bite. Am I going to become like that?"

And, that was his answer. A virus. Chemical warfare. Something. This was no normal human behavior - judgement day had arrived for the city. And, obviously, God was not sorting out the good from the evil.

"No, father. You won't. We just need to --" he was cut short by a loud screaming from behind. Turning, another of the infected stood in the bedroom door way. He quickly raised his gun, and point blank shot the man in the face. The body dropped, blood scattered on the walls. Mikhail began to weep, and Dmitri turned back to his dying father.

"I do not want to be like them, Mitya. Leave, before I hurt you."
Kneeling down, Dmitri wiped a tear from his father's eye, and grabbed the back of his head, touching his forehead to his fathers. He sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to hold that moment as long as he could.
"You can't just stay here... they're gonna be back, dad. And you can't hold out with one clip of rounds forever."
"I only need one more, Dmitri." his father said solemly. Understanding, Dmitri kissed his father's forehead, and stood.

"I will tell your mother how you've grown. Now, fly. Leave this place." Dmitri could do nothing but nod. "I love you, father." he muttered, and Mikhail nodded in return. Dmitri quickly ran back to his room, and grabbed a backpack. He stuffed a change of clothes, the rest of the Nagant rounds, his cellphone charger, and an old field knife from the war into it. He also grabbed a baseball bat that had been stashed behind his bed, and gripped it, swinging it through the air. Everything he could do to conserve the 30 rounds he had - he had to do.

On his way back down the fire escape, he finally heard the shot that ended his father's suffering. Tears running down his face, he made the last 5 feet a drop and landed on bent knees. Now, it was time to make his way through the masses of infected, and try to uncover the truth behind what was happening here.