The colour was the beginning of everything.
When it had started there had been whispers among people about the colour, about what it did to those who got infected. In hushed tones and trembling voices, the fear set in, and within a matter of weeks the disease became an epidemic.
People had run, desperation and terror fuelling their actions. They foolishly thought they could outrun the disease like terrified mice. But it wasn’t enough. Most had cornered themselves, weeded themselves out. They had fought the unknown, resisted for as long as they could; but as always, they were never strong enough.
They acted as though the infection was like a spoiled cat that did not catch its own food, but instead had it served on a platter.
That was a mistake that cost far too many lives.
It didn’t matter who people were before they were infected, whether they had been saints or criminals, they all changed when the disease had fully taken them over. They became brutal and sadistic, eager to terminate those who were still healthy, and change them too. The disease didn’t discriminate. It just infected.
Survivors kept on running, pushing to find a safe place to stay for a night but the places to hide were rapidly becoming limited. The healthy people were becoming far too few, and the number of infected far too large.
Soon they would run out of places to flee and they’d be infected too.
There is no escape from the disease.