He was walking down the street, slightly hungover, at eight o’clock in the morning. The area he found himself in was completely deserted. The coffee places, that usually opened early, were still shut. The handful of seniors that waddled on the sidewalk eyed him suspiciously. The lonely bus on the road was empty. The smell, from the nearby park, of morning dew, seemed to be the only familiar thing to him on this late-spring dawn.
The apocalyptic vibe was undeniable, and he suddenly wondered whether all the movies he had watched over the years would provide him with enough help when a zombie jumped out at him.
He decided they would. Nothing could stop him today, not even that buzzing tequila headache. Like a man on a mission, he marched on, determined to finish his to-do list.
He had almost arrived at his destination, and no change in scenery at all, only leading to more and more abstruse explanations in the depths of his headache riddled mind.
He held his badge against the terminal.
Error.
Again.
Error.
“Fuck, it’s Sunday!”
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