Renard sucked the acrid smoke into his lungs and looked down at the ground below. “Fuck me.”

The dead were everywhere, surrounding his tower, grasping up toward him. Their moans were distant, almost soft, but ever-present. He could see uniforms just like his scattered throughout, a few dozen of them in the throng of thousands.

There was no way down, no way out. Renard took another drag. The cigarette was near the butt; his homemade filter sizzled as the ember kissed it, glowing red. He flicked the butt down the side of the watchtower, aiming for a cluster of zombies.

The cigarette missed them, sizzling on the wet ground.

The air was wet, full. Despite the zombies below the air smelled good, smelled like home.

Renard checked his pack. Five cigarettes. That was it. Five.

He wasn’t going to survive this. He already knew that.

It wasn’t his fault, though. He didn’t lie to them, told them he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been to Louisiana in more twenty years, no way he knew what it was like now. The engineers said that they knew, they would make the fence strong enough.

They did too. The fence held. The ground, that was the problem.

It happened two days after they got the tower built. The fence, the weight of the undead on the fence, it was too much. The fence fell in the middle of the night. Renard was on watch; he sounded the alarm as soon as it happened. There were too many.

Ten thousand, maybe. Twenty. Didn’t matter, there were too many of them; they came too quickly. Hard to believe something that moved that slow could be too quick. They were though; there were just so many.

The soldiers, they got hundreds, thousands, but without cover, there was no way.

Renard stayed where he was, firing until he ran out of bullets. He got a few, not a lot.

The sun was high now; nobody was left. It was just Renard, on top of his tower.

He had a half a bottle of water with him, a sandwich. Five cigarettes.

Water was going to be the problem. Food, he was skinny but not that skinny. He would die of thirst long before he would die of hunger. Smokes though. He wanted a cigarette. “Idiot, you have to ration them.” He tapped one out and put it to his lips, striking a match, pressing the flame to the tip of the rolled tobacco. He breathed deeply. “Fuck it. Might as well enjoy it.”

People thought he was a fool for smoking. They didn’t understand. The zombies couldn’t smell him as well when he smoked. His scent, the cigarettes helped hide it. At least that’s what he told himself. It didn’t matter if it was true; they could smell everyone anyway.

It was hot. He went inside the little room. It was just a small circle. There was a chair, a table, some windows. A place to get out of the weather for a moment. He sat down under the no smoking sign and drew smoke into his lungs again.

God, it was hot.

Renard took off his jacket. It hadn’t done the men below much good. A steel mesh, strong, almost impenetrable, but it wasn’t enough for them down below. There are gaps; there are always gaps. The more claws grasp, the more teeth bite, the more the chance that the armour won’t hold.

Renard drew the smoke deep, savouring it. He was starting to get hungry. Not very hungry yet, but enough. His stomach felt hollow, empty. Like his belly button was trying to contact his spine. Still, it was only eighteen hours or so since he last ate, not long enough for real hunger.

Before, in the bad times, he knew real hunger. He knew what it was like to go weeks without food. This was nothing.

Maybe it was time to sleep. Not like he was still really on watch anymore.

When Renard opened his eyes, they were sticky, gummed together. His mouth felt swollen, too dry. He grabbed his water bottle, filling his mouth. It took every ounce of strength he had not to drain the bottle all at once. Instead, he let the water sit in his mouth, let it drip down his throat, soothing his parched tongue.

The sound of the zombies below seemed louder. He stood, dizzy. Four cigarettes left. “When I run out of smokes I’m gonna jump.” His voice was cracked, aching.

He walked out onto the catwalk, looked down over the railing. Nothing changed. Still the same thousands of dead milling around. It was even hotter, the sun a ball of fire slowly drifting toward the horizon, oh so slowly.

The bugs found him, mosquitoes buzzing toward him. Just a few, there would be more. Mosquitoes were like that, once they found you they wouldn’t leave you alone until they took everything, just like the zombies below.

Renard pulled out another smoke. Three left. That was it; once he ran out of them, he was going to jump. If he stayed, well, he’d turn. If he went down the stairs, the zombies would tear him apart. At least if he jumped, he was high enough to die. High enough that if he did it right, if he went head first, he wouldn’t come back.

Another drag. “I don’t want to die. Do you hear that all you zombie motherfuckers? I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”

The zombies looked up as he screamed, then they resumed their shuffling. A few more pressed against the tower. Hell, if he survived long enough, they might even force the door. That would be pretty good, torn apart in a tiny tower if didn’t starve first.

There had to be a way. He took another drag.

Twenty years he’d survived the zombies. Fifteen of that on the road. New Hope, the last city. He’d found it. Turned out after fifteen years he wasn’t able to fit in, to relax. He’d joined up as soon as they said they were going to take the world back.

They told him Louisiana. He’d left Louisiana before the zombies happened, not after. He left because he had to, because he swore he wasn’t going to die in the bayou.

Another drag. His fingers were burning now, the heater burning nothing but filter now — another smoke over the edge.

He walked around the perimeter of his tower, pacing more than walking. His stomach rumbled, almost rivalling the moans from below. It was time. He stepped inside and cut his sandwich in half. Half now, half later. Swallow it with a drop of water. Might as well go as long as he could, just in case. Who knew. He’d survived — well, not worse than this, but plenty just by holding on for a tiny bit longer.

The black uniform jacket that looked so professional was hanging over the chair. He was wearing a sweat-stained undershirt. He hair was always a little greasy, but right now it was swimming in sweat, dripping off the ends onto his face. His bald spot in the back, just a small one, revealed as the long hair in front stayed in front, too laden with sweat to stay where he put it.

The sun finally hit the horizon, bathing the world in half-light. The air cooled slightly, stilled. Renard could hear insects all around, drowning the moans of the zombies. Maybe the gators would save him. Pull all the zombies into the water.

He paced some more. There was no moon, just a dome of stars, brilliant pinpricks of light.

Maybe a smoke and then sleep.

When he finished his last drag, he threw the ember down. This time not hoping to hit the zombies. The world below was a pool of ink, not a trace of light.

The air, it had a taste to it, swamp, decay, things rotting in the darkness. It clawed at his throat, filling it. He went inside and closed the door. Time to close his eyes.

When Renard woke, the sun was just peaking above the horizon. He would kill for a cup of coffee. Funny, the things you remembered. Coffee was part of the old world, lost to them for decades now. Still, he could almost taste it.

Cigarettes though. Those still existed. He took out the pack. Two left in there. Oh well. “Once you are empty, that’s it. I jump.”

He took a deep haul. He always figured smoking would kill him. Even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse, he just thought it would be the smokes. He coughed, expelling phlegm from his dry mouth. “Merde. Fuck.”

Another round. It was cooler in the morning, pleasant even. It was going to be a hot day, right now it was perfect, a blessed morning. There were even birds singing over the sound of the zombies.

He stepped inside after he made it all the way around. Time to eath the last half a sandwich. Not long now. Why conserve? There was only one cigarette.

The water went down after the sandwich. It made him feel better. He watched the sun climb into the perfect blue of the sky, a few white wisps of cloud dotting the azure dome.

He took out his pack and stared at it. Only one left. It lay there, a dirty white cylinder of paper and leaves. He drew it out reverently and placed it between his lips. The match didn’t light on the first strike. He had to do it a second time. His hands were shaking, just a little.

As he drew the smoke into his lungs, the tears started to flow. He smoked and cried, racking sobs.

The cherry hit his fingers, searing his flesh, just a little bit. He stood up and threw it over. It flew down, a wide arc. Again it missed the zombies, landing in grass that was almost liquid. That was what killed them all, that ground.

“Oh well, not like I was ever going to live forever.”

Renard jumped over, trying to angle his head toward the ground. The air rushed past him, cooling him as he fell. The impact caught him off guard, a wet squelch. It hit his shoulder, and he crumpled down into it, ending flat on his back.

The zombies were there before he could register what happened.

The camp was full of the undead. Not a single living human left.