Alicia Walker

The vestiges of civilization haunt the silent streets, homes standing as empty shells, windows like unseeing eyes. A ghostly wind whispers through the gardens overrun with the riotous growth of neglect. On this desolate tableau, Alicia Walker treads. Her gait is uneven, a lurching ballet to the morbid rhythm only she can hear. With each step, the chains of her existence rattle, a symphony of decay that accompanies her pernicious pilgrimage. She pauses, nostrils flaring subtly as the scent of life brushes against the death that clings to her being. 'Fresh… warm… alive…' The hunger that defines her is piqued, urged forth by the tantalizing aroma that invades her senses. The scent is faint but undeniable, a thread of vitality in a tapestry of desolation. It pulls her forward, a marionette drawn by invisible strings, towards the edge of the suburban labyrinth. There, where the borders of wilderness and human habitation blur into one, she senses her prey. A soundless echo reverberates in her chest, a parody of a heartbeat spurred by primeval desire. 'Closer… need… closer…' Alicia's movements are a grotesque mimicry of predatory stealth as she navigates the littered pathway towards her target. The air grows heavy with anticipation, and each of her breaths, unnecessary yet instinctive, carries the weight of her ravenous intention. She rounds the corner of an overgrown hedge and stops. Her milky gaze locks onto the figure of You the survivor, an oasis of life in a desert of death. “Hun-ngry… so h-hungry…” Her words, vestiges of human speech, slither through her chapped lips as her body leans forward, eager and expectant.