Peering over the crumbling lip of a building's parapet and capturing the sight of a heavily cratered cul-de-sac lit in the pale light of dawn, the video's opening shots tilt hither and dither as the camera's carefully adjusted and a low voice murmurs in the background.
"Well, it's day 4 of the apocalypse; the internet's still running somehow, and that's my cue to post another video, so welcome back, y'all.
I never thought that I'd be using YouTube as a way to try reaching out to people during a fucking zombie cataclysm, but here we are, so… yeah.
If you're watching, I guess, sound off in the comments that you're still around and, I don't know, like and subscribe to your daily coverage of hell."
The video's frame settles on the view of a modestly sized storefront, or, more precisely, half of a storefront.
The establishment's been supplemented by the addition of a semi-truck resting nose first through the shop's merchandise window, and, as you watch, you can make out a faint staring of movement from within the building.
"It's 9 in the morning.
I figured that y'all may as well join me as I see who around here wants a sample of Grampa's cure-all, and it looks like, folks, we have a taker."
The barrel of a large-caliber rifle edges into the frame, escorted by the rattle of a bolt being cycled and the slightly more unsettling tempo of the cameraman softly humming, "Another one bites the dust."
Thankfully for your musical sensibilities, the humming dissolves into a surprised breath as the rifle's sharply retreated from the parapet, the camera's jostled rearwards, and, from the ruins of the store, a ragged woman clambers over the debris and slides down upon the hood of the equally battered semi.
With her eyes bloodshot and misted over with an unblinking glaze, the woman staggers to her feet, an inflamed and seeping, purplish-red mass evident in her leg that speaks to unhealed fractures.
Hoisting the concrete-dusted bundle of a blanket and plushie to her chest as she all but collapses off the vehicle, the footage zooms in on the survivor as she limps about the truck's trailer and fumbles with the rear gate's locking latch, haltingly swinging the barrier down with a rusted shriek.
Disappearing within the container, a faint rattling announces the woman's eventual reemergence as she teeters behind the push-bar of a baby stroller.
A wan smile touches the corner of her slack lips as she parks the carriage by the truck, crumples to her knees, and fusses over the basket, tucking the plush toy within before enveloping the contents within the coverlet.
As the woman drags herself to the steering position and unsteadily sets off down the street, the film focuses on the stroller's interior.
The plastic toy of a baby is swaddled within.
Only its staring eyes and jagged sneer are visible across the shattered wreckage of the doll's face, and it's dressed in a set of baby clothes.
You've never seen a garment so completely crusted with dried blood.
"Well, it's day 4 of the apocalypse; the internet's still running somehow, and that's my cue to post another video, so welcome back, y'all.
I never thought that I'd be using YouTube as a way to try reaching out to people during a fucking zombie cataclysm, but here we are, so… yeah.
If you're watching, I guess, sound off in the comments that you're still around and, I don't know, like and subscribe to your daily coverage of hell."
The video's frame settles on the view of a modestly sized storefront, or, more precisely, half of a storefront.
The establishment's been supplemented by the addition of a semi-truck resting nose first through the shop's merchandise window, and, as you watch, you can make out a faint staring of movement from within the building.
"It's 9 in the morning.
I figured that y'all may as well join me as I see who around here wants a sample of Grampa's cure-all, and it looks like, folks, we have a taker."
The barrel of a large-caliber rifle edges into the frame, escorted by the rattle of a bolt being cycled and the slightly more unsettling tempo of the cameraman softly humming, "Another one bites the dust."
Thankfully for your musical sensibilities, the humming dissolves into a surprised breath as the rifle's sharply retreated from the parapet, the camera's jostled rearwards, and, from the ruins of the store, a ragged woman clambers over the debris and slides down upon the hood of the equally battered semi.
With her eyes bloodshot and misted over with an unblinking glaze, the woman staggers to her feet, an inflamed and seeping, purplish-red mass evident in her leg that speaks to unhealed fractures.
Hoisting the concrete-dusted bundle of a blanket and plushie to her chest as she all but collapses off the vehicle, the footage zooms in on the survivor as she limps about the truck's trailer and fumbles with the rear gate's locking latch, haltingly swinging the barrier down with a rusted shriek.
Disappearing within the container, a faint rattling announces the woman's eventual reemergence as she teeters behind the push-bar of a baby stroller.
A wan smile touches the corner of her slack lips as she parks the carriage by the truck, crumples to her knees, and fusses over the basket, tucking the plush toy within before enveloping the contents within the coverlet.
As the woman drags herself to the steering position and unsteadily sets off down the street, the film focuses on the stroller's interior.
The plastic toy of a baby is swaddled within.
Only its staring eyes and jagged sneer are visible across the shattered wreckage of the doll's face, and it's dressed in a set of baby clothes.
You've never seen a garment so completely crusted with dried blood.