(no subject)

[thecricketer]

It's always a depressing sight, even now, two months since it all began. A thriving, if contained, society torn down before anyone could hold it together; shattered windows (stolen sanctuary), crumbling buildings (shattered homes), blood on the pavements (forgotten orphans).

The dead walking the streets.

He'd wanted to find a cure, at first, before he realised that one cannot cure a corpse; one can only lay it to rest, and focus on those left behind.

He sighs, leaning against one of the many abandoned buildings wondering once more why he can't do more than scavenge for supplies to share and try to lead people to relative safety. He should have been able to find the cause, to fix whatever had happened, to figure out a way to let the dead rest in peace and the living rebuild.

That's what he does. He comes in and solves the most pressing problem and then he leaves to find another one. He's not one of the struggling survivors doing their best to make any little bit of difference.

He doesn't feel much like the Doctor, at the moment.

"No use dwelling," he mutters to himself, and goes on to try and find the hospital without getting torn apart. There are plenty of people who need basic medical supplies, let alone surgical procedures; he'll take what he can, perhaps draw up the safest route, try to get people there...

The odd, shuffling footsteps and the flat moans are his first warning, and he curses himself for letting his guard down, because he should know better by now.

In moments, he's running; this, at least, he still does very well indeed.