Food had run out a long time ago. Everywhere you turned was a cesspool of shambling zombies. I still recall the screams of my coworkers as the infected tore into them. Their cries were a strangely welcome sound - it helped distract me from the sound of flesh being torn apart from bone, of bone being broken apart.
I thought I was safe, hiding inside the pantry. The refrigerator's thick doors made for perfect defense, accompanied with the tying of a potato sack around the handles. But now, I'm all out of food.
My family was prepared for this - our hurricane shelter was decked out with enough food to last months, in case debris covered the shelter entrance. I just had to make it to them... an easy enough task, had there not been an entire town of zombies blocking my path.
Somehow, I managed to escape the kitchen, and out of the restaurant. It appeared that smothering myself in feces was unappetizing to the brain-eating schmucks. Who would've guessed?
My house was just down the street. The shelter was locked and zombie-free - they didn't know about the hideout! There was a chance that my family was still alive!
I grabbed the spare key underneath the shed's mat and sprinted back to the shelter, pushing the door open, anxious as to what I was about to find...
My wife and daughter stared up at me from where they were huddled, eyes wide and terrified. The mental toll had obviously had an effect on them - from the dim light that illuminated the room, I could see how thin they'd become despite the rations. Understandable, I guess.
They were crying, as was I. I continued crying even as I bit into my wife, feeling her skin break beneath my teeth. For all the hell that accompanied the zombie outbreak, the worst was being very much aware of what you were doing, even after death.
Submitted July 20, 2017 at 08:37AM by nichonova http://ift.tt/2tsp8Hn shortscarystories
No comments:
Post a Comment