it. Bleary-eyed, he sat up and tried standing on his ankle. It crackled with pain as he increased the weight on it. At the same time, something moved below and seemed to be coming up the stairs. The noise culminated in a loud crashing, and then silence. The commotion was more than enough to freak him out, and he put a hand on his shotgun, ready to exit the world with one squeeze of the trigger. The noise retreated to another area of the house, and Scott eased off the trigger. His mind teased him with the image of being on a wide piece of wood siding, floating somewhere in the South Pacific, with sharks circling relentlessly, just waiting for an ankle to slip and dip into the warm water. And he knew then, he just knew , he was going to die.
His eyes teared up, and he buried his face into his winter coat to weep… for fear of the dead hearing him.
*
Scott heard a zombie on the steps.
He had woken up to a steady clumping on the steps, a slow, irregular beat, as if the thing had downed a bottle of booze and really had to concentrate on where to place the next step. Scott counted off four steps before he heard a more sinister noise, like someone leaning against the wall in a coat and dragging its zipper along the surface. And the low whining buzz drew closer. He got into a sitting position, placed the barrel of the weapon underneath his chin, and squeezed his eyes closed. The noise came closer, and something nudged the surface of the bathroom door, testing it. Scott inhaled deeply, knowing it would be the last breath he would take on God’s sunny earth. His thumb found the trigger, and his nail hooked on the guard, just a fraction of metal separating him and the unknown.
A heavy blow came to the door, forcing Scott to open his eyes. Another crash, and he saw the door bulge inward just a fraction. Another strike, spiking his fear to new heights.
Scott moaned. He felt the hard rim of the open barrel pressing into the softness under his chin. He swallowed. Another slam against the door was followed by that sobering hiss he knew so well, but fuck if he couldn’t pull the trigger. How much strength did a person have to have to do that one little simple movement? One quick squeeze and he would be off, and that would be that. He eyed the turning door handle, a curved lever and not the traditional knob, and Scott knew he hadn’t locked it. The lever turned down, then snapped back up, as if the thing on the other side had lost its grip. That was Scott’s chance, and he swore he would pull the trigger now, and yet goddammit, he couldn’t, even as the door handle went down and opened with a click loud enough for him to defecate himself if he had a full load in the pipes. The door swung open, and Scott moaned again and shook his head as a zombie that had to be four hundred pounds shambled into the doorway and fixed him with empty eye sockets filled with balls of worms.
The thing hissed, and Scott heard himself whimper of all things, but he could not bring himself to pull the trigger. He let out his breath in a burst of snot and tears and, red-eyed, stared at the fat dead man taking that one uncertain step toward him, followed by another. It crossed the black tile in slow shuffles that left grease stains on the clean surface. The smell from the thing made him gag, a putrid stench of meat that had been in the sun for far too long. A fleshy gray hand came up, and Scott saw that there was a hole the size of a golf ball in the palm, and the bones were coated black. That one hand reached for him. The face of the undead had half of its cheek chewed away to expose a row of teeth, making it appear to be smirking at him.
Something in Scott locked in place at that grinning corpse, before a greater sense took over, and he tilted the shotgun forward and blew the zombie’s head from its shoulders. The blast flung its reeking bulk backward to land with a splash on the floor.
Scott got to his feet. He had very little time. Moving around the
His eyes teared up, and he buried his face into his winter coat to weep… for fear of the dead hearing him.
*
Scott heard a zombie on the steps.
He had woken up to a steady clumping on the steps, a slow, irregular beat, as if the thing had downed a bottle of booze and really had to concentrate on where to place the next step. Scott counted off four steps before he heard a more sinister noise, like someone leaning against the wall in a coat and dragging its zipper along the surface. And the low whining buzz drew closer. He got into a sitting position, placed the barrel of the weapon underneath his chin, and squeezed his eyes closed. The noise came closer, and something nudged the surface of the bathroom door, testing it. Scott inhaled deeply, knowing it would be the last breath he would take on God’s sunny earth. His thumb found the trigger, and his nail hooked on the guard, just a fraction of metal separating him and the unknown.
A heavy blow came to the door, forcing Scott to open his eyes. Another crash, and he saw the door bulge inward just a fraction. Another strike, spiking his fear to new heights.
Scott moaned. He felt the hard rim of the open barrel pressing into the softness under his chin. He swallowed. Another slam against the door was followed by that sobering hiss he knew so well, but fuck if he couldn’t pull the trigger. How much strength did a person have to have to do that one little simple movement? One quick squeeze and he would be off, and that would be that. He eyed the turning door handle, a curved lever and not the traditional knob, and Scott knew he hadn’t locked it. The lever turned down, then snapped back up, as if the thing on the other side had lost its grip. That was Scott’s chance, and he swore he would pull the trigger now, and yet goddammit, he couldn’t, even as the door handle went down and opened with a click loud enough for him to defecate himself if he had a full load in the pipes. The door swung open, and Scott moaned again and shook his head as a zombie that had to be four hundred pounds shambled into the doorway and fixed him with empty eye sockets filled with balls of worms.
The thing hissed, and Scott heard himself whimper of all things, but he could not bring himself to pull the trigger. He let out his breath in a burst of snot and tears and, red-eyed, stared at the fat dead man taking that one uncertain step toward him, followed by another. It crossed the black tile in slow shuffles that left grease stains on the clean surface. The smell from the thing made him gag, a putrid stench of meat that had been in the sun for far too long. A fleshy gray hand came up, and Scott saw that there was a hole the size of a golf ball in the palm, and the bones were coated black. That one hand reached for him. The face of the undead had half of its cheek chewed away to expose a row of teeth, making it appear to be smirking at him.
Something in Scott locked in place at that grinning corpse, before a greater sense took over, and he tilted the shotgun forward and blew the zombie’s head from its shoulders. The blast flung its reeking bulk backward to land with a splash on the floor.
Scott got to his feet. He had very little time. Moving around the
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