A pair of scissors. Thats what saved me the first time. We had moved to our neighbours home, we felt safer having a second storey, safer with less windows and back doors. It was usually easy to dodge around the strays, they were fairly mindless back then, their bodies too overcome with shock to fight back, too deteriorated to think of surviving. But some still struggled, it became awful out on the streets, the ones that floundered in their illness, that had not lost all conscious thought in fever; and they begged. They stumbled after you, the rot in their breath suffocating as they pulled at you, begging and begging for help. As if these poor terrified people could offer anything but ignorance.
I was so stupid that night. The adults were away at one of many meetings to centre the fear and panic. And I was stupid, and opened the front door. I stared at his twisted ankle, the soiled suit he was probably unable to take off, and that desolate face that would only ever know hunger. Slamming the door shut cannot save you, they are like any living thing with a keen sense of awareness. When the feature glass window shattered I cried out, running through the rooms without thinking until I found it. Hurrying back his face was pressed against the wire lattice with teeth working against the promise of flesh close by. So I plunged my mothers antique sowing scissors into his forehead and never looked back.
I have too many zombie dreams,