I had a bad night last week,
You won't win.
Those words echo through my head and I know they're right.
I won't win.
It always comes down to the same thing.
So I unlock the door, the worn metal slippery between my fingers as I unhook the latch and let the weathered wood swing open.
The piercing gold of the sun drenched horizon filters through the grime covered windows, blinding me with its glory as I hear them moan, the shattered glass and debris shifting under their crooked steps as they crawl for me.
I wait for a sob but my face feels as bone dry as the desert surrounding this condemned place, this is the end but I'm so exhausted I just let it come, limb by gruesome limb they drag themselves forward with frenzy.
There's no point in resistance, when you end up so blind-sighted by grief and rage you may as well be one of them.
Bony fingers dig into my ankle, startling my shuddering body that something almost like fear shoots through me; followed by a pain so ragged and drawn out I think I'm being amputated by the blunt end of a hammer. The scream that cries from my lungs is like sweet release for the both of us, the thing gazing up at me, a bit of me hanging from its teeth.
And its like its laughing at me, like this has always been their plan, to drive down civilisation with oppression and futility until we lay on our back with some rosemary by our side.
Those filthy fucking eyes were laughing at me.
My head swam as I tore my boot from its feeble grip and kicked its rotting skull in until I had erased the triumph from its flesh. I wiped furiously at my shirt, trying to rid my hands of the gore that had stained every crease, its like I mauled a blood bank as part of my morning routine. Stooping for my broken bat a racking cough cracks through my chest, throwing me against the lavatory walls.
Jamming the lock into place I'm back at the start, and I can't avoid how weak I feel, my stomach turning at what state I might be in beneath my shredded trousers. I don't know if its blood or phlegm that's choking me right now, all I know is, as I slide down next to a still warm corpse, that spike of fear is back. I'm glad I'm not alone in this.
I gently rest my head on its shoulder, staring at the brains that cover my bat.
"I miss you Petey".
Won't Win - Fractures
It turned to zombie fiction,