Here’s a flash fiction story I wrote. It is about one of the last humans getting turned into a zombie.
Zombies bashed down the barrier to my shelter. Adrenaline moved me and I was barely aware of grabbing my shotgun as they started to enter. Brain, blood, and bone splattered on the walls and floor. Gunpowder smoke rose, while I frantically shot each one. A terrifying click came from the mechanism when I got ready to shoot the last one. I swore before reaching for a shell.
Clumsy arms grabbed onto my barrel and I bashed its head with the butt. It snarled in reply before latching onto my forearm. I put my foot on its chest and thrust the creature away. It stumbled back and I loaded the shotgun shell and blew its head off. I breathed out a sigh of relief and let myself fall to the ground to sit and lean on my makeshift wall of sheet metal.
Something warm and wet slid down my arm. Sharp pain burned on my wrist and my heart jolted when I saw the bloody teeth marks. I swore as I frantically tried to clean it. Somewhere deep inside me, I already knew it was already too late. Nobody lasts after a bite, and there was no reason that I would be an exception. Denial kept me from killing myself. I wanted to believe I was the one exception until my fever started to set in. Beads of sweat form on my face and there was no way to deny it. At that point, it was over.
All of my extremities started to go numb and I lost control of my fingers. Everything became blurry and I panted as my strength left. Thoughts of using my gun to blow my brains out crossed my mind. I didn’t want to be one of those monsters that I had spent months fighting, but even more I feared death. Part of me wanted to chuckle at how pathetic I was. All this prep, all those times I had to shoot friends and family after they were infected, and I was too cowardly to shoot myself when the time came.
I grabbed a shotgun shell. At least, I tried to. It was near impossible to get my fingers around that thing and the round bounced all over. A feeling of triumph radiated through me when I held it, and I brought it to feed it into the ammo slot. My hand didn’t have the strength to push past the spring, and it fell to the ground. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry. Everything became darker and all I could do was shut my eyes and accept it.
When my eyes opened, I had a sense of unity. Zombies may seem dumb, but we were still social creatures. After months of watching everybody I care about die, and weeks of being alone in a shelter that I made, I finally belonged somewhere. None of our perceived differences mattered. Rich and poor was a thing of the past. Alpearances mattered little since our flesh was peeling off. Zombies never fight each other, and I knew any zombies I met would have my back.
All the aches in my body were gone and my hand didn’t hurt at all. Hunger only pained me when I thought of it, and even then it wasn’t the growling pain in my stomach from rationing non-perishables for the past several months. It was more like I just knew that I needed to eat flesh.
I shambled from my destroyed shelter with the rest of the hoarde. There were no hard feelings that I killed half a dozen before that one bit me. All that mattered was that I was one of them now, and we searched for food in the form of any living being left in the world.