Wet.
First word coming to his mind.
Second word.
Red.
Third word.
Tired.


Wet. Red. Tired. It was a funny sensation. He kept repeating the words in his head. Wet. Red. Tired.

Wet. Red. Tired.

Gun.

He looked down at his bloodied hand. There it was. A gun. A nine-millimeter Personal Protection Pistol.

Why was he holding this gun?

Zombie. Then he saw the bodies of rotting flesh, the guts spread out like a three-year old finger-painting, the brains splattered on the wall, making this... this canvas of grey and green, and white, and red. Bits of bone crushed into the floor, making these cute little white islands in the endless sea of red. And then he saw the child.

Curled up on the floor. Dead. Rotting flesh, a zombie, like the many other bodies. He looked nearly starved. Clothes were rags, no more. Bite mark on leg. A shot to the head. His eye dangled out of it's socket, and he could even see the color beneath the red. Brown. A hazel brown. Much like his. The hair was nearly all fallen out or scattered with the blown skull, but even he could see it's color. Black. And the child, he looked so peaceful on the ground. The teeth in mid bite on a piece of white flesh.

Another body. A woman. Hair like the child, except her eyes were blue. Like child, nearly starved. But unlike child, she was not zombie. Human. Skin was white.

"Human." The word surprised him as it passed out his lips.

She was dead also, shot to head. Child was near leg. Chunk of flesh missing from her leg. Shirt, ripped, bloody, torn. Her face was weird, like it was speaking something before her tragic end.

"Shoot me!" Memory came like a flood.

Eyes, alive, begging, pleading, among the moans and groans of the crowd outside.

Tears. Streaming down his cheek. Child already dead. Shot in head when bit wife. Bitten two weeks ago. Tried to keep him tied up in room, quarantined, hoped for cure. Never came.

She was already turning, the hair was falling out, infected area became black.

"Shoot me!" She screamed it into his face now. Pleading. He closed eyes, pulled trigger.


Some broke through back door. Shot them all. Didn't care about them.

Just blood and guts, perfect, like a circle around the two bodies now on the kitchen floor. They were coming.

He knew it.

Moans, groans, closer, closer. He could feel their teeth breaking through his skin. That would happen. If he didn't do anything.

This world was forsaken. He had tried. He had failed.

He placed the gun below his head, breathing shakily.

This was his punishment.



Blah, blah blah I need criticism and stuff.

I like the story. It was very detail, in a lot of ways, and even some images got stuck in my head while I was reading it. There a some mistake with some grammar while I was reading it.

Sounds interesting.  I look forward to reading more.

Nice story! Bravo! Why didn't you continue the story? Shoot me for no reason!