Raptures of ReleaseMature

It turns out that zombies are not quite what we imagined them to be - they can talk, think and reason just like the living. However, there are humans calling themselves the Gifted who just might be able to survive -and learn what caused this hell.

She sat huddled in a cold, dank corner. She didn’t know how long it had been. She didn’t know whether it was day or night. Hell, she didn’t even remember how she got where she was. All she knew was that she was alone. Alone but alive. Not for long, though. Soon they’d come. And when they came, she’d be worse than dead.

 

When the hunger pangs came back, she made her way to the door to start waiting. Again. Always waiting. Once again she wished she hadn’t eaten so much in the beginning. She grimaced in pain. Just thinking about food made the emptiness in her stomach all the more obvious.                                                          

 

After a time, when the fire started to die down, she searched the room for more things to burn. In the beginning, when she was stronger, she had ripped down all the crown molding, the chair rail, the wallpaper. She’d been so glad to have grabbed a hammer and chisel before she had left her old home. She’d also taken apart all the furniture and ripped up the carpet. What used to be a huge pile of things to burn was now just a few scraps. The only things left were her clothes and the door, and she wasn’t about to take down her final defense.

As she started to undress, she noticed a crack in the far wall. She wouldn’t have paid it any mind –after all, there were hundreds of other cracks decorating the walls –but it looked too straight, too perfect to be natural. She put her clothes as she walked slowly over to the far side of the room. She grabbed her hammer and chisel from where they lay leaning against one of the other walls. As she neared the crack, she spotted a thinner crack running up the wall parallel to the first, about three feet to its right. Should she dare to hope? Slowly, and hoping despite herself, she followed the cracks up with her eyes. There. She couldn’t believe it. She stood staring at it for a time. Then she pulled herself out of her reverie. Now wasn’t the time to dream. She took her chisel, fit it into the widest part of the first crack, and hammered it in a little. Then she pushed to the side. Nothing. She braced herself, then pushed, throwing all her weight onto the chisel. She felt it give slightly at first, then she stumbled forward a bit as the door swung smoothly open on silent hinges.

The door swung open into darkness. She looked down into it for a few minutes, then went back to the fire and picked out a small stick. She went back to the open door and threw the still-burning stick down through the gloom. As it landed, she heard someone shout, “Who’s there?! What do you want?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Had she heard right? Was there someone else?

Then she felt it. A gun being pressed to the back of her head. “Who are you?” asked a rough voice.

She hadn’t used her voice in so long that she hesitated to answer. She heard a click as whoever holding the gun cocked it. “If you don’t say who you are in five seconds, I’ll assume you’re Infected,” said the voice. “Five. Four. Three. Two–”

“I–” She coughed to make her voice louder, stronger. “Please, I don’t know who I am. I don’t remember.”

The person –a man if the voice was any indication –didn’t say anything for a few minutes, then said, “Turn around.”

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t going to die. At least, not yet.

“I said, turn around!” She felt the barrel push into her head. “Now, or I shoot!” he growled.

She felt a strange buzz flowing through her body, almost like electricity.

"Fine. You had your chance." He pulled the trigger, sending the bullet tunnelling deep into her brain. Or rather, what should have been her brain.

The End

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