The infected man reached them and latched onto the boy first, ripping him out of his mother’s hands.
“No,” the woman cried, stumbling to a halt. “He’s your son.”
He ignored her and buried his face in the boy’s neck. Blood, bright red and arterial, spurted through the air. The woman screamed, her desperate wails stabbing into Morgan’s heart.
She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Instead, she watched as the woman grappled with the man that used to be her husband, fighting for the life of her child. It was no use.
Like a rag doll, the boy was tossed aside to bleed out on the asphalt. His eyes glazed over in death while his mother was savaged beside him.
The spell broke, and at last, Morgan looked away. She leaned over and locked the passenger door, the click loud in her ears. With an iron grip on the wheel, she steered the truck around the family and drove away. The entire time, she whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until the words were branded into her psyche. That was the last stop she made.
Morgan headed for the suburb where her parents lived. It lay on the edge of town. If they were lucky, the infection hadn’t reached there yet. As she drove, the streets became quieter, and her hope grew apace. A hope dashed once she reached her destination.
A knot of a dozen infected crawled on the front lawn of a neighbor’s house. They were feeding. As the group shifted, a bloody arm flopped out. Morgan swallowed as a flood of bile pushed up her throat. She recognized the next-door neighbors, the Robertson’s, in the pack. Mrs. Robertson still wore a robe with curlers in her hair which prompted a hysterical laugh from Morgan, one she quickly swallowed.
There was no time for weakness now. Not with her parents and little sister waiting, possibly alive. It was a hope she couldn’t let go of just yet. Morgan stared at the infected and tried to come up with a plan. There was no way she could run past them. Barefoot and unarmed, they’d pull her down and rip her to shreds. However, she sat inside a solid mass of driven metal.
She rammed into the front runners with a crunch. Bodies bounced off the hood while others disappeared beneath the wheels. The truck plowed through them effortlessly, up onto the lawn into the knot. She shifted into reverse and rolled back, clipping a straggler to the left, then she repeated the whole procedure again, and again.
It was sickening, but a small part of her felt pride at overcoming such an obstacle. The rest of her was horrified at the slaughter of innocents, no matter how dangerous they might be.
Afterward, she sat, staring at the carnage. It brought to mind a medieval battlefield with torn and crushed body parts strewn about. A few still tried to move despite their gruesome injuries. That single horrific detail confirmed one crucial fact—they were neither sick nor crazy. They were dead. Zombies.
Morgan reversed into the driveway with the nose pointed towards the gate for a quick escape. She unlocked the doors and left the keys in the ignition. Behind the seats, she found a tire iron.
With one last look around, she slid out of the truck and closed the door with a soft click. She felt vulnerable, standing there in the open air while imagining what those things could do to her exposed flesh.
With a deep breath, Morgan gripped the tire iron and walked up the driveway. She ignored the few broken corpses that groaned as she passed. They were no threat to her anymore.
The concrete felt cold and rough beneath her feet, grounding her in the present. She tested the front door and found it locked. With a muttered curse, she walked around to the back. Her nerves jangled. She kept hearing sinister sounds behind her, and only the thought of her family kept her going.
Morgan turned a corner and screamed as she spotted the remains of her parents’ domestic worker. The woman was barely recognizable. Bloodstained bandages covered her arms, but the cause of death was apparent: A gunshot to the head.
Hope for her family’s safety faded as she stepped around the body. The back door stood open, and she inched forward to peer inside the kitchen. Her eyes flew to puddles of blood on the floor. The drops formed a trail into the hallway and bedrooms.
She crossed the kitchen and dared a peek into the hall, then the living and dining rooms. Nothing. It was empty. No signs of a struggle. No sign of her family, either.
Morgan swallowed, her mouth dry, and moved onward. The silence was eerie. A subtle threat hung in the air. She quailed at the thought of being confronted by the sight of her parents turned into monsters, or even worse, her baby sister.
The passage promised terror with sticky patches of smeared blood that led past Meghan’s bedroom. Inside, everything was just as she remembered. The stuffed animals on the bed and posters of ponies on the walls made her heart flutter. “Please, God. Let her be okay.”
After that came the spare bedroom and the hallway bathroom. Both were closed, and she crept past on silent feet. The main bedroom beckoned—a yawning gateway to a mysterious horror. With a growing sense of dread, she moved through the doorway.
Morgan stopped abruptly, one hand flying to her mouth. On the bed lay her father, stretched out on his back. He was torn up, and she guessed he was attacked. Blood pooled beneath his body and stained the duvet cover.
She stared, unable to utter a word. First her husband and now her father. How many more people would she lose today? Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and her knees threatened to buckle. Why? Why did this happen?
A part of her remained alert, though, and after
