hesitation. “I’ll do what you want,” she said, hoping to ease their minds. The men’s apprehension vanished like a breath of frothy air, their guard down.
They approached, wicked smiles revealing missing teeth. She had to move before they saw her weapon. The man with the .38 tucked the gun into the back of his pants, and produced a hunting knife. He grinned, eyes full of malcontent.
With the men two feet away, Riley, her right hand on the rifle, lifted the weapon. She aimed the .30-30 and squeezed the trigger. The first shot missed. The man’s eyes grew wide in shock. He reached behind his back as the second bullet clipped his shoulder, spinning him around. She kept firing, the muzzle flashes blinding. The third bullet punctured the man’s left lung.
The fourth bullet hit the back of his skull, his forehead exploding, and caking his friend’s face with gore.
The other man screamed, “Bud.” Riley kept firing, adjusting her aim. Bud’s body fell dead to the floor, leaving the other man in full view. He turned and ran for the stairs, managing to get a foot on the bottom step before Riley squeezed the gun’s trigger. Bullets flew like angry bees before wood splintered into pieces and the man’s calf exploded into a bloody pulp. He collapsed backward, tumbling to the ground.
Taking careful aim, Riley focused on the man’s chest—his head out of view. He lay screaming and holding what was left of his lower leg. She fired, saw the man’s shirt flutter. His body jerked, arms and legs going slack. She fired again, hitting him in his side, making sure he was finished.
Strapping the gun to her back, she pulled herself forward, her clothes soaking up Bud’s pooling blood. She crawled past the man, grabbing the .38 that was tucked into his pants. Pieces of skull and flesh clung to her like flies stuck to flypaper.
She reached the man she’d shot in the side. Checking for a pulse, she could tell he was dead, a twisted look of horror on his face. She climbed up the stairs, her ankle barking with each step.
Upon reaching the cabin’s floor, she fell on her back, relief flooding through her like a burst dam. She began to cry, bawling uncontrollably until her body could stand no more and she fell asleep.
Riley awoke late the next day with the sun shining through the cabin’s windows. Getting to her feet, she grimaced. Her ankle was still sore. Testing it out, she placed her weight on it. It hurt, but she could walk on it. Grabbing one of the bandages from the first aid supply, she wrapped the ankle. She had a lot to do and would have to fight through the pain. She shed her bloody clothing, washing them in the nearby stream before cooking breakfast. She’d need her strength for the task ahead. The bodies had to be removed from the pit before they began stinking up the place and possibly attracting undesirables.
She retrieved the axe from the woodpile outside. It was heavy, but she’d managed the tool before and would need it for the thicker body parts. The hacksaw she’d use for the smaller pieces.
Born unto this world knowing so little of the Earth during its human years, Riley had been tested. She’d seen and done things a girl her age should never have had to do. Blood, guts and death had become a staple in her life, an all too familiar part of growing up. In times of worry or if a difficult task lay ahead, she’d think of how her father would have handled it.
Putting on a tattered shirt and pants, Riley opened the pit’s door. She began climbing down the stairs, wincing with each step. Looking toward the bottom, she saw a large void where a body should’ve been. Glancing to the left, she saw the man named Bud being eaten by his now living dead friend. How careless she had been, forgetting to destroy the man’s brain. The zombie hadn’t heard her, its head buried in the man’s stomach.
Quietly, she turned around and began heading up the stairs, taking one
They approached, wicked smiles revealing missing teeth. She had to move before they saw her weapon. The man with the .38 tucked the gun into the back of his pants, and produced a hunting knife. He grinned, eyes full of malcontent.
With the men two feet away, Riley, her right hand on the rifle, lifted the weapon. She aimed the .30-30 and squeezed the trigger. The first shot missed. The man’s eyes grew wide in shock. He reached behind his back as the second bullet clipped his shoulder, spinning him around. She kept firing, the muzzle flashes blinding. The third bullet punctured the man’s left lung.
The fourth bullet hit the back of his skull, his forehead exploding, and caking his friend’s face with gore.
The other man screamed, “Bud.” Riley kept firing, adjusting her aim. Bud’s body fell dead to the floor, leaving the other man in full view. He turned and ran for the stairs, managing to get a foot on the bottom step before Riley squeezed the gun’s trigger. Bullets flew like angry bees before wood splintered into pieces and the man’s calf exploded into a bloody pulp. He collapsed backward, tumbling to the ground.
Taking careful aim, Riley focused on the man’s chest—his head out of view. He lay screaming and holding what was left of his lower leg. She fired, saw the man’s shirt flutter. His body jerked, arms and legs going slack. She fired again, hitting him in his side, making sure he was finished.
Strapping the gun to her back, she pulled herself forward, her clothes soaking up Bud’s pooling blood. She crawled past the man, grabbing the .38 that was tucked into his pants. Pieces of skull and flesh clung to her like flies stuck to flypaper.
She reached the man she’d shot in the side. Checking for a pulse, she could tell he was dead, a twisted look of horror on his face. She climbed up the stairs, her ankle barking with each step.
Upon reaching the cabin’s floor, she fell on her back, relief flooding through her like a burst dam. She began to cry, bawling uncontrollably until her body could stand no more and she fell asleep.
Riley awoke late the next day with the sun shining through the cabin’s windows. Getting to her feet, she grimaced. Her ankle was still sore. Testing it out, she placed her weight on it. It hurt, but she could walk on it. Grabbing one of the bandages from the first aid supply, she wrapped the ankle. She had a lot to do and would have to fight through the pain. She shed her bloody clothing, washing them in the nearby stream before cooking breakfast. She’d need her strength for the task ahead. The bodies had to be removed from the pit before they began stinking up the place and possibly attracting undesirables.
She retrieved the axe from the woodpile outside. It was heavy, but she’d managed the tool before and would need it for the thicker body parts. The hacksaw she’d use for the smaller pieces.
Born unto this world knowing so little of the Earth during its human years, Riley had been tested. She’d seen and done things a girl her age should never have had to do. Blood, guts and death had become a staple in her life, an all too familiar part of growing up. In times of worry or if a difficult task lay ahead, she’d think of how her father would have handled it.
Putting on a tattered shirt and pants, Riley opened the pit’s door. She began climbing down the stairs, wincing with each step. Looking toward the bottom, she saw a large void where a body should’ve been. Glancing to the left, she saw the man named Bud being eaten by his now living dead friend. How careless she had been, forgetting to destroy the man’s brain. The zombie hadn’t heard her, its head buried in the man’s stomach.
Quietly, she turned around and began heading up the stairs, taking one