Fear of the Dead Read Free

husband’s chest. This was the point of no return. Live free or die, there was no going back to the past four months of safe living underground. I couldn’t surrender. Not anymore. Tom would kill me if I did.
    He told me to put the gun down. To see if we could talk about what I was about to do.
    He was afraid. I could see his face turn pale, just like mine. He didn’t know if I was going to shoot, and at the time neither did I.
    I didn’t know what to do. I had to get that door open, but I couldn’t turn around and let him come any closer. Shooting him seemed a good idea even if it was on the leg to stop him from moving.
    But I didn’t want to shoot Tom. Not for everything he’d done to me.
    He stepped closer.
    I yelled for him to stop moving, and the pistol flailed so hysterically in my hand that a part of me was afraid it would go off on its own.
    He assured me he wouldn’t move. But Tom was lying. I could see it in his face. I knew that the moment he had his chance, he would take the gun from my hand and beat me over the head with it. Or shoot me. No. I knew that if I took my eyes away from him, he wouldn’t hesitate to stop me.
    And yet in spite of myself I wanted to believe him. I begged him not to come any closer. Then I turned around to open the door. And like the wiser part of me predicted, Tom attacked.
    He threw me on the floor, and his hands clasped around my throat.
    I couldn’t breathe.
    He shouted in my ear, and called me a stupid bitch. His grip tightened. I could feel my color change.
    The pressure rose on my skull. I could feel myself turn red as I looked my husband in the eye.
    He told me he loved me, and tears began to moisten his eyes. I could feel some of it drop on my cheeks. And I started crying too.
    So close to freedom, and yet so hopelessly far.
    32 years of life, and this was how I was going to die.
    I heard knocking on the other side of the door. Tom was surprised, and so was I. Neither of us knew of what to make of it, but I could tell we were thinking the same thing.
    There was someone out there.
    The thought alone was enough to spring me back to life. With my foot right underneath the latch, I started kicking while Tom continued to squeeze my throat. The door loosened, and loosened, and loosened, until the sudden shot of hope gave me the strength I needed to finally undo the door.
    It swung open on its own, and daylight flooded in. For an instant Tom let go and shielded his eyes. It was hard to take in the natural light after all that time, but I tried.
    I couldn’t see straight, but I could see Tom start to shake. He blinked time and time again, and I could have sworn I saw his eyes turn bloodshot red.
    Just like them. The infected.
    That was when I saw two shapes run inside the bunker and tackle him off of me. At first I thought they were people. And in some Freudian sense they were. At one point in their lives anyhow.
    They threw him on the floor and sunk their teeth into his skin. They bit him a few times, then stopped, then turned around to look at me.
    Their eyes were a deep crimson red, their chins coated with blood both old and new.
    I picked up Tom’s pistol and shot them. One I hit on the neck, the other in the mouth. They both fell.
    I stood up, and with the pistol ready to fire, I went up to Tom.
    He was still alive, except now he was just like them. He looked up at me, and any semblance of familiarity was gone. What he saw in me was the exact same thing the others saw in the people they killed.
    I shot him once in the chest. He was still alive. I shot him a second time, and here couldn’t tell where the bullet went. He raised his hands to pick himself up, but I kept on shooting until he fell, and then I shot again.
    My finger kept to the trigger, moving back and forth repeatedly. For every blare of gunfire, I wanted more. I shot him again and again, but it wasn’t enough.
    Tom hadn’t suffered enough.
    Eventually the gun stopped firing. It was out of bullets. No matter