Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Trapped - Sam

The basement smelled of damp earth and despair. I leaned my back against the heavy door, breathing hard, my fur matted with sweat and streaked with blood that wasn't mine. I didn't know how long I'd been down here. Hours? Minutes? Time had lost all meaning in the chaos.

Above me, the thuds and growls continued. Dust fell from the joists above me in the basement as those... things ran about upstairs growling as they went, banging on the basement door trying to get in. Every slam against the wood sent vibrations through my body. They were going to eat me. I could still hear the low, guttural snarls that once belonged to my dad.

Dad...

My heart twisted painfully. That's what I'd always called him. He was a no-nonsense wolf who taught me how to fix a tractor, gut a fish, and stand my ground against a charging bull. He'd been the strongest figure in my life. Now he was on the other side of the door, trying to rip it off its hinges to tear me apart.

It had all happened so fast. The middle-of-the-night attack, the way the house went from quiet to chaos in seconds. I'd woken up to the sound of my mom screaming, her cries mixed with the slamming of doors and raced footsteps through the house. Dad's growl had now joined the mix, but it wasn't the comforting sound of him protecting the family. It was feral, primal, and filled with hunger. I didn't hesitate and leapt out of bed still only wearing my boxers, racing downstairs to see what was causing the chaos. As I did so, I found myself in the middle of it. A shot rang through the air from my mom, hitting Pete the sheep farmer in the gut.

Dad's maw was snapping in a feral rage. Pete was in an equal state of disarray, but the shot didn't stop him. Blood covered the kitchen floor as they both took a look at me. My mom and sister were behind me in the hall. My mom fired again, which did nothing to slow Pete down.

I slammed into him, forcing him off balance, screaming for my mom to go upstairs with my sister. But before I could follow them, my dad was barrelling down the hall. He wasn't as small or frail as Pete, and as Pete was now blocking the way upstairs, I only had one option.

I barely got to the basement before they turned on me. Slamming the door shut, I threw everything I could against it: a shelving unit, an old desk, even the heavy sack of grain Mom kept for emergencies. The pounding began almost immediately, fists and claws scratching and thudding against the wood. They were relentless.

The single bulb dangling from the ceiling swayed as I pulled the cord, casting shifting shadows across the room. The cold tiled floor sent a shiver through me, and the cobwebbed beams above seemed to press down on my spirit. I was trapped in this small, damp room with nowhere to go.

I ran a paw through my fur, tugging at the knots and trying to focus. I had to figure a way out of here—or at least a way to survive the next few hours. There wasn't much in the basement: jars of canned tomatoes and pickled vegetables, an old toolbox, some farming equipment, and the gun cabinet. My eyes lingered on it. It was locked, of course. Dad always said it was to keep us safe. Now, it was a cruel joke.

I grabbed the rusty hacksaw from the toolbox and set to work on the padlock. My claws slipped as I gripped the saw, my hands trembling. Each stroke of the blade sent a screeching sound through the basement, and I winced, pausing to listen. The pounding on the door intensified with each squeal of metal against metal, as if they knew what I was doing. My arms ached, and my breath came in short gasps, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

My efforts were intensified further when I heard another gunshot from upstairs. Perhaps one of them had followed my mom and sister, but I was sure I could hear two sets of paws banging on the door, although in the chaos, it was hard to focus.