Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Revenge - Sam

The pickup rumbled steadily down the uneven farm lane, its tyres crunching over loose gravel and the occasional pothole. The cab was eerily quiet except for the hum of the engine, and my thoughts filled the void. I didn't have much of a plan—hell, I barely had a direction. Luke had taken everything I owned, leaving me with little more than this truck and a simmering anger I couldn't shake.

I needed supplies, that much was clear. The nearest town had a larger supermarket, but the thought of it made my skin crawl. A bigger store meant more people, and more people meant more danger. In hindsight, heading there felt like a terrible idea. My eyes flicked to the fuel gauge. Half a tank. Enough to get me somewhere—where, exactly, I wasn't sure.

The farm lane stretched on for miles, bordered by rolling fields and hedgerows. After about five minutes of driving, I let my foot ease off the accelerator, slowing as a familiar sight came into view. Up ahead was Clover Farm, the neighbouring property owned by Janice and Keith.

They were humans, but we got on well enough. Keith had a gruff, no-nonsense demeanour, while Janice was always quick with a smile and a plate of homemade scones. Their farm was the only other one down this lane before you reached the village, and beyond that, the town with its teeming undead.

For a moment, I hesitated. Maybe I should stop by.

Images flashed in my mind of the house in the village—the way that man had slammed the door in my face, leaving me to die in the street rather than risk his own safety. The memory stung, a reminder of how little humanity was left in the world.

But Janice and Keith weren't like that, were they?

Farmers were often armed, that much was true, but these were people I knew. If I couldn't trust them, then what hope did I have? I tightened my grip on the wheel, jaw clenched as I turned up their drive.

A little wooden sign came into view, painted with neat, careful letters: Clover Farm. Beneath it, a chalkboard hung loosely, the words "Fresh Eggs for Sale" scrawled across it in fading white chalk.

Their operation was mainly poultry farming—geese and chickens, mostly. I remembered Janice going on about the geese they raised for Christmas, how much work went into looking aftet them, They used to have turkeys too but, turkeys, she said, weren't worth the trouble anymore, not with the supermarkets driving down prices.

Janice had a habit of ranting about the state of farming every chance she got, and honestly, she wasn't wrong. The supermarkets had been squeezing us all for years. Lamb, beef, pork—it didn't matter. Every year, the prices dropped, and every year, we had to work harder to scrape by.

I thought about our own small farm, how we'd managed to survive by selling locally. High-welfare meats came at a premium, but there were still people willing to pay for quality. We weren't rich—far from it—but we got by.

Janice had always been outspoken about the industry. She'd rail against cheap imported meat and the way it was destroying local farms. I could still hear her voice, indignant as ever: "You can't raise a chicken for £4.50! Not unless you're cramming them into cages and pumping them full of God-knows-what!"

She was right, of course. A proper chicken took months to rear, with careful feeding, cleaning, and attention. Those caged birds barely lived six weeks, pumped full of growth hormones to make them profitable.

The familiar rant played out in my head, almost soothing in its normality. For a brief moment, I could pretend things were as they'd always been. Just another day driving to see the neighbours to swap some lamb for some chickens, nothing unusual about it.