Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Stale mate - Sam

My bag—the one they'd stolen—was sitting there on the kitchen table, looking a litter fuller now with supplies from Janice and Keith. Next to it was the shotgun, its dark, oiled metal catching the dim light filtering through the cracked window. Gerry was still banging furiously at the door, the rhythmic thuds echoing through the farmhouse, relentless as my growing headache.

I grabbed the shotgun, my hands trembling slightly as I opened the chamber to check its contents. Two cartridges. There were probably more shells in the bag but two was all I needed; I'd have no time to reload anyway. I snapped the chamber shut, the metallic click cutting through the sound of Gerry's snarls outside.

Taking a deep breath, I yanked the door open. Gerry lunged forward immediately, a blur of rotten flesh and snapping jaws. I didn't hesitate—I couldn't. Raising the shotgun, I let off both barrels in quick succession. The deafening roar of the blasts reverberated through the kitchen as his headless body collapsed at my feet, spraying blood in every direction.

The kitchen walls were streaked with crimson, and my fur was slick with warm, sticky gore. I squinted, rubbing at the splatters on my face with the back of my hand, but the stinging in my eyes didn't stop. Outside, a flock of crows burst into the sky, startled by the thunderous echo of the gunshots. Their harsh cries faded as I stared down at Gerry's twitching, headless carcass.

I wasn't proud of it, but I wasn't taking any chances.

Dragging Gerry's body outside, I avoided looking too closely at the mangled remains. The weight of his lifeless form felt heavier than it should have been, as if it carried more than just his flesh—like it bore all my doubts and guilt. I hauled him toward the pile where they'd already put Keith and Janice. The sight of their bodies twisted my stomach, but I had to keep the doorway clear.

The corpses would attract flies soon—just like the rotting sheep carcasses we used to find in the fields during lambing season. The thought brought a wave of nausea, and I quickly turned away, wiping my hands on my already ruined clothes.

The sun was sinking fast now, the horizon painted in fiery oranges and deep purples. Shadows stretched long across the yard, creeping closer with every passing second. Night was coming, and with it, the darkness I feared most.

As I walked back toward the house, guilt clawed at my insides.

I murdered Luke in cold blood.

The words echoed in my mind, each syllable a heavy weight on my chest. I tried to rationalize it—he would've killed me if I hadn't acted first. He'd even said as much. But no matter how many times I replayed it in my head, the shame lingered, it was one thing to shoot the zombies but to kill other survivors?

I shouldn't have come here.

But survival doesn't care about "should."

I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts away. Turning the taps in the kitchen sink became my new focus. Maybe this farm was fed from a water tower in the yard. Maybe I could at least wash some of this blood off. The pipes groaned, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, a thin stream of water spluttered out, gradually gaining strength, the pump was off, but gravity alone was enough to push the water through the pipes.

Hope surged through me as I ran upstairs, two steps at a time, heading straight for the bathroom. Turning the shower knob, I held my breath. The water gushed out, first cold, then warming quickly. Relief flooded me as the steam began to rise. An oil heating system—they must've had an oil tank like we did back home.

Maybe this farm wasn't such a bad place after all.

But it wasn't the zombies I was afraid of. It was the people. People who would sneak up, take what I had, and leave me with nothing. I couldn't stay awake forever. Sooner or later, I'd have to sleep, and that's when I'd be most vulnerable.