Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Silence - Sam

I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and, armed with the crossbow, made my way toward the yard. Something was wrong—the geese were far too quiet.

It was normal for them to be silent at night, but during the day, they were usually a cacophony of honks and squawks, their racket carrying across the fields. Today, though, there was nothing. No sound, no movement.

My gut churned as I approached. If the geese were silent, it likely meant trouble.

The stench in the yard was unbearable, the flies already swarming in black clouds over the bodies. I grimaced, the acrid tang of decay thick in the air. I needed to do something about the corpses. The longer they stayed, the worse it would get.

Back on the farm growing up, when lambs died, my dad and I would deal with it quickly. Within 24 hours, the carcasses would start to reek, drawing maggots and flies by the dozens. We'd haul the dead to a fire pit, toss them in, and burn them until there was nothing left but ash. It wasn't pleasant work, but it was necessary.

Now, though, I wasn't dealing with livestock. These were people—people I'd spoken to just last week, maybe even shared a laugh with. The thought of treating them the same way turned my stomach, but what choice did I have?

Death had become my new normal. On the farm, I never thought twice about dragging a lamb carcass by its legs and tossing it on the fire. Now, as I looked at the bodies in the yard, I steeled myself. I'd do what had to be done.

The silence of the geese was a bigger concern. I crept toward the barn, crossbow in hand, each step slow and deliberate. The side door creaked slightly as I eased it open, and the sight inside froze me in place.

The geese were dead.

Hundreds of them lay scattered across the barn floor, their feathers matted with blood, their bodies in various states of mutilation. In the middle of the carnage sat a grotesquely fat zombie, its bloated form hunched over as it feasted on the remains of one of the birds.

Revulsion and fury churned in my chest. This was my home, my safe haven, and these monsters were desecrating it.

I raised the crossbow, the bolt steady as I took aim. The shot landed with a dull thunk, the bolt sinking deep into the zombie's skull. Its head lolled forward, its grotesque feast interrupted as it slumped to the ground.

But it wasn't alone.

Three more zombies lingered in the shadows of the barn, each oblivious to my presence. Their jerky movements stirred up dust and feathers, the smell of death hanging heavy in the air.

Stealth is key, I reminded myself. No noise. No mistakes.

I reloaded, my fingers working quickly but quietly, and took aim at the next one. The bolt flew true, taking it down with the same dull finality. Two more.

Each shot felt like a small victory, a tiny reclaiming of the barn, of my space. When the last zombie fell, the barn was silent once more. I exhaled shakily, the tension in my shoulders easing as I moved to retrieve my bolts.

The geese were unsalvageable, their bodies mangled and riddled with decay. I wouldn't be eating any of them. Wiping the bolts clean in the straw, I shoved them back into the pocket on my rucksack.

The chickens hadn't fared any better. Their coop was a mess of feathers and broken wood, a hole in the side where the zombies had forced their way through. It was another blow, another reminder of how fragile everything had become.

At least the noise won't attract more now, I thought grimly. Small mercies.

Back in the yard, I grabbed the wheelbarrow. Moving the bodies wasn't just gruelling—it was demoralizing. Each corpse was heavier than the last, their lifeless weight dragging on my arms and spirit alike. Every trip across the yard felt like a test of endurance, the wheelbarrow creaking under the strain as I dumped the bodies into the barn.