Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Barn of Death - Sam

The past few days had settled into a grim routine. Each morning began with a perimeter check, silently clearing out any wandering zombies with the crossbow. I'd gotten good at it—too good. The bolts flew true at short range, sinking into the decayed skulls with a sickening crack that I no longer flinched at. Retrieving the bolts afterward had become second nature, wiping off the gore and slipping them back into the quiver.

But there was a price to it. The barn reeked of death. I'd started piling the bodies there out of convenience, but now it was a festering nightmare. Flies swarmed so thick they looked like a living carpet, buzzing in frenzied spirals when I opened the doors. The wheelbarrow groaned under the weight of my daily haul. I didn't bother counting anymore; the numbers didn't matter.

I worked in silence, save for the creak of the wheelbarrow and the occasional squelch of something unspeakable underfoot. My only audience was the growing pile of corpses, their blank, rotted faces staring back at me as if mocking my efforts.

The crossbow had its limits. Its range wasn't great, and hitting a moving target—especially one barrelling toward you with ravenous intent—was a gamble. The shuffling dead were manageable, their lack of focus making them easy prey. But once they caught your scent, once their milky eyes locked onto you, they became something else entirely. Fast. Determined. Relentless.

Yesterday, I nearly lost it when three of them came out of nowhere. The first went down easy enough—a bolt through the eye—but the second lunged before I could reload. I barely managed to swing the crossbow hard enough to crack its skull. The third... Well, the dent in my shovel would tell you how that ended.

The farmhouse was still holding up, though it felt more like a prison with every passing day. The water tank was full—a rare win. That stroke of foresight had saved me when the taps ran dry yesterday. But last night a zombie decided to crawl into the tank and infect it, I wasn't sure I could use it again, I didn't want to risk it in any case.

The food was running out too. A can of beans here, a packet of stale crackers there—it wouldn't last much longer. I'd started rationing, eating just enough to keep going, but the gnawing hunger in my gut was a constant reminder of how precarious this all was.

The farmhouse was a good starting point, but it wasn't enough. The isolation that once felt like safety now felt like a death sentence. There was nothing here—no supplies, no people, no hope. I'd raided the surrounding houses and found little of use. The village was picked clean too, I'd not resorted to breaking into the locked homes yet but perhaps they were next on my list.

And if I didn't find anything? I gave myself another week at most. After that, staying here would mean slow starvation or worse.

It was time to move, perhaps the more populated town.

The evenings were the hardest. The silence was suffocating. It had been over a week since I'd spoken to another human being—if you could even call the screaming and threats from the last group I'd encountered "conversation." Maybe that's why I'd hesitated, every interaction with the living had ended in death or threats of some kind.

I talked to myself now, just to hear a voice. The words felt hollow, echoing in the empty rooms like a bad joke.

I longed for connection, even as I dreaded it. Every survivor I'd met since the outbreak had been a threat—desperate, violent, or worse. But still, I couldn't help but hope that maybe, just maybe, there were others like me out there. People just trying to make it through this hell.

This morning, I dragged my truck into the yard. It had been hidden up the lane for days, tucked away under some brush to avoid drawing attention. Now, it was time to load up and go.