Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Luck runs out - Sam

Heading toward the valley had been a mistake. I knew it even as I trudged forward, each step dragging like I was pulling the weight of my own regrets behind me. The fading light was already turning the world into shades of grey, the horizon swallowing what little remained of the day. On my right, a small, dilapidated thatched cottage with white fence overlooked a field. Its windows hung empty, like the hollow sockets of a skull.

I pushed on, further into the valley's shadow. The air was colder here, damp and clinging to my fur. Every sound seemed louder—the brittle snap of a twig beneath my boots, the rustle of dry grass in the breeze. My gut churned with hunger, and I couldn't shake the creeping dread curling in the back of my mind.

Then I saw it—a truck in the distance, abandoned in the middle of a field. It stood out like a relic of a forgotten time, a hulking, rust-covered behemoth half-swallowed by nature.

The closer I got, the clearer it became that this wasn't some supply vehicle that had broken down during the outbreak. This truck hadn't moved in years. Moss clung to its teal paint like a disease, brown streaks of dirt streaked down its sides, and ivy coiled around its body like a snake. The driver's side was completely obscured by the vines, leaving only the passenger door accessible.

I hesitated, scanning the field for movement. The truck loomed like a mausoleum, silent and still. It could have been a shelter—or a tomb.

Gripping my crossbow, I approached cautiously. My paw rested on the door handle, fingers trembling slightly as I pulled it open. The door creaked like a dying animal, the sound cutting through the quiet and sending a spike of adrenaline through me. I froze, listening for any response—any growl, any shuffling steps. Nothing.

Inside, the cab was dry but reeked of stale air and mildew. Papers were scattered across the floor, old invoices and faded receipts coated in dust. When I slapped the seat to clear it off, a plume of filth rose into the air, catching in my throat and making me cough. Behind the seats was a small sleeper area—just big enough for a kitchen unit, a portaloo, and a narrow bench where the driver would've rested between hauls.

I crawled in and slammed the door shut behind me, pushing the manual lock pin down with a satisfying click. The filthy windows let in almost no light, turning the cab into a dim cocoon. It wasn't comforting. It was claustrophobic.

The truck had obviously been sat in this field for a while before the outbreak, mice or rats perhaps were its current occupants although thankfully they were out for now, or at least hiding away from the truck's newest visitor.

Still, it was shelter. I climbed into the back, laying my crossbow across my lap, ready to fire if anyone—or anything—tried to get in.

Rummaging through my bag, I pulled out the jar of Nutella I'd been saving. My stomach growled angrily, but before I could dig in, I stopped cold. Something was missing.

Frantically, I turned my bag inside out, scattering what little I had across the truck floor. Panic clawed at my chest as I realized what it was.

The picture.

The picture of my family.

I'd given it to Josh.

The memory hit me like a hammer—showing him the photo, slipping it into the side pocket of his backpack without a second thought. My paws shook as I sat back against the bench, the realization sinking in. It was all I had left of them. Their faces, their real faces, before the infection twisted them into something unrecognizable.

And now it was gone, my mind full of those terrible images once more.

I had to go back.

Even if it meant walking into that house of horrors again, I had to get another picture. I couldn't keep seeing them the way they were at the end—the way my dad had snarled as he lunged at me, the way my sister snarled at me ready to eat me, or the hollow, bloodied face of my mom after she'd turned the gun on herself.