** PREVIOUSLY A FEATURED HORROR STORY**
The dead have risen. You wake up in the middle of this violent, rotting new world. The putrid stench of carnage is in the air. You flip on the news to learn that dead people are coming back and cannibalizing e...
After another glance at Mister Unfortunate in the crashed and bloody Honda across the street, you decide to stay put. There are many more dangers out there than there are in here.
For now, the only thing that has to be done is making the house safe. First, you make sure the windows and doors are all locked tight. Then you find the heaviest things you can possibly move on your own to shove in front of the doors.
Luckily the kitchen table is large enough to cover the two windows in your living room. You flip it over and press the flat part up to the windows. Too bad you don't have a handy nail gun to nail it in. You push the couch in front of it. There isn't much you can do for the other windows, but at least you're able to see out of them. It wouldn't do to not be able to see outside if need be. On the other hand, they can also see inside. You close the blinds - it's the best you can do.
By the time you're finished moving furniture around the place, you're sweaty and exhausted. Pulling and forcing furniture around is harder than you would think. The Lay-Z Boy recliner has never seemed more inviting.
Now that you've got a moment to try to relax, you can watch the news to see if there have been any breakthroughs. As you turn your attention to the television, the reporter raises her voice. It appears that she's arguing with someone off camera.
"I am telling you, Tim, that I'm going home to be with my family!" she shouts, then she stands up.
As soon as she stands up, a guy behind the camera gasps. Just as her alert eyes meet the camera man's, someone comes zooming through and knocks her down with the force of a wrecking ball. It's a very bloody and growling someone. You know right away it's a member of the undead.
"Down it! Down it!" someone yells as the reporter's shrill screams can be heard behind her desk.
You see spurts of red fly upward and splatter the desk. A loud gunshot rings out in the news station and through the television speakers. The creature is out of sight, but you can't hear it crunching or smacking it's gnarly mouth anymore, so it must be dead.
"Margaret? Margaret?" another voice says.
A man holding a shaking gun comes into view. There are huge headphones around his neck as though he had just been wearing them atop his blonde head before hell broke loose in the studio. He's cautiously edging toward the undead and the reporter, who are both hidden from view by the freshly bloodied desk. Your throat is dry. You swallow hard and wait to hear the dreadful fate of the reporter. The man nudges something with his foot. A few moments pass with no incident.
"She's dead, Mitch," the guy says, never taking his eyes off her body.
"Damn," Mitch says. "Let her rise, Warren. Let the viewers see it, then carry on with preventative procedure and get her out of here. Vanfleet, find out how it breached security. No, don't turn off the camera, this is news! People need to understand!"
The man nods, but looks like he's about to be sick. Pale and sweaty, he winces while he points the gun at Margaret. In moments, you see a bloody hand raise and slap onto the counter. Eyes glued to the screen, you watch in terror as Margaret snarls and roars, then leaps at Warren. He yelps and and squeezes the trigger. She takes a bullet to the chest and it knocks her back, but she doesn't register pain or stop coming at him. He shoots again and this one is a headshot.
Warren heaves a few times, and you think he's going to let go his stomach contents right there, but nothing comes out except tears in his eyes. He puts the gun in a holster around his waist and pulls Margaret away by her ankles.
Another man comes into view. He's wearing glasses, has short-cropped brown hair and a neutral look on his face.
"What you've just seen," he says and you recognize his voice as Mitch, "is only a minute portion of the horrors actually transpiring outside. Not only outside these very doors, but everywhere.
"This...virus, this infection, it reanimates the dead. The only way to stop it appears to be by destruction of the brain. Scientist believe-"
Unfortunately, you don't hear what scientist believe, because you run to the toilet overcome with a sudden, violent fit of dry heaves.
Zombies. Somehow, things have gotten completely out of hand. Where was the army? Where was the FBI? How could this disease thing get this far? You go through all the questions as the last waves of sickness subside.
You finally manage to gain control of yourself and back out of the bathroom. Idly, you situate yourself so you're able to watch outside through a crack in the blinds. The undead are roaming about out there. You see them, and though it appears they're bored and quite oblivious at the moment, it's only a matter of time.
They'll come, you know it. And you've got to be ready. What you need is a dependable weapon. You're sure there's a hunting rifle in your dad's closet, but there's a machete in the garage. Your heart is thumping so hard, you can barely think, but you need to pick something to protect yourself with, because the living-dead across the street have finished with Mister Unfortunate and they're looking toward your house rather curiously. . . .
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