Guts (the original interactive zombie apocalypse survival story)

9 - Ignore Them

At a time like this, you realize that you can't trust anyone. You suck in a sharp deep breath and hold it. Flat against the wall, you're as still as a statue while they bang away.

"They're coming, Wade, come on!" you hear a feminine voice yell. The pounding gets louder, more desperate.

"Come on! Come on, we saw you!" a guy - maybe Wade - yells.

You squint your eyes as though trying to put your entire situation out of sight and out of mind. It doesn't work.

"Wade! Let's go!" The female sounds excessively alarmed.

You hear a loud thump on the door. He expresses his distaste with a few profanities, then there's silence from outside again. You take a chance to peek out the window. Sure enough they've walked away from your door. They're lugging an injured guy around between them, and even from this distance, you can tell he's not in a good shape. Good thing you didn't let them in, he might be sick with whatever kind of virus is causing all of this. You look down the other side of the street, toward what the couple are fleeing from.

Sure enough, the guy who'd crashed and died at the hands of the undead earlier has been reanimated. He's shuffling toward the trio with the other two undead. A naughty little voice in your head says, glad I'm not them, but then you feel kind of bad that you feel that way.

You look the other way, and this is where your heart catches in your throat. Beads of sweat are already forming on your forehead as you take in the sight of an army of undead. They move in various speeds. Some are easily distracted and wander off to look here or there. One turns over a power-riding car that belongs to the little girl down the road. Another knocks over a trashcan. You watch in terror as a group separates and bursts into the house of one of your neighbors. You can hear the screams even with every window and door closed.

How can they find them so easily, you wonder.

With a sick feeling, you realize the undead must be able to smell the living.

Right about now, you're praying, you're crying, you're looking for a place to hide. But there's nowhere. You can't possibly hide from them. So you run. Like a bullet, you shoot from the back door. Immediately you're almost floored by the sheer stink of them. You've literally been engulfed by a giant miasma of death. As you try desperately not to breath in the rancid fumes too much, you can hear the monsters rummaging through the neighborhood. Another neighbor shrieks at the top of her lungs. Lungs that, you wager, will be ripped from her body cavity soon enough.

You run.

Past trees, through bushes, you run.

By houses, over lawn ornaments, you run.

All the while, you hear them, hammering on behind you the way your heart is hammering your chest. Their grimy nails claw the air behind you. Their stagnant breath is on the back of your neck. And then, you trip.