Company

They keep coming back no matter how many times I put them down. It's a cold one tonight, the snow's been gathering over the last six hours at a steady pace, turning every footstep into a rubbery crunch against the elements. Already the avenue is lost in white and the views from my windows slightly hazy. At the very least I've got the heating on even if it takes forever to settle in, plus some whiskey if called for. I can see my breath all too plainly in a thin wispy cloud and shudder; not because of the cold, but because of what might see it too.

My weapons are laid out on the living room table. A good half-dozen large kitchen knives, each one polished and gleaming silver, the kind good enough to get a job done, or as far as done as could be. I've got a few smaller sharp knives and two scissors resting beside them. Forks and spoons are in the kitchen if all else fails. Two match boxes and several spray cans of deodorant, ideal as far as cheap DIY flamethrowers go but it's been getting harder to stock up on both. They know where to hit to cut me off, the bastards. While I'm no drinker, I've got a few bottles of booze hidden around, highly flammable stuff – not quite so hard to stock up.

It's dark now. They'll be here soon. I lock all the windows, close all the curtains and sit in place in the living room, staring at my armoury. It's been a month since everything went wrong. It's been a month since the dead decided they weren't dead anymore. Nobody quite knows how it started, not even the best scientific minds. People threw in every theory born from the media, fictional or otherwise; there's no more room in Hell; it's Armageddon; a reanimation virus was released; the vengeance of God; an alien invasion; shapeshifters; counterparts from parallel universes. I'm not sure of anything. I'm not sure if I care at this point. All I know is that they keep coming back no matter how many times I put them down. No matter how many times I cut them, bash them, tear them apart, turn them into nothing, they pull themselves back together.

They come back every single night.

Including Terry.

His voice leaks through the front door. "Alex. Alex." It's still raspy from when I cut his throat last night. "Alex, let me in. Come on, Alex. It's cold out here. I need warmth. I know you have it. Let me have some of that. Please."

"I'm not letting you in, Terry," I tell him with the same warmth as from outside. "You'll have to stay out the whole night again. All of you."

"Alex, please. I need this. Don't do this to me." His fingers weakly scratch against the door. I wonder how many of them are still attached.

I say nothing back as I look at my knives. The largest shines against the living room lights for me to take it. I comply as the scratching turns into banging. Terry's slamming his head against the door, I can hear the hinges shaking with every pound.

The whispering has grown coarse, the desperation has boiled into anger. "ALEX. MAKE ME FEEL BETTER. I'LL HELP YOU FEEL BETTER TOO. I'LL KEEP YOU COMPANY."

I grab a match box and deodorant can and put them on the shelf by the front door while still carrying the knife. My weapon is at the ready, my hand tight and knuckles red. If this keeps up, he'll break the door down. This needs to be quick. For my sake than his.

"Alright, Terry, I'll let you in. Time to take in the warmth."

He keeps slamming into it even when I undo the lock. I time every hit to catch the rhythm. My hand delicately holds onto the handle, the knife arm pulled back.

Slam.

Quiet.

Slam.

Quiet.

Slam.

I waste no time pulling the door open and thrust the knife upwards before I have time to see what I'm hitting. Even after a month of this, seeing Terry like this unnerves me. He's even worse now. The throat bears the deep cut from last night, blood brown and sticky against dirtied clothes whose colours have dulled. What used to be healthy skin has greyed with streaks of blue and yellow and black and all others like a deformed rainbow. The sockets have sunken in further, showcasing eyes whose whites have grown red. Grease and dirt has matted down his long hair; I can still see some of the exposed brain from two days back. None of the fingers I removed have come back. His teeth and gums have blackened, smiling even as my knife sticks into his mouth from underneath the chin.

"Alex," Terry croaks out. "Make me warm, Alex."

I draw the knife downwards, cutting into his throat even more in the process. Terry shambles as my blade leaves him, disoriented while he grabs those sliced areas. One swift kick to his stomach sends my once-friend off the porch, creating a messy shape against the snow. I take this brief window of opportunity to its fullest, grabbing a match and striking it alight, never taking my eyes off Terry. He's just about made it back on his feet once the pain of my cutting settles down for him. Once that's done, I take the deodorant and aim it and the match at Terry right as he runs at me with a roar that doesn't sound remotely human.

He goes up beautifully, his body swallowed up in flames. I still feel sorry for him, though. Arms wave around, the roaring turns into an elongated screech. In half a minute he falls to the ground, flames whipping against the snow as they crackle. I look on until he's totally motionless. I blow out the match once that's done, flicking it in his direction.

"Goodnight, Terry. See you tomorrow."

The door closes easy enough.