I made the perfect picture. Half of Hailey's pathetic shoulder muscles hanging half way out of my mouth, my tired shamble, my broken ankle being dragged along behind me as I walked crookedly towards my fellow survivors.
I realized my only solution. I had to bite them, too. That was the only way to solve the problem. Unless I bit them, they'd probably shoot me. This could be really, really bad, and I for one was not going to let this escalate into "Let's murder Rachel because she was dumb enough to bite someone". I couldn't let that happen.
I stretched my arms out, both in surrender and reaching for them. I noticed the marks on my arm from the fingernails of the zombie at the gas station—they were yellow, now, like jaundice, only the scratches had swelled slightly in appearance. They probably think I've gotten infected from those dumb scratches... I thought. How thick can they really be? I had to roll my eyes at the entire ridiculousness of it all.
Absolutely ridiculous. I had to prove my point of how stupid this whole thing was. How could I prove my point? I rolled my eyes again, but to make them see what I meant, I didn't bring my eyeballs back into their proper position. I kept staring at the ceiling. I knew they'd only see the whites of my eyes, but they had to realize they were the ones in the wrong, not me.
With my eyes pure white, and my arms reaching, I knew they'd probably get a clear picture of what was really going on here. It was all a huge misunderstanding.
YOU ARE READING
Bite
HorrorA motley crew of survivors during the zombie apocalypse head for a skyscraper where safety is promised. A short story that tries to answer the question - what do ZOMBIES think about?
