Craig of the Dead

4. Son to Father

I was woken up by the lovely sound of zombie moaning. I don't know how, but one had managed to work it's way into my house. Fortunately, my instincts kicked in faster than my face could be eaten.

"HOLY SHIT!" I shouted, beating the undead woman's chest with my fists. If I could just get to my...

BANG!

Shotgun.

Although I had barely moved from my bed, I breathed heavily as the unmoving body sprayed blood and gunk everywhere. Quickly, almost without thinking, I dashed to the bathroom in the hall. Hopping in the shower for a short rinse, I violently scrubbed my whole body, my heart still beating fast from the close call. I had no idea what caused you to turn, so I had gotten in the habit of just washing everything off whenever I got too close for comfort with a walker. Looking down as I rinsed out my hair, watching the chunks of human flesh get sucked down the drain, I would most definitely consider that too close for comfort.

Heading back towards my room, I picked out a clean outfit and slipped it on, surveying the damage. The smell alone was enough to make me want to set fire to the room, but the worst of it was the woman lying on my bedspread. Sure, she was a walker. Sure, she wanted to eat me. But before that, before she got infected, she was a normal woman. I might have even seen her in the neighborhood. She might have a family, kids who were waiting for her to come home. Now, her brains were on my wallpaper.

I tried my best not to think about it too much as I cleaned up the mess. Thank goodness I slept with my shotgun lying beside my bed. As horrible as this cleanup was, it could have been a whole lot worse if I hadn't acted as fast as I had.

After dumping the remains outside in a garbage bag, I tried to think about what Mom would do when I would spill grape juice on my shirt. Vinegar and rubbing alcohol, that's what she would get out. Maybe it would work for my bloodstained sheets too. Balling the sheets up in my hands and grabbing the rubbing alcohol from my medicine cabinet, I headed downstairs to the kitchen for the vinegar. Suddenly, a thought shot into my mind, almost making me drop the bottles on the ground.

Dad!

He didn't respond when I fired the shotgun inside at 7:00 in the morning, and the house had been oddly silent since. What if the zombie woman had gotten to Dad before I killed her?

"Dad?" I cried out frantically, beginning to search all of the rooms in my house. "Dad??" I prepared myself for the worst. Mom was gone, she left South Park with the rest of the adults. Dad had just been too thick-headed to leave. Shelly was missing, and I hadn't been brave enough to look for her. Grandpa was probably still at the nursing home, maybe already dead.

"Dad? Where are you? Please, Dad, don't leave me! You're all I have now!" I shouted. Finally, I found him, and although I should have been overjoyed at the sight of my still-in-tact father, I had to fight the urge to kick him in the privates.

He was completely out, snoring in a pile of his own vomit, surrounded by beer cans and one completely empty bottle of wine. I could feel rage building inside of me, and eventually I stopped suppressing it.

"DAD, WAKE UP!" I yelled, giving him a good, hard kick in the crotch. He groaned, rubbing his eyes and propping himself up on one hands, massaging his privates with the other.

"Hey, don't, uhhggg, don't kick your father." He groaned.

"You deserve it, you stupid drunk. Now I'm gonna go check the front door and, I swear Da— Randy, if I see what I think I'm gonna see, I. Will. Lose. It." I hurried to the living room and, sure enough, just as I had suspected, the front door was wide open, unlocked, and had three beer cans on the first step. I slammed the door shut so hard it rattled the house, knocking all the cans to the ground. I locked the door and put a chair under the handle just in case. I stormed back into the room, only to find he'd closed his eyes and has begun to drift asleep again.