As the man yelled the zombie vomited out a bloody scream of its own, and started reaching its chewed up arms for him.
Screaming for the family to unite position, the mother gathered her young and husband and made their way towards a house a 1/4 mile away.
Luckily they weren't up against a runner. They would have never made it out alive. They banged on the door for help while keeping an eye on the monster. Tired of waiting the husband kicked the door in. The smell of rotting flesh hit them immediately. There was an old woman sitting in an armchair next to the window. Dead. Holding a shotgun. There was a note on the lamp table that simply said, " NOT ME, NOT LIKE THIS". The man herded his family in a small closet under the stairs, grabbed the poor old lady's shotgun and scavenged the house for shells.
Every cabinet, every drawer, every closet. Void of shells. Pissed, he stomped back to the carcass and yelled at her at the top of his lungs. " YOU STUPID OLD HAG! YOU DON'T HAVE ANY SHELLS?!" He then noticed, on the floor next to the chair, in plain view.
Written on the inside of the lid in permanent marker.. YOU CAN THANK ME LATER.
The man loaded the shotgun. And not a moment too soon. The zombie was here. Gurgling and moaning the zombie made its way up the steps to the old Victorian styled home. Its face smeared a dark puss on the glass as it seemed to try and gnaw its way through the window.
The man's wife and kids were silent in the closet now. Too terrified to make a peep. This would be his first kill. Unknown to him, the first for the zombie too if luck was on its side. But not this time.
Before zombies ravaged our world. Before Gadhafi fled to hide secrets of zombie farms. Before children were given gun rites in school for zombie protection. Before any of this nonsense, there was THIS kind of battle. Gritty. Frightening. Panicked. And virgin.
The man stumbled back and started to loose it. " WHAT ARE YOU! WHAT DO YOU WANT! I'LL SHOOT YOU! I'LL KILL YOU DAMMIT!"
The mans daughter overheard his fear and he heard her start to wimper. His anger raged inside at the sound of that innocent cry. He picked himself up and stepped quickly towards the door. The zombie couldn't be happier. Slobbering at the mouth, the zombie greeted him at the front door.
The man cocked the shotgun as if he'd done it a million times before, swung open the door and screamed in the face of the zombie. He butted the barrel as deep as he could into the chin of the creature and pulled the trigger.
He stood there filled with rage as the lifeless body dropped to the porch. He looked up and noticed the white van. The men with gas masks were inside. The passenger gave a sarcastic nod and two finger salute as they turned away from the property.
His first fear was infection. His family rushed out and stood by his side as the van disappeared down the farm road. With out masks of their own they were surely dead. But they weren't. Maybe a scare tactic? Maybe they were infected and didn't want to spread it? But why were they there at all? Why didn't they help?
His wife held him close. He glanced down at the shotgun and noticed a label. He looked closer, Wiped the blood and hair away. It read ASMZ.
He now knows, months later, it was all set up. The infamous ASMZ took the opportunity to test the first subjects they could. They killed the lady, planted the gun and the note inside the box of shells. The gun was official ASMZ issue.
And here we are. Still fighting. Still surviving. Still living.