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Funeral Home

After, or maybe during, the initial shock, Mark buried himself in what had to be done.

First, he killed the dog that had been too full to leave. He’d got home to find it still chewing on something, regarding him with flies crawling across his eyeballs and his stomach distended, sated. He brought his dad’s 4-iron down again and again on the creature’s skull. At some point the end snapped off when he beat through to the floor.

Next, he fetched all the canned food in the house and packed it into the rucksack he’d used for camping and travelling Europe. He threw in a torch, clothes and bottled water. To it he strapped his sleeping bag and tent. He clutched the worktop and breathed deep, shuddering breaths.

He walked their rooms one more time, through the gore. They all sprawled unmoving where they had fallen, still pre-Z. Alex was missing her left leg and her shirt was torn and bloody. He tucked her in to bed. “Too slow.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

From the end of the driveway, Mark watched his home burn.

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