“How many are down there?”

“Hard to say. At least a dozen.”

Peter looked around the room. Five survivors and a dog. They had supplies for 6 months and a safe house that would hold indefinitely. At least it should have. Someone had left the front door open. And now here they were, locked up in an upstairs bedroom with a dozen flesh eating zombies downstairs.

The next 30 minutes were something of a blur. Afterwards, Peter tried to recall what happened. There were muzzle flashes and gallons of blood. Hatchets, machetes and baseball bats. There was betrayal; betrayal that Peter never could reconcile himself to, no matter how much he tried.

There were bites. There were scratches. There were tearful goodbyes. In the end, it was just Peter, and the dog, driving an old pickup truck west, following the setting sun.