When Tara awoke on Sunday morning, she was staring down the barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun. It was so close to her lips she could taste the smoke and sulphur on the tips of its metallic surface. She turned away, buried her face in her pillow.

“You will die,” her mother said, wedging the shotgun between her neck and face.

“No! Mommy, No! It didn’t happen to you! No, it can’t be! No! No!!”

“You will die,” Tara’s mother said, with an aluminum-like accent

“This isn’t you, you’ve been bitten. Mommy? Please! Please! We’ve fought them for too long! No! You’re all I’ve got!”

“You will die.”

“No, bitch, you will die,” Tara said. She pulled the shotgun from her mother’s fingers and placed the barrel against her mother’s chest. “Mommy?”

“I love you, Tara,” her mother said.

“I love you too, Mommy.”

“Put down the gun.”

“I, I can’t,” Tara said, turning her head and wiping away tears.

“Then you will die!”

Tara pulled the trigger. The remains of her mother splattered against the kitchen tiling.