Ficly

One night at a time

Adam searched the aisle, growing more frustrated. “What kind of grocery store doesn’t sell can openers?”

He turned quickly, slipping in a puddle to land roughly on the linoleum. His backpack tumbled open littering the floor with cans of chili, beans and fruit. He lay there, face to face with Mrs. Newell.

A trickle of blood drifted from the hole he had put in her head just two minutes ago.

It had been a lot harder than he thought it would be.

Untold hours in front of his TV, blasting away with his controller gave him the unrealistic assumption that killing someone was as simple as locking on target and pulling a trigger, but he never had to shoot his second grade teacher in a videogame.

That’s what it had come to. There she stood, an honest to goodness zombie, in between him and aisle 13.

His hands had been shaking so much he put two bullets through the cardboard display next to her before finally hitting her squarely between the eyes.

How many more would he face before he made it back home?

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