So…I write things other than the Sureshot stuff. In fact some of my problem is not being able to decide which of the dozens of stories I have, in my mind and on paper already, to work on. Here is a glimps of one I’m trying to finalize this summer:
I was struck by the horror of what was happening. As I looked into the snarled and twisted faces of the beasts which were advancing on me, I recognized the family that lived in the house behind ours. I still had my survival instincts about me though as I defended my home and my family with deadly force.
Bits of flesh and thick blood flew in all directions plastering my living room with death. Again and again I fired trying to push them out of my house but they mostly fell and then rose again. A couple had been sufficiently struck in the head to end their miserable existence, but there were too many. The shotgun was out—I reloaded.
More shots. Reloaded. I could hear nothing except a pounding in my ears. It seemed as though death was swallowing me. I could hardly see. Partially because it was dark and partially because sweat was running in my eyes. The room was filled with smoke and stunk like rot and decay.
Shotgun empty. No more rounds. I pulled the pistol and started firing. One, two, three I dropped them to the ground. Seven shots then…click. I didn’t bring another magazine down stairs. I knew I needed to rush upstairs to get more rounds and more guns and keep fighting, but I froze. I would not have admitted it back then, but I froze. After all I prepared for and all I had already endured I couldn’t move. I just held my pistol in front of me bolt back, casings all around me. Deaf, blind, numb I stood there waiting for them to get me.
A pair of zombies inched their way towards me. One crawled on the ground, his legs too torn up from all the rounds I fired at it to walk. I was mortified to look at it and recognize it as Sonya, my neighbor. Distorted and deranged it was of course no longer her, but a shadow of her image remained and it shook my soul. The other slugged its way towards me, arms out, mouth wide, blood dripping from its tongue. This one too I knew—Mario, Sonya’s husband. I had barbequed with the man numerous times, watched football with him and drank beer. Now he was trying to eat me. Not him of course, but the monster he had become. I lowered my gun and stared at it in awe. The thing I had been most afraid of and thought I had prepared for was about to kill me. If only I hadn’t gone fishing.