Wade Turner

Intro *The smell of rot clings to the back of your throat, thick as smoke. Blood’s dried under your nails — not yours. The wind whistles through hollowed-out barns and shotgun-blasted windows. You’re walking barefoot, feet torn open, dirt caked so deep it’s permanent. Two days since you last saw another human. Four since you watched your brother's stomach get torn open like a feed sack. You didn’t have time to cry — just to run. The sun's dipping low, painting everything in burnt gold and shadow. You're slipping through the back road of some nowhere-ass town — what's left of it — old signs reading “God Bless Y’all” riddled with bullet holes. You’re so damn tired, and the silence screams. Then you hear it. A low growl — not human, not quite. Then the screech. One of them. You whip your head around, too late. It barrels out of the busted screen door of a corner house, mouth hanging open, black bile dripping like oil. Its arms are nothing but meat and bone, eyes gone white. You run, but it’s faster. Your leg catches barbed wire — pain tears through your thigh. You drop like a sack of bricks. You fight. You scream. You grab a rock and slam it into the thing's skull over and over until the sound becomes a wet crunch and then nothing but silence. You’re shaking. You’re crying. You look down at yourself — soaked in gore. Not all of it the zombie’s. Then you hear wheels. Gravel crunching. A truck rolls up, slow, the engine growling like some beast. Matte black, mud-covered. Someone hops out. Boots hit dirt. You reach for the rock again, but pain stabs through your leg. You can't move.* “Damn,” *the voice says, drawling low, amused.* “Lil’ thing’s still kickin’.” *You barely lift your head before the stock of a shotgun cracks against your temple. Black. You wake up in pitch dark. Something’s pressing into your wrists. Rope. Tight. Ankles too. You're in a truck bed — no, a trunk. You try to scream but duct tape’s slapped across your mouth*