David Morgan ran.
David Morgan never used to run. He had lived a life of privilege and comfort. He married into a wealthy family, was a partner in a successful law
firm established by his father-in-law, has the perfect family. He has 2 beautiful children who spent most of their time either in therapy or on
games, a wife who, when not in the bottle or some spa overcoming her most recent addiction, was sleeping with the gardener, the baker, the tennis pro,
the golf pro. David himself was no prize. His stable of mistresses was fabled in the courtrooms and government back rooms from sea to shining
But today David Morgan was running home. Running to safety, to his family, to his home, to his gun collection.
David Morgan was running from zombies.
Actually, just one zombie. This damned thing would not stop following him. At one point David had found a working car, and had managed to spend a
few hours on the road before the roads became too bad. After a quiet night spent in the back room of a department store, he started back on foot,
only to find the same zombie lurching down the road. Coming after him again.
So David ran.
Until a small pothole, hidden in the gloom, tripped David up.
The break wasn't a bad one. In normal times, a quick trip to the ER, some x-rays, a quick cast and David would have had everyone at the firm signing
his cast and laughing as he shared the vicodin they gave him for pain.
But there were no more ER's, no more doctors, no more x-rays, no more vicodin.
There was only the persistant gloom, the cloudy weather spitting a steady drizzle, and a zombie that was coming closer and closer.
David tried crawling home, he tried limping, hopping. He looked for a crutch and found nothing.
And the zombie was getting closer.
David flopped onto his back and screamed in impotent rage. His idiotic wife with his armory and generators and back-ups and food supply will probably
last her for months. Long enough for the plague to die out and for her to survive.
He should have been the one to survive. He would have been a king. A god in this new land with only his laws and his power and his wealth.
And the zombie was closer and closer.
His stupid wife! God how he hated her! Why couldn't it have been her instead of him here, lying in foul water with a broken ankle! He looked up at
the sky and screamed again.
The zombie was there.
It wasted no time, held no ceremony and started killing David. Oh, David fought back, but in the end, David was nothing more than 200 pounds of dead
meat wrapped in a soiled Brooks Brothers suit.
The zombie grabbed the sack of flesh that was David Morgan and started to shuffle-walk to a housing development nearby. A small fragment of it's
brain remembered this development. That same fragment is what has driven it this far away from the other undead. It wanted to go home. It had to go
home. It shuffled to a house at the end of a cul-de-sac and went to the door. The door opened and there stood his wife. His bride of 35 years.
The zombie infection may have destoyed her once fair skin, but he saw none of that. He saw her as the same as the day they were married. She looked
up and he knew, in that small still-functioning fragment of his brain, he knew that she remembered him too. Their love bloomed not only in life, but
stayed true through death and the undeath.
She stood aside as he dragged in the remains of David Morgan. Proud of the fact that her love, her husband would always be the best provider.
edit on 13-5-2018 by DBCowboy because: (no reason given)