Marital Bliss, by Brian J. Smith
This story first appeared in Pill Hill Press’ “E-Mails Of The Dead.”
TO WHOEVER FINDS IT,
IF YOU’RE READING THIS, THAT MEANS I DIDN’T MAKE IT. OF COURSE I DIDN’T MAKE it or else I wouldn’t be writing this. But dead or alive, someone needs to know what happened. I won’t bore you with some stupid scene break, cut into the past and then pull you back into the present like most writers do. If my wife Natalie had still been alive, then she’d be the one writing this and not me. Sad part was, she’d gone out to check the gas gauge in the Taurus when they surrounded her and tore her apart like a Charleston Chew; a shotgun with eight shells can’t hold back an army of twelve.
Besides, I told her to stay in here, told her we were fine right where we were but she doesn’t listen. Claustrophobia, cabin fever killed my wife—not the walking dead. No, I didn’t stutter. The walking dead; as in George Romero and Brian Keene, get the picture?
According to the news reports, a military cargo plane crashed outside of our town while en route to Andrews Air Force Base. The toxin they were carrying spilled onto the local cemetery and voila! instant zombie apocalypse. The townspeople fell like dominoes.
Natalie perished last week. The bars on the windows and the two shotguns that were posted at the front and back doors were only enough to give you that sense of power a gun loves to give. I would’ve saved Natalie, maybe even traded places with her, but the shotgun was too far away and there was too many of them.
It’s not that I didn’t want to do it. The only shotgun available was out of reach and if I’d gotten it in time they would’ve already bit her so the idea in itself was useless. I’d just have to kill her myself later on, anyway. The booby traps I set up a week ago had been used up; my ammo was depleting. Eight shells in my shotgun which, in case we forgot, isn’t worth dick in the face of an army.
Yes, I do feel guilty about Natalie. I would’ve done anything to have her back right now—anything. It’s not my fault she doesn’t listen to me. She does whatever she wants to do no matter what I say. You can only say so much before you give up and let them learn on their own.
The four zombies at my kitchen window glared at me like a zoo exhibit, baring blackened gums and yellow teeth. The four dead cheerleaders at my back door would’ve been perfect Playboy cover girls if they weren’t dragging their intestines with them. From the look of the bars on the windows, the next good breeze would blow them away. The boat still had some gas in it; maybe I could create a diversion and speed away from this little shit hole. The beach was three blocks away, a gray blue body of water that pounded the rocks at night and swayed gently under the moon.
The front door caved in and hit the floor so hard it rattled the windows. Two adults, another dead cheerleader and a ten-year old boy stumble into the house, baring coal-cannibal grins wet with hunger. They shove me to the floor and the cheerleader straddles me while the other three gnaw at my stomach and legs.
Hey kid, watch it.
Those edible panties aren’t cheap.
Brian J. Smith has been featured in E-Mails of the Dead, Book Of Cannibals 2: The Hunger, Pill Hill Press’ 365 Days of Flesh Fiction, Metahuman Press’ The Dead Walk Again and And The Nightmare Begins…Vol.1: The Horror Zine and such magazines as Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine and such e-zines as The Horror Zine, Postcard Shorts, Thrillers Killers and Chillers, The New Flesh and The Flash Fiction Offensive. He currently resides in Chauncey, Ohio with his brother the writer J.R. Smith and six dogs; his novella “Dark Avenues” and his two story collection “Two Shots” are available on Kindle.