Trump Daddy Saves the World

Chapter Nine

It wasn't until half a day passed did Trump feel like someone was watching him.

It began in the dead of the night. Trump's eyes opened, his mind startlingly active, pulling him out of a dead sleep. He had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dark, his brain confused on why he was on such high alert. It gnawed at him, forcing him out of his bed to check the parameters of the house.

Everything was okay. Nothing was out of the ordinary. All of his items were right where he left them. Assured, he went back to bed.

But the feeling persisted into the next morning.

Trump was standing in his shorts rubbing EBT on his naked abs, his fingers rubbing the medicinal-smelling liquid, when there was a large rustle in the treeline directly behind his house.

Trump squinted at the tree, his slicked fingers covering his eyes from the glare of the sun. As the rustling persisted, a weird feeling started to sink in Trump's abdomen. His other hand slowly reached down, grabbing the shot gun perched near him.

Slowly, he raised the barrell in-line with the rustling branch. Only one thing was on his mind: zombie. Or zombie hoard.

He must've sweated off too much of his blocker yesterday. They could've followed his scent, trailing him back to his house in the middle of the night.

How many shots did he have saved? He didn't know. He hasn't started counting for the morning.

His hand tightened on the shotgun. His entire body was steeled as the rustling grew more aggressive, the brush swishing more and more until...a half-rotting hand peaked through the foliage. Trump watched as it tried to go further, but the entire body was stuck on the thorns.

He sighed out, lowering his gun a little before he walked out. He gave the foliage a little scan, checking for any other zombies, before he lined up the pointed, knifed end of his rifle with the zombie.

Blood sloshed out, the knife ramming through the skull with a thunk. He made sure to give it a good swirl, scrambling the thing's brains before he put his boot on its face, using the force to remove the knife.

More blood pooled on the floor. It wasn't like human blood—dark red—something about it was more...infected. He didn't really know, he wasn't a scientist. All he knew was that the tinge was off, the color was off, and these things were trying to eat people.

That was enough information for him to have no remose in killing them.

Trump eyed his knife with a disgusted look. He was going to have to clean that.

He was also going to have to use more blocker. If that zombie traced him there, then more would definitely be coming too. Not all of them would get stuck on the foliage.

Loose zombies running around near his fort would bring trouble. He walked back to the side of his shed, picking up the EBT from the stump. There was maybe half a roll left. He only had two more EBT's in his backpack.

Where he would get the rest? He wasn't entirely sure. It's not like they were supplied in abundance. His personal stache was left over from his military days...right before he got booted. He stole the rest of them, sneaking them out before anyone could fully notice.

There was no doubt in his mind that they knew he was the culprit. And there was no way they'd let him back in to steal some more.

He'd have to comb around for some other natural blockers. What else blocked the scent from zombies?

He tried to think but nothing came to mind.

Pharmaceuticals it is.

It was a long shot since that's what people ravaged first when the world first went down, but he had no other choice. He was gonna have to make a move-on, gather all of his supplies and pack up. Move on to the next city, the next town, wherever.