Guts (the original interactive zombie apocalypse survival story)

41 - To the Store

Since there's no way of knowing if the cars have much gas, the empty store looks like the safest bet. Thunderous crashes and dreadful screams are spilling from the church. Most likely the sea of undead clambering over and through pews, fighting each other to get to the faithful humans inside. The sound seem to keep the undead coming, and they squeeze inside to join the gruesome smorgasbord.

With Artie's small hand tucked in yours, you take off for the store. Morally, you feel torn between hoping the racket behind will keep the undead occupied, and feeling bad for the humans that are at the bitter mercy of the undead. It's hard to not try to help, but even if you tried, you'd just be signing your own death certificate.

I couldn't help them, you tell yourself. I tried. They wouldn't listen...

As though it were slick with oil, Artie's hand slips free. For a second, you're afraid he will run back. He's terrified, with wide eyes, taking visibly deep breaths. He hasn't moved to go back, however.

"We can't!" He cries.

"We have to leave them, there's nothing we can do," you say desperately.

"No, not them. We can't go in there." He nods his blonde head toward the store, worry in his eyes.

Of course, you think, it's dark. It's empty and dark and scary. But it's a hell of a lot better than out here in the open, where the undead will come when they're done eating everyone in the church....

"We have to get inside!" you insist. He's alive. He has a chance. You'll drag him kicking and screaming if you have to.

"It's scary in there. And I don't feel right..." he complains. You grab his hand and pull him inside the quiet store anyway.

The little convenience store was torn apart. Shelves were trashed, chip bags busted open and chips crunched into the linoleum floor. Cigarette packs are on the floor and counter, the register hangs from its usual spot from a thin metal wire. A rack of snack cakes have toppled over and blocked the door from shutting. With your foot, you shove it out of the way and close the glass door, then lock it.

"I think we're okay," you say, but no sooner than the words pass your lips, a groan comes from an open doorway behind the counter.

Artie is pulling at the door whispering, "No...no, I told you..." In his fear, he doesn't even twist the lock, he just keeps pushing, making noise.

"Shh, shh. We can handle it, it's only one," you say, searching frantically for a weapon.

A moan from the back of the store ups the danger. There are two. You curse. Why didn't they go out the door and join the other undead? Behind the counter, an undead staggers up. It's female and she was wearing a rainbow striped top, but now all of the colors down the front and center are red-brown with blood. Her throat has been ripped badly. An low key odd noise that you weren't able to hear before now accompanies her feral groans and grunts. Head leaning to the side, her dead eyes, one bloodshot, are staring without seeing you, but she gnashes her teeth in your direction all the same.

All you can reach before she comes around the counter is the cake rack you moved earlier. Thinking fast, you shove it into her, keeping her at bay. She's shaking her head and salivating everywhere, like a rabid dog.

"Back off, Cujo!" you say, even though you know the words mean nothing to her.

She's not the smallest undead you've seen today, and it's hard to hold her back, but you're doing your best. As you reach for a pen on the counter while fending her off, screeching noises let you know Artie has figured out how to open the door.

"Artie, no!" you shout, but you can't go after him. The undead is pressing your side against the counter, and even if you can slip by, she'd chase you. You have to deal with her. Finally, your fumbling fingers wrap around the cold pen and you stab it straight in her bloodshot eye.

But you've gotten so worried about this undead and Artie, you forgot about the other undead in the back. It's gnarled fingers wrap around your neck before it takes a bite of your scalp. Your screams draw in more. Painfully and tragically, you're devoured in moments.