Leaving It Behind (#FrightFest2016 SILVER winner!)

Part 1

Joust. That was that name of the old Atari game where you flew around on ostriches. I finally remembered it. Not that it mattered anymore. You were probably dead now, or worse, and I was about to be next.

Something thumped against the front door and my fingers curled more tightly around the empty shotgun in my lap. Even if I had shells for this thing, I wouldn't know how to use it. Useless. Much like my meager efforts in our relationship.

Another thump.

What if it was Mom? She had promised to come back. Sure, that was two days ago, but that could still be her, right? I sat on the floor taking shallow breaths, back pressed against the wall, clueless what to do next. Have I always been this fearful? I never used to think so, but I guess you were always the brave one.

Maybe I could be brave too. Mom could have been hurt getting away from one of those things. She could be at the door right now. Then again, it could be... something else... at the door. I sat, frozen with indecision, until the thought of Mom—bleeding, maybe even dying—spurred me into action. Gripping the shotgun like a security blanket, I pushed myself to my feet, breath quickening. My feet got snarled in the skirt I'd discarded days ago in favor of more practical jeans. You always liked me in skirts.

I kicked it aside.

As I inched to the front door, I wondered how my friends were doing. Were they cowering at home like me? Or had they turned into one of those mindless flesh-eaters outside? My thoughts invariably turned back to you though, and I felt a pang of regret. My friends hadn't approved of us. No one had. And I let that bother me too much.

I placed my hand on the knob. The door vibrated as something heavy bumped against it once more. I jumped back in alarm. My pulse galloped and my hands began shaking. Maybe this was a bad idea.

A moaning sound permeated through the door. That was Mom's voice.

I rushed to peer through the peephole. I clearly saw her familiar blond waves. They hung like a dirty curtain as she stood doubled over in pain. She was wearing the pink track suit I'd last seen her in.

"Mom!" With clumsy fingers I twisted the lock and wrenched the door open.

She stumbled forward a bit and then moaned again.

"Mom are you hurt?"

Slowly, she lifted her head and fixed milky, unfocused eyes on me.

My stomach twisted. No. Please no.

She lifted a withered arm. A finger was missing from her crusty hand and her skin sagged unnaturally. Dark blood smeared her mouth.

I stood there. Stunned.

She was one of them.