Ninjago: Masters of Zombie Slaying

Family Issues

"I could use— a little— help here!" A boy with raven hair called.
"You look like you got it son," his father sang.
Moments like this often made Cole Brookstone wonder if his father cared for their survival. This would happen quite often, Cole would be fighting while the dancer would stay on the porch of the house and watch, singing a tune in order to "help motivate his son".
A zombie came up to the raven-haired boy, and he slammed his metal shovel into what was left of its head. He was glad he was in a ski mask and a sweater, as it prevented the gore from touching his skin.
It was unknown if the flesh, blood, or matter of a corpse could infect a human by mere touch, but Cole dared not try. He was the only thing keeping his father and himself alive. While the clothes kept gore away, it did not keep the heat out. The black threads called the heat, drinking it in thirstily, and Cole hated that, but it was the only thing they had.
He was glad when he slammed his shovel into the last zombie's head. Maybe now he could rest. He may have had strange strength, but even he had his limits. He threw his shovel on the porch, and thudded on the chair next to the front door of their home. He stared at the weapon. It often reminded him of a scythe, the way the metal was broken into a weird curve on one side. He liked it that way, only because he could hook it on a corpses neck and ring it around him for extra protection.
Cole gave a sigh, pulling the turtle neck of his sweater from his mouth and pulling the ski mask away from his head. He glanced to his father to see him shining a golden trophy with a white rag. The trophy was grand, a prized possession of his father, with the words on the pedestal on the bottom reading "Blade Cup" and the blade stuck in the top resembling a fang.
Cole often wondered if the old man cared more for the trophy than he did his own son. Whenever a zombie herd came by he would tell his son to take care of it and would grasp the trophy, sitting on the porch and watching his son fight.
"You know," came his father's voice, jarring Cole from his thoughts, "You could be a little more graceful when fighting. Put a spin or two in your actions and make a show out of it."
Cole had been thinking about abandoning his father. All he seemed to think about was Cole either dancing or singing. Any time they saw each other his father would say something about a tap here or a chorus there while he fought. Cole couldn't dance, and did not like dancing. It seemed too… feminine for a man of his muscular stature.
"Why do you always ask me to dance?" He asked, making no attempt to hide the annoyance in his voice.
His father stared at his reflection in the golden prize, "It is a family tradition. We are the Royal Blacksmiths, dancers and singers of the new generation-"
"Look around dad! There IS no new generation! We are all doomed because of these... these… THINGS-"
His father's face turned red, and he stood, holding the trophy with one hand that turned white against the handle on the side. "Your mother is one of those "things"!"
Cole stood, staring straight at his father's silver eyes that mirrored his own, "And whose fault is that?" Cole snarled.
Now Cole had said things in the past that were cruel to his father, all of which responded in his father walking away, but not this time. Lou Brookstone stared at his son for a few moments, before raising a fist. Fast as lightning his fist came down of his son's nose, and it felt as heavy as a boulder.
Cole fell onto his back and stared up at his father, pain and shock mixed in his face. "Father… you… you hit me…"
"Get out of my sight, Cole."
"But-"
"Go!"
Cole swallowed and stood, walking into the house slowly and stumbling slightly. He grabbed a clean towel and began cleaning the blood from his face. That was the first time his father had ever hit him… and it hurt more than just Cole's nose.
The dancer's son ran upstairs and into his room, tears threatening to fall. Cole had only cried once, when he found his mother's walking corpse walking away and into the city. Cole burst into his room, throwing open and slamming the door back with forces that almost tore it from its hinges.
The teen threw himself onto his bed, burying his face within a pillow. He turned his head and grasped a dragon doll that his mother had given him long ago. It was rather small, only as big as his palm, but it's meaning might as well have been as big as a real dragon. It was a brown dragon with four wings on its back in the shape of diamonds, and it stood on four legs like a normal lizard. It's red eyes and white pupils were scary to the small boy at first, but as he grew he saw the feelings of kindness and safety that the doll brought him, and the red eyes became a safe thing for him to look at. He named the stuffed animal Rocky.
"This life isn't one worth living," the boy mumbled at his dragon doll. "I must find one worth it. I will run from this home, and find people who could and would fight to stay alive.
Cole got up and walked to his closet. He looked around, finding a second black sweater and black jeans. He hesitantly placed them in a bag and grasped Rocky, tucking him carefully within the pair of jeans he currently wore. He walked downstairs, careful to stay out of his father's sight. He slipped into the kitchen and found the cans of food. He left ten days worth of food for his father, plenty for him to think about his actions and realize what he had done. Cole smiled as he tightened the bag's knot.
"Going somewhere son?" Cole gasped and turned to the doorway to see his father standing there, arms crossed and a hand stroking his fancy mustache. The teen swallowed, staring at his father. "You know you should tell me before you leave."
"And why is that? Is it so you can eat whatever food I leave in the house while I hunt? Do not think I have not noticed the missing cans and meat slabs."
"You ungrateful little— I-I have kept us alive!"
That was it.
Cole stood, grasping the bag tightly. "You lie! You have not kept us alive, I have! I have gotten the food and I have gotten the clean water! The only reason we are still alive is because I fight! You do nothing but polish your precious trophy! Do you even care if we live!?"
Lou raised another fist, but Cole knew it was coming. He ducked and landed his own punch on his father's leg, making him fall to the ground. Cole quickly grabbed the bag and ran over his father to the doorway. Cole managed to snatch his metal shovel and jump from the porch before his father exited the house.
"If you leave don't even think about coming back, Cole Brookstone!" Lou screamed as he reached the porch.
"Gladly!" Cole shouted back, not caring if he attracted attention from the zombies.
"Cole Brookstone, get back here NOW!"
"Stop screaming, father. You'll attract attention!"
"If you leave you're no son of mine!"
Cole paused. Honestly, what did he have to gain from leaving…? But what did he gain by staying? His mind was set, and he continued walking.
His father continued to shout from the porch, screams changing from "your useless to me," to "I'm sorry, come back son!" But it was too late; Cole had lived through too much to deal with his father. He turned greedy after Cole's mother died, and that had worn Cole to the edge. He felt bad about leaving his father to die, the dancer being his only blood relative, but he was too much for Cole right now.
"Take care, Lou," he whispered, dragging his scythe-like shovel along the ground.