Before I ramble, perhaps I should say something about myself, for posterity’s sake. I am Henry Smith. I know what you’re thinking. Another darn Smith, right? At one time, millions shared the same surname. Every day it grows that much more uncommon, o’ mighty clan of Smith. Heck, I might even be the last one standing.
I’m the proud father of three young, beautiful girls. At least I was. All have passed away now, along with my darling wife Bethany. Incinerating their corpses was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But they had become infected and were coming for me.
Bethany had no chance at all. She stood in horror, watching the school bus veer off the road as it entered our neighborhood and crashed into a house. After several desperate minutes, my daughter Katy crawled out from the wreckage. For a moment my wife was happy to see her until she noticed the change that she’d undertaken. Soon Katy was running on broken legs, but not for consolation. Something had taken hold of her. She was hungry. Ravenously hungry.
The sound of the crash sent me running into the street as well, just in time for me to witness the murder and transformation of my beloved wife. Katy would not stop biting her neck, and after awhile, Bethany stopped resisting her. Soon, the two turned their attention towards me. In that split second, I promised myself that I would not go out the same way, and search for my other daughters who were still at school.
I was no less mortal that day than the others grieving their loved ones. I, too, would rather die than raise a hand against them. Like a coward, I ran back to the house and locked the door. I barely outran my hobbling daughter before Bethany realized my utility. But I could not harm either of them, even though they meant to tear me limb from limb.
Of course, granting undead family members safe passage comes at great personal risk. Though dead, they can still remember all the secret ways into the house, like the basement window that would not close and small gazebo that could be scaled to gain access to the second story guest room. Although no school buses arrived for my other two daughters, Lindy eventually found her way home and brought plenty of friends. As for Sierra, I can only hope that she made it out alive. Please, be safe.
It wasn’t until they cornered me in the attic that I finally snapped. I grabbed a hammer from an old, rusty toolbox and kept swinging until I’d smashed every last one of their skulls.
It’s taken me months to forgive myself for dismembering their corpses.
I wish I could say the same for the other survivors.
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