Max tried not to cry out as a half a dozen hands grasped at him. “Damn it,” he cursed out loud. I was a fool to leave my house. What was I thinking? I still have some rice. Now I’m going to pay for it with my life!

It quickly became apparent that with all the limbs crawling at him, there would be no way he could get the door shut. With another stream of violent curses, he left the front door and dashed toward his bedroom. At once, the undead flung the door open and plunged into the house after him.

Max reached his bed room and slammed the door shut. It took a second to lock it and another thirty to toss his dresser and other heavy objects in his side of the door. Before he could even draw a full breath into his tortured lungs, his body jerked at the sound of bloated hands slapping the window. More hands jointed the first, even as the other zombies banged on the outside of the bedroom door.

He searched for a weapon and almost laughed when he spied the old Spanish replica sword he had bought for himself in high school. He snatched it up. “Old school is better than no school.” His mild joy was short lived as the hollow bedroom door began to splinter. Behind him the first crack appeared in the wide pane of glass, which was the only thing separating Max from the gathering horde outside.

He tried not to watch their staggering bodies as they painted grime and viscera across his window. “I don’t have long.”

Looking around the room, he struggled to find anything that could help save him. He tossed the mattress and box spring over the window, but that would only buy him a few seconds. The closet would be about the same. It could be worse than here. I wouldn’t be able to swing my sword in there.

Then it hit him.

The attic.

Without another wasted second, he hurried into the closet. Soon his sword was stabbing through the dry wall above him. Once he had some holes started, Max tried to use the sword like a pry bar and pull larger chucks away. It worked well, but the going was slow and he could already hear glass shattering.

They came for him.

A foot went up on the doorknob and he lifted himself toward the hole he had created. Hands hurried to finish the job and sent powder and other debris raining down on him. Some got in his eyes, but he didn’t have the time to wipe them clean. He took a second to toss the sword up into the attic and then braced himself.

With a grunt and a gasp, he grabbed at a rafter and pulled himself up. His head broke through, but his left shoulder caught. Beneath him the closet door flung open. Again hands grasped at him.

He screamed and put every ounce of strength he possessed into a final pull. Drywall was torn and fell apart, but somehow his upper body pushed through. Hands grabbed at his shoes and through the swirling dust, he saw two heads moving in for a bite. He screamed again and lunched himself into the dark attic.

He almost couldn’t believe he had made it and inspected himself for bites. He seemed clean. After catching his breath, he looked down through the hole. Below him the zombies crashed against each other like a pool of frenzied sharks.

So great, Max thought to himself. I might be safe for now, but I’m twenty times worse off than before. I’m still half-starved, but now the whole neighborhood knows I’m here and I trapped in this damn attic.

He allowed himself a few minutes of self-pity, but then, with a sigh, started to chip away at the roof of his house with the point of his sword.

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