Dead End.

Aaron Porter


The moon shines brightly tonight, not a cloud in the sky. It all seems to be mocking my existence. The sour sweet smell of rotting flesh has been lurking around me for days and I have to say, I’m getting used to it.

They’ve been following me for ten grueling miles. Relentlessly smashing through every obstacle and barricade I’ve set for them. Why I thought a withered old farmhouse would work better I’ll never understand. Maybe I was just tired of running.

The cold metal of my gun has blistered my palm, my trigger finger chafed from over use. Clothing sopping wet with enough blood that it’d be impossible to tell me from one of them.

I’d bolted shut every door and window. The rotted out wood and broken glass panes remind me of the futility of my situation. Never the less, I sat down at the top of the second floor stairs, my .357 Smith & Wessen aimed at the front entrance.

I could hear them now, surrounding the building to prevent my escape. The glassless window behind me provided just enough light to watch the stairway I planned to funnel them through.

A loud smash came from the back porch; I could hear the door being ripped off the hinges. It would be over soon.

One of them rounded the railing and started up the stairs towards me. I instinctively put a bullet through its head, splattering chunks of its brain out onto the front door. The smell of gray matter enticed the undead outside, causing them to tear through the weakened old wood. They began pouring into the main hall rapidly.

They stumbled awkwardly over the corpse I’d just created and dragged them selves up the staircase. I lined up my shots, making sure that every one of them went through at least two skulls. Click click! The sound of my empty gun more frightening that the cadavers that stalked me. I panicked and kicked the closest limp body down at the rest of the hoard, hoping to at least slow them down.

I bolted down the second floor hallway and opened the hatch of the attic. Unfortunately for me, there was no furniture or loose wood for me to barricade it shut with, so I was forced to hold it closed myself.

There was a single window, caked with years of dirt that blocked out nearly all light. If there was something lurking in the shadows, I wouldn’t know until it was too late.

I struggled to hold the hatch shut, weary from days of struggle. This self made tomb offering me no rest. The decayed hand of one of my mindless enemies broke straight up through the door, returning down below and taking most of the barrier with it.

I darted over to the window and smashed it out with my empty revolver. There was nothing down below but the unstoppable mass of undead which pursued me. If the window had been on the rear of the building I might have had a shot at landing on the porch roof, but even that wouldn’t have been enough to save me. For a brief moment I was able to pick out the zombified friends and family in the crowd. I could waste no sympathy on them now, as their goal was now to devour me alive.

The lifeless bodies began climbing up into the attic, reaching half decayed hands out for me. There was no other choice left, I squeezed myself through the tiny window and grabbed for the edge of the roof.

I finally managed to pull myself up onto the decrepit shingles, my gun falling from my pocket in the climb and nailing some random zombie below me in the eye. Arms reached out of the window longingly, hungry for my precious flesh.

The moon hides behind the clouds, casting a shadow that blocked my view of what could be thousands of ghouls clawing and moaning to satisfy their hunger. Deprived of the hope the light had once brought me, I dug into my pockets to find one remaining bullet. If only I still had my weapon, I would be able to avoid my horrid fate.

There was no one left to rescue me. I was left only with the option of choosing my method of demise. Would a fall from this height kill me? Or just cripple me for the painful feast I was attempting to avoid? How long would the roof bare my weight? Long enough for starvation to set in? Is this how it ends for me? How pathetic! There must be a way to survive…


Forgive typos. I have terets, so my fingers twitch now and then. This ws a story for Creative Writting class at the collage, it captivated the class! I have another part written to it to satisfy the "write a story letter" criteria of another assignment. Wanna see?

Wow, you have got good talent there, i'm not suprised that your class was captivated by this story, keep it up!

It's not bb_oldhouse. I forgot the name of it, but there's a flamethrower on the frontporch and a chaingun and propain tank in the basement.

is it the one with the shitty purple interior in one of the rooms?

I think so. Tiny house. Great place for the story.