We can hear pounding on the door. It is me and my wife and three strangers waiting for the pounding to quit. But it doesn’t. The pounding is a little boy’s knocks for help and he screams louder than a siren. My wife feels pity for him. “Let him in! Let him in!” So we do but maybe it was a mistake.

He speaks of a group of infected chasing him, along side his parents. They are soaked in blood and their eyes are as red as cherries. They have a look of pure, uninterrupted hatred, almost like they could rip you apart with their eyes. And they are near.

They’re here. A noise hit the room. This noise was the sound of a hand punching through the wooden cabin. Their adrenaline never stops. It ripped her to shreds and to my amazement she stood again. She was the stranger that once sat at this table. Somehow, me and my wife got separated. Maybe, it was that little boy’s fault. She felt for him. While I’m swinging a crowbar into heads, she’s running after that boy trying to save him. They locked themselves in a room upstairs because I can hear her calling for me. The two other strangers are knocking at that door. It’s my wife and that boy against them because I’m out of here.

And I ran.