Z

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The zombie was somewhere ahead of him. Its stench—a combination of blood, dirt, and rotting meat—filled the air. It was close. Josh flipped the safety on his flamethrower and held it out in front of him, his finger on the trigger. Almost all the overhead lights were out, and the halogen light mounted on the barrel of his flamethrower had broken during a runin with a z on a lower floor. He could see only about six feet ahead of him through the gloom.

The hospital’s hallway was littered with trash; broken glass, charred pieces of paper, and twisted medical instruments were strewn around the floor. Dark smears streaked the white tile walls. Ahead of Josh a teddy bear sat propped against the wall just outside a partially open door, its fur stained with something black and sticky. Its head was torn off and lay in its lap. Stuffing puffed from the ragged neck.

Something about the bear caused a shiver to run down Josh’s spine. Clearly it had belonged to a little kid. But where was the kid now? He hoped wherever it was, it hadn’t already been turned by the zombies. Child zombies were the worst. Josh hated torching them.

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