The Shack

He stood there in the light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling, the hammer dripping blood, the maniacal rage slowly vanishing from his face. His upper torso, arms and face were caked in gore—masking his features.

He dropped the hammer to the ground. It made a loud clunk as it hit the wooden floor and landed in a pool of embalming fluid and blood. Broken corpses lay before him in a pile.

The door of the shack shuddered under the might of an unseen entity outside. He was pretty sure he knew what it was.

The hammer scraped the ground as he drew it up again—ready for more assailants.

The door splintered and broke, its hinges spent. It would never close again.

Another zombie shambled in, its soulless eyes fixed on its next meal.

He drew back the hammer and, with a battle cry of exhaustion and desperation, crushed its head. His yell hadn’t gone unnoticed, however, and five more zombies stood in the entrance to the shack.

He didn’t know if he could take five but he sure as hell wasn’t going to lay down and let them feast!

He swung the hammer desperately and killed two unscathed. As he was battling another two, the last caught him by surprise!

His neck flared with pain and fire as blood surged from his bite wound.

He turned and, without regard for his own safety, killed the remaining zombies.

Victory came at a high price. He had killed twenty-two zombies before he fell. And for its loss, the legions of the damned received one new soldier.