The sudden, inky blackness swallowed Owen and Lisa whole. One moment, they were bickering good-naturedly over a board game, the next, the familiar hum of their Summerside home was replaced by an unnerving silence. "Great," Owen grumbled, fumbling for his phone. "Power's out."
Lisa sighed, but a small smile played on her lips. "At least we have each other for entertainment, right?" She lit a few candles, their flickering glow casting dancing shadows that made the familiar living room seem alien. The rain lashed against the windows, a relentless drumming that drowned out the usual night sounds.
They talked, sharing old memories and future dreams, the darkness outside forgotten in the cozy intimacy of the candlelight. They had no way of knowing that beyond their small, illuminated bubble, chaos was unfurling. The date, May 30th, 2025, would forever be etched in history as the night the dead walked.
It began subtly, an isolated scream swallowed by the storm, a distant moan mistaken for the wind. Then, the guttural moans grew louder, closer. A chill that had nothing to do with the lack of heat slithered down Owen's spine. "Did you hear that?" he whispered, his eyes darting towards the front door.
Lisa, her face pale in the candlelight, nodded slowly. A thud, heavy and sickening, echoed from their porch. It sounded like something dragging itself across the wood. Then came the scratching, a nails-on-chalkboard sound against the door, followed by a low, guttural growl that made the hair on their arms stand on end.
Owen grabbed the old baseball bat he kept by the door, his knuckles white. Lisa clutched a heavy ceramic vase, her breath catching in her throat. The scratching intensified, joined by more of those dreadful moans, coming from all directions now. It wasn't just their porch. It was their street. Their town.
A shadow passed by the window, too slow, too shambling to be a person. Another scraped against the glass, and through the gloom, they saw it – a gaunt, decaying face pressed against the pane, eyes milky and vacant.
"Oh my god," Lisa choked out, dropping the vase with a clatter.
The thudding against the front door became relentless, a relentless assault. The wood began to splinter. Owen braced himself, the baseball bat feeling flimsy in his trembling hands. Outside, the sounds of a nightmare unfolded: more screams, the splintering of wood, the unmistakable wet tearing of flesh. Summerside, on this dark, rainy night, had become a feasting ground for the risen dead. And Owen and Lisa, trapped in their powerless home, were utterly, terrifyingly, alone.
Do you want to know what happens next to Owen and Lisa, or perhaps what led to the walking dead rising in Summerside?
The splintering groans and dragging shuffles of the undead pressed in on all sides, a chorus of decay surrounding the small, isolated house. Inside, Owen and Lisa moved with a frantic, desperate energy, their eyes scanning every familiar object with a new, horrifying purpose: finding a way to survive.
Dust motes danced in the muted light filtering through the grime-streaked windows as Lisa tore through kitchen drawers, her fingers fumbling over cutlery and forgotten gadgets. Owen, meanwhile, made a beeline for the basement door. He knew, with a grim certainty, that their best hope lay downstairs.
He descended into the cool, damp air of what he affectionately called his "regimental cave." It was a sanctuary of a bygone life, filled with mementos of his time in uniform. His gaze fell immediately upon the wall where it hung: his SLR L1A1, the familiar lines of the rifle a stark comfort in the face of the encroaching chaos. Its bayonet, still fixed, glinted menacingly in the dim light. He reached for it, the weight of the rifle a welcome presence in his hands. This wasn't just a relic; it was a tool, a shield, and he would use it to protect Lisa from the horrors gathering outside.
The air in the kitchen, once thick with the scent of simmering coffee, now reeked of decay and dust. Owen had just grabbed his first mug when the French doors exploded inward, splintering wood and sending shards of glass across the tile. A wave of shambling horrors, their eyes milky and vacant, poured into the room like a grotesque tide. Their moans, a low, guttural chorus, sent a chill down Owen's spine.
"Lisa, upstairs! Now! Get to the roof, I'll meet you there!" he roared, shoving a heavy oak chair in their path.
Lisa, her face pale with terror, didn't hesitate. She scrambled up the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the sudden silence of their flight. Owen, meanwhile, grabed the SLR LA1A Rifle he'd instinctively snatched from the block. He slashed, he cut, he stabbed. The blade sank into rotting flesh with a sickening squelch, but the creatures barely flinched. They just kept coming, their clawed hands reaching, their teeth gnashing.
Desperation clawed at him. He was losing ground, pushed back against the counter, the sheer number of them overwhelming. Then, purely out of frustration, he swung the SLR in a wild arc, a desperate, Hail Mary attempt. The edge of the blade connected with a sickening thud against the forehead of the lead zombie. The creature stumbled, its vacant eyes momentarily wide, and then it toppled, hitting the floor with a surprising finality. It didn't twitch, didn't groan, just lay there, utterly still.
A jolt of understanding, cold and sharp, shot through Owen. Not the chest, not the gut, not even severing a limb. It was the head. That was it. That was the kill shot.
He stared at the fallen zombie for a split second, then back at the relentless horde. A grim determination settled over him. He knew what he had to do. His grip tightened on the Rifle with bayonet fixed, a new purpose fueling his every move. He had to fight his way out, to get to Lisa, and every single one of these things was going to get a head job before he was through. The kitchen, once a place of comfort, was now a gruesome battlefield, and Owen, the accidental warrior, was ready to deliver his brutal lesson.
The air was thick with the stench of death, a brutal lesson Owen had learned repeatedly: stay alive. His wife, Lisa, depended on him. He fought with a desperate ferocity in the kitchen, every swing of his Rifle with Bayonet attached fueled by the need to protect her from the undead horde. They piled up around him, a gruesome wall of decaying flesh extending for fifteen feet. Thirty agonizing minutes it took to clear a path, just to reach the bottom of the stairs.
"Owen! Get up here! We need to get on the roof!" Lisa’s screams were a raw, panicked sound from the bedroom above.
He began his retreat, battling his way up the stairs, each step a struggle. Blood and rotting flesh clung to him, a grotesque second skin. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones, but the sheer press of the walking dead, a tide of moaning hunger, paradoxically offered a chance. As they piled up, creating a gruesome ramp, Owen found a fleeting moment of respite. He surged forward, bursting into the bedroom. The door slammed shut, the heavy click of the lock a small victory. He dragged dressers, a nightstand, anything he could find, piling it against the door, barricading them in.
The adrenaline began to drain, leaving him utterly spent. He slumped to the floor, the stench of decay and his own sweat filling his nostrils. His eyelids grew heavy, the fight too much. He drifted off, the sounds of the horde fading into a dull thrum.
A persistent knocking jolted him awake. Not the wet, guttural sounds of the undead, but a rhythmic, familiar thud. Not once, but a good few times.
"Owen? Are you ever going to open this door? I'm exhausted!"
His eyes fluttered open, disoriented. Sunlight streamed through the living room window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He was on the sofa, a blanket askew. The knocking came again.
He stumbled to the door, the vivid nightmare still clinging to the edges of his mind. It was Lisa, keys in hand, a tired smile on her face.
"Rough day?" she asked, stepping inside.
Owen just shook his head, a wry grin spreading across his face. "You could say that.
The moral of the story was. I think I had a little too much Walking Dead last night." and it was all a Dream
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