Inspired in part by a dream I experienced the morning of 3-21-07. The setting and situation is the same; otherwise, the rest is fictional embellishment. Enjoy.
He chose the second floor because he thought it would be safe. It was close to ground level in case he needed to make a hasty getaway. The night was supposed to be quiet, and that was such a rare thing. Finding a room on the second floor, behind a railing right above his stolen pickup truck, was his idea of good planning. Twenty-six hours without sleep and the meager contents of a potato chip bag may have colored his decision with a haze. It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Now they were at his door. He could hear them behind the frame, brushing against the wall, touching the doorknob. The chain lock swayed lightly in its roost, making a slight tapping noise. Metal on treated wood. How did they know he was there? He had been quiet. He didn't turn any of the lights on, instead using his lighter to cast a weak glow so he could find the bathroom in the night. Still, they had found him. All the precautions, and they found him.
Since the dead were once again walking the Earth, feeding indiscriminately on living flesh, he had never known them to be able to climb stairs.
He checked his pistol and steadied himself, then prayed they hadn't learned to open doors as well.
© Dod March 2007