Edward Punales [Punales - Our Last Bow

Authors Note: First, I just want to set the record straight to avoid any confusion. This story was originally published in 2014 under my pen name Edward Lange. It has been republished here under my real name. Second, this story contains strong language and graphic violence. Discretion is advised.

For Mom and Rodrigo. Thanks for believing in me.

I

The one-story house was not my ideal hiding place.

Id much rather have stayed on the second-floor of a two-story house; zombies arent very good at climbing stairs. Poor eye-hand coordination and all that.

No, the only reason I went into that house was desperation. The sun had just set, and it was one of those nasty winter nights, when the wind slices through clothes like a knife, and the spit freezes on your lips. Id been walking all day, my feet and hands felt numb, and I needed a place to stay warm.

There were no lights in the house, so I had to inspect it with my flashlight. Whoevers house it was, theyd abandoned it in a hurry; most of the furniture, appliances, and at least few hundred dollars worth of electronic entertainment equipment had been left behind. Not that they wouldve cared; there are more important things to think about when zombies are on the prowl.

Part of me still wanted to hold out until I found a two-story house, but the wind was getting harsher, and I was worried about frostbite. Besides, the locks worked, and the windows werent broken, so it was good enough. There was a pair of sliding glass doors at the back of the house, but I didnt think it would be a problem; the glass seemed pretty thick. Zombies werent exactly known for their physical strength.

After Id checked every room, I closed and locked the front door. My cheeks and hands felt relief from the cold outdoor air. I propped my flashlight up on a nearby table, and the beam shined upward at the ceiling. I slowly put my hunting rifle and backpack down on the green leather couch next to the front door, as I rubbed my palms together. The house was still cold, just not as cold as outside. I drew my hands to my mouth and began to softly blow warm air on them. Feeling slowly returned to my fingers.

I sat down on the couch, next to my rifle. My feet and legs ached. It was the first time Id sat down since morning. I felt safe; I hadnt seen a zombie in two days, so I figured it would be okay to rest.

Nightmares woke me up a few times during the night. Fingers covered in rotten skin digging into my eyes. Decaying teeth sinking into my flesh. Id always wake up, snatch my flashlight from the table, and hold it close to my face as I stared into the darkness. Sometimes Id have to do a once over of the house before I could go back to sleep. Heart still pounding, hands still shaking, Id check and recheck every room, and corner in the place, images and sounds from the dream intruding upon my consciousness like bad memories. It was only after Id inspected everything in the most minute detail, that I could go back to sleep.

I heard the sound of breaking glass and knew it wasnt a dream. My eyes shot open. The sun had come up and its light was spilling in through the window behind me. I snatched up my rifle, and bolted up from the couch. The sound had come from the dining room at the back of the house, where the sliding glass doors were. A bitter cool breeze seeped down the hallway that led to that back room.

Weapon in hand, I crept to the edge of the hallway, and peered down. One of the sliding glass doors had been shattered into hundreds of pieces. And standing among the shards, was a tall pale man. He wore a dirty white t-shirt, and black baggy pants. His muscular frame eclipsed the broken glass door, and he spotted me with vacant, half-closed eyes. An inarticulate groan escaped his lips, and my breathing became hard.

He took a step, and tiny shards of glass were crushed under his black boots. I raised my rifle, but I didnt fire. I couldnt aim that damn thing to save my life.

Itd been my dads. Before hed died, my dad had tried to teach me how to use it. Every chance he got, hed take me to the range, and wed fire off a couple rounds. I always had trouble hitting anything further than a few feet. He never seemed that upset about it. He was a nice man.

My brother used to joke, If zombies ever take over, hell be an expert marksman in no time. But that didnt really pan out. Although Id seen many zombies since the breakout began, Id only actually killed one, and that one with an axe. The rest Id been able to run away from.

But at that moment, I didnt want to run. I only had two candy bars left, and I needed to search this house. It was a long shot, but it was better than no shot. And I sure as shit couldnt do any kind of a thorough search with that thing walking around.

He took a few shambling steps closer. I looked at the arms that hung at his sides like small tree trunks. Little shards dotted his arms, and blood trickled from the wounds, forming tiny red puddles on the ground. I thought the glass would be too thick to break, but with arms like that, very little is too thick.

His mouth opened, and his groans took on a wild, animalistic quality. His mammoth arms reached out for me. He was still too far, and I didnt want to risk missing. I only had fifteen rounds left; five in the gun, and two magazines of five in the backpack, and I wasnt keen on wasting a single one.

The gun shook in my hands. My finger became sweaty as it wrapped around the trigger. The creature got within five feet of me, and the stench of death and decay seemed to drip from it, and waft through the room. My eyes grew watery from the smell.

I lifted the rifle, and aimed right at the center of his face. The barrel kept shaking as I tried to aim. I wasnt worried about getting infected; I was immune to the virus. But even with that, this thing was still dangerous. I waited a few more seconds, as it inched its way toward me. I didnt want to miss. I waited until it was about three feet away from me, and I tried to pull the trigger.

It wouldnt budge.

I took a step back. My eyes went wide, and for a moment I forgot to breathe. The undead intruder still kept walking toward me, headless of the weapon in my hands. I continued to press down on the trigger, but nothing would happen. It was as rigid and inflexible as a rock.

Panicking, I looked at the side of the gun. Id backed up to the front room. The creature was halfway up the hallway. My frightened eyes scanned the gun, and quickly found the problem. Id left the safety on.

Frantically, I turned the safety off, and looked up. The zombie had gained an extra two feet. He was close enough that I could make out the small hole in his left cheek, and the little maggots that squirmed around in there. The fingernails of his outstretched arms were brown and jagged, like a rusty, serrated blade. I quickly pointed the gun at his head, hoped my aim was true, and pulled the trigger.

The force of the shot knocked me flat on my ass. I propped myself back on my elbows. The smell of gun powder and smoke began to fill the small space, and mingled with the rotting flesh stench. It all came together to form a nauseating aroma.

My ears were ringing. A large puddle of blood began to form at the zombies feet, as it stumbled backward. I looked up. He was still standing. The left side of his face had been blown off, revealing a brown decaying skull, and bits of red gooey flesh. He looked down at me with his half-skull face as I sat on the ground. I was able to see his jaw muscles contract and move as he opened his mouth. I lifted my gun. Then he threw himself at me.