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THIRTY-FOUR

FARRON

BLOODIED HANDS

Day 101

I’m alone in the clinic, rummaging through shelves with a sense of urgency. The smell of antiseptic and decay lingers in the air, and my hands are shaking as I grab all the medical supplies I can find. Gauze, disinfectants, syringes—they all get shoved into my bag with no care for organization. We’re doing a supply run in some random town today that we’ve never been to before. Holden’s across the street in the thrift store, and my pulse quickens at the thought of leaving him for too long. Todd and Jay are nearby in the grocery store, hunting for canned goods and anything non-perishable, but I can’t stop thinking about Holden. Our parents are gone, disappeared in this nightmare, and the thought of losing him too makes my chest tighten like a vice.

I step out of the exam room and into the dimly lit office; the creak of the old floorboards under my feet feels deafening in the silence of the clinic. But then I hear it—a low, guttural groan from the direction of a door marked Employees Only. My heart skips a beat.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The groan grows louder, more urgent, as if something is waking up from a long sleep. I drop my bag beside me, its heavy thud absorbed by the carpeted floor, and slowly reach for my weapon. My fingers tighten around the handle, my pulse pounding in my ears.

The door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a force that makes me flinch. Four zombies stagger out of the break room, their rotting flesh hanging from their bones in sickening chunks. The stench of death hits me like a wave, turning my stomach, but there’s no time for hesitation. Their dead eyes lock on me, and I act on instinct.

I swing my weapon, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp hiss before slicing into the skull of the first zombie. There’s a sickening crunch as bone shatters under the force, blood and brain matter splattering across my arm. The creature lets out a gurgling moan before collapsing at my feet, its body twitching as it goes down.

The second one lunges at me with surprising speed, its jagged teeth snapping at my face. I slam the butt of my weapon into its temple, hearing the satisfying crack of bone splintering under the impact. Dark, viscous blood spurts from the wound, coating my hands as the zombie crumples to the ground.

I turn to the other two zombies, but when my eyes land on them, I immediately freeze, the knife almost falling out of my hands. “Mom? Dad?” I whimper out.

My throat tightens as I stand frozen in place, my breath catching in my chest. “Mom?” I whisper again as if saying it louder would change what I’m seeing. They shuffle toward me, slow, twisted remnants of who they used to be. Their skin is sickly, hanging off their bones in places, bloated and peeling in others, but their faces—I would know my parent’s faces anywhere—are still recognizable. Still familiar.

The world tilts around me as my vision blurs, my heart hammering against my ribs. My parents. After all this time…it’s them. My arm drops to my side, my feet frozen in place, trembling as they draw nearer—jaws hanging open, blood-smeared lips curled back to expose shattered, jagged teeth.

“Mom...Dad, it's me... it's Farron,” I choke out, tears filling my eyes. “Please. Stop.”

But they don’t stop. They don’t hesitate. My mother’s hands are twisted into claws, her once soft, loving eyes now clouded and empty. Her breath comes in ragged, wet gurgles, and the stench of rot is suffocating. My father’s neck is bent at an unnatural angle, a chunk of flesh missing from his throat. I can see the remnants of his blue flannel shirt, torn and filthy, hanging off him like an afterthought of the man he used to be.

I take a step back, legs shaking, trying to fight the sob that wants to claw its way out of my throat. “Please, it's me... it's your daughter,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Maybe if I say it enough, they’ll remember. Maybe they'll snap out of it, recognize me like in the stories Holden and I used to hear as kids. The ones where love conquered everything, even death.

But I know better. Deep down, I know.

They’re not my parents anymore. They’re something else. I can see it now; the blood caked beneath their fingernails, the putrid smell emanating from their rotten flesh, the emptiness in their eyes. They’re gone. All that’s left is hunger.

My mother lunges at me first, and instinct takes over. I raise my knife just in time, the blade catching her right under the jaw, but it’s too shallow. Too hesitant. I can’t. I can’t bring myself to?—

Her nails dig into my arm, the pain sharp and immediate as I stumble back with a cry. My father is on me next, his cold, dead hands grabbing at my jacket, pulling me closer as his mouth opens wide, aiming for my neck. The sound of his breath, the rasp of decay so close to my ear, sends panic roaring through me. I shove hard, but they’re relentless, the weight of their bodies pressing against mine, dragging me down.

“Stop! Please stop!” I scream, tears streaming down my face as I fight them off. I want to keep pleading, begging them to stop, to remember me, but all that escapes is a ragged sob. My hand trembles violently as I raise the knife again, tears blurring my vision. I slam it into my mother’s chest this time, the blade sinking deep, but it does nothing. She snarls, her head lolling back before snapping forward, teeth gnashing inches from my face. I barely manage to twist out of the way.

My heart pounds wildly, adrenaline surging through my veins. They’re going to kill me.

“Mom! Dad!” My voice cracks, but it’s no use. I know that. I know that these things aren’t them anymore, but I can’t—how can I just?—?

My father’s fingers brush against my cheek, and I feel a cold, slimy sensation crawl down my spine. I scream, driving the knife upward with all my strength, burying it in the side of his head. The impact reverberates through my arm as his body goes slack, crumpling beside me in a grotesque heap. I gasp for air, my chest heaving as I stare down at him, at the mess of black blood and brittle bone.

But it’s not over.

My mother’s still moving. Still coming.

And I know what I have to do.

I clench the knife so tightly it cuts into my palm, blood mixing with the gore already coating my skin. I look into her face—into what’s left of it—and my heart breaks all over again. I try one last time, because I have to, because I’m pleading with every fiber of my being that it’ll work. “Momma, please! It’s me !”

Nothing.

“I'm sorry, Momma,” I whisper, barely audible as she reaches for me, her dead eyes devoid of any recognition.

I plunge the knife into her skull, hard and fast, a strangled cry escaping my throat as she falls to the ground beside my father. Silence follows, thick and suffocating, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I drop to my knees, the knife slipping from my hand and clattering to the floor.

They’re gone. For good.

I can’t feel anything but the crushing weight of my own guilt and sorrow as I stare at the bodies—at what used to be my parents. The people who raised me. Loved me. Protected me. And I killed them. Their blood is literally on my hands.

Tears stream down my face as I sit there, shaking uncontrollably.

But they weren’t my parents anymore.

They weren’t.

I had no choice.

Right?