Fist Fighting the Undead (Cont.) Part V

T. Maxwell-Harrison
2 min readJul 9, 2022

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I ran so hard through the muddy overgrown field that by the time I caught the woman up my legs burned lactic acid and my heart raced. I was never that unfit. My fists bloodied and my arms ached from the beating I’d inflicted upon the dead.

“I can’t see a thing,” I said, but she ignored me, her barely illuminated face grimaced back.

“You’re dragging me down,” she responded coldly. Sure, and I could leave and she could leave me but in the end of days where the dead walked it wasn’t good to go separate ways!

Grrr, a creature snarled behind me and the woman lunged forward and smacked it around the head, I heard its skull crunch and it slumped into the grass. More undead groaned around us, I saw faint silhouettes surround us barely visible under the moonlight. She screamed and I jumped in an attempt to pull her back, but the undead are strong and their thin boned hands grasp too tight for me to do anything as they lurched and wrestled my new partner to the ground and pounced upon her weak body. “No,” I cried. She wept and sobbed and then screamed as I watched her be pulled into a pitch black group of undead. My fists only so strong, left-right-left-right, pound and punch and kick to no avail.

I ran, and I ran with all my might as if the sun were about to rise and liberate my soul. She had been devoured as quick as I’d met her. Gone in the blink of an eye. I pant and gasp as my legs pummel through the field, and I took a moment to glance back but distant pain echoed through the cold night. I see more outlines ahead, and dart through the wooden door of some old barn I cannot see, only to fall into a stack of hay. My mind whirled, my chest heaved and my heart sank. My eyes sagged and eyelids closed as blood rushed from my head.

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T. Maxwell-Harrison

A writer of horror and zombie apocalypse fiction among others.