Fist Fighting the Undead (Cont.) VI

T. Maxwell-Harrison
2 min readJul 11, 2022

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I woke in the moist barn as daylight beamed through the cracked wooden barn door. Bird song and warm air whispered into the stuffy environment, and awakened my senses. Last night was hard, I passed out after I ran for my life, the woman was consumed by the dead. I glance at my fists, covered in blood and my jumper stained red. The barn smelt of cow shit and fresh cut grass, as balls of hay sat untouched as they had done likely for many months.

How long can I go on? I thought to myself. But I pushed myself to my feet in the hope I’d have enough energy, but my stomach plummeted and my heart raced as I pushed forward through a haze of silver streaks as they flickered in my vision. ‘Damn,’ I commented as I pushed through the barn door, it’s wood wet, soft from the harsh British rain. Outside, the sun beat down on my dry face and the grass rustled as wind rushed over it. A few corpses lay in the grass, scattered, random as I made my way around the right side of the barn.

I see a distant town glow under the sun, I see the church spire and the intricate structures of multi storey flat blocks. Whatever awaits me over the hill, whether undead, alive or worse, I was ready to challenge it. I had no supplies and I was low on hope. I missed the woman, and her brief contact with me and how she held me in the tent. But I had to move on, my heart a little heavier but my spirit infinitely strong in will. ‘God, bring me some strength,’ I proclaimed and I set forth and limped through the field, toward town.

Thanks for reading this episode. It is a bridge between the first part and second part which will see our main character in the town. It will also be the concluding part of the short story. 😇 🧟‍♂️

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T. Maxwell-Harrison

A writer of horror and zombie apocalypse fiction among others.