No way would you want to get close enough to take on the undead with a machete. You decide you'd rather have long distance protection.

The hunting rifle is tucked safely in the back of your parents' closet. After retrieving it, you slide open the drawer where your father keeps a stock of bullets. There are a couple heavy boxes, another lighter. Your sure the heavier ones are full, which is a good sign.

It's been a long time since you've shot a gun. Your dad showed you how when you were younger. He took you hunting once or twice, but you never showed much interest in the sport. It always seemed a lot more fun to shoot things that didn't really die with a video game controller from inside, than to shoot actual living creatures with a real gun outdoors.

By luck, you remember how to load the gun, and good thing you do, because you can hear the undead's croaking groans gaining volume.

You dart to the window. Three gruesome undead are limping your way. They're like nothing you've ever seen before. They are so mangled, you wonder if they were chewed and torn by other undead. If so, then more undead must be near. But no others are in sight from view of any window you've checked.

Slowly, you slide the window nearest the undead open. It squeaks slightly, causing your nerves to peak, sending adrenaline coursing through your limbs. The air carries the rank of filth and rot through the slit you've created. It's almost enough to make you vomit again. You slide the nose of the rifle through, and aim at a gruesome pea green toned zombie.

Your first shot rings out like a sonic boom, deafeningly loud in the silence of your death ridden neighborhood. It completely misses the target. The kick, unexpected in strength, has knocked you a little off balance. Cursing out loud, you assume your position and take aim again.

You notice five zombies now, where you had only three to deal with before. The new two seem just as mangled and equally as ravenous. You sigh but keep your mind on the target for the time being.

This time, the crack of the gun doesn't surprise your ears as much. Dust flies as the charging bullet strikes the undead in the left shoulder. Of course, the undead doesn't register the damage in the slightest; it continues to stalk toward your house, somehow more urgently.

You fire again, and it goes down, crawls an inch or two and stops moving.

You pick out another undead from the six now approaching your yard. You manage to take out its leg and it goes down. Since its slowed down generously, you move on, not wasting any time.

BOOM - one more dead.

Three more have joined the ranks.

You reload, beginning to grow more anxious by each new undead.

Just knock them down one at a time, you keep telling yourself silently.

BOOM - another gone.

They're getting so close. You're starting to smother in anxiety, but you fight through.

BOOM - another.

You hear violent thumping and cracking on the side of the house, and urgency sets off an alarm in your brain. It's getting harder to focus.

BOOM - miss.

Five more come out of nowhere.

BOOM - miss.

BOOM - this sound sends shivers down your spine, because it isn't your gun; it came from behind you.

You spin around to see an undead lurk around a wall corner.

BOOM - it falls. Another comes behind it.

CLICK.

CLICK.

You realize with a spike of terror that you're out of bullets. As you fumble to reload, the undead comes too close. You strike it with the butt of the gun and knock it down, but there are more behind it. So many that you are tragically taken over . . . .