Did you say something? I was busy looking for my ear!

Old man must be slipping in his old age, he never misses his target. I am thankful that my head is still on my shoulders, but I can’t hear and it feels like the contents of my skull are leaking out the side of my head where I used to have an ear. Once I dropped I stayed there waiting for the kill shot or response from my dad. There was nothing for what seemed like and hour, in all reality I think it was actually about a minute or two but time drags when your brain feels like it trying to push out of your head. I crawl up to the house and call out to the old man again. “Pop, I’m coming in!” I make my way into the house and the stench of body rot is overwhelming. Pop has been busy, there were at least 40 bodies with huge holes through their heads; a result of being shot with a .50 caliber hand cannon. No sign of my dad anywhere in the house so I make my way to the garage. The house has a 4 car garage with a full size attic above it that is larger that most people’s houses. I check the attic and find that someone has definitely been living here. Rations and water bottles around a sleeping bag and lantern. As I am pilfering through the attic there is a loud noise from the garage and then a gunshot. I run down the stairs and throw open the garage door to see my dad standing over a lifeless body with the smoking cannon in hand. “You all right Pop?” He looks me square in the eye and shakes his head then drops his eyes to the floor. Following his gaze I see it, a good portion of flesh missing from his left calf. “I’m sorry I shot you son. I lost my glasses and I tried to pull the second shot once I saw the hat through the scope. Perhaps it will make it easier for you.”
“NO! You’ve survived war, cancer, and raising me! You cannot go out this way!”
“Don’t really have a choice son.”
“Let’s lock this place down and you can tell me the whole story!”
I helped him get the fresh one out the door and we close up the garage and headed to the attic. Once in the attic he started his story…
The day that the reports started airing on the news I had my suspicions that what my son has been so animate about for most of his life was coming true. He spoke of people that would die from the bites of humans and of the dead rising to feed on the living. People were starting to die from being bit by crazed people. I never thought that he would be right. I knew things were bad when the Army declared Marshall Law and did my best to prepare, but it was too little too late. Those things, I believe Quenton called them zombies, had already made it into my home. It started when Barbara, my wife, made a foolish trip to get her daughter Mindy. Mindy had been bitten while riding the city bus to her job and was near death by the time Barbara got her to the house. Barbara never left her side and tried everything to keep her alive. During Mindy’s decline I racked my brain trying to remember what my son had told me if confronted with this situation. She survived only two days before she stopped breathing, and only stayed dead for five minutes. Barbara was so upset that her daughter had died she was hysterical and refused to let me remove the body; this lead to her death. When Mindy reanimated the first thing she did was tear a chunk of flesh out the neck of her own mother. I heard the commotion and busted in the room to see Mindy feeding on the motionless body on my wife. At that very moment the words of my son rushed into my head and I remembered what he said, “Once a person dies from the bite the only way to stop them is to put a bullet in their head or damage the brain. Don’t hesitate when the zombie are loved ones or friends, because they are no longer that person and will kill you if given the chance.” I slammed the door back shut and went for my gun. I returned to the room with my Colt 45 in hand, ready to handle what had to be done. I flung the door open to find Mindy and Barbara both poised to attack and with two squeezes of the trigger they were both on the floor motionless. I spent the next few weeks defending my home from the masses of undead that seemed to increase everyday. Explosions and screaming from all around the community forcing flashbacks of Vietnam. The neighbors had tried to high tail it to safety in a Mack truck only to end up taking out half my house and severely compromising my safety. With the main area of the house with a gaping hole in it I made camp in the attic. It was rough but I continued to survive.
Pop laid it all out on the table and didn’t leave out any detail up to the point of me showing up. Earlier, before my arrival, he had been attacked and bitten on his leg. We continued to talk and reminisce until he started having trouble breathing. I gathered his weapons and ammo and whatever food I could carry and waited for him to pass. I was forced to watch the man that raised me, the man I admired, the man I looked to support, the man I loved die. With his last breath he told me he loved me and was proud of me and that he was sorry he never listened to my warnings, I told him I loved him too and with tears flowing down my cheeks I put a bullet in his head…