Jamie Thomas, 16 Jul '12

The overnight rain had washed most of the blood from the streets, and then lingered on, drizzling into the early morning. The blood disappearing down drains would have been a good thing, if only the rain had taken the bodies with it. Instead, they lay motionless on the streets. Without the signs of blood and gore, the dead could have been sleeping.

Martha let the blind fall back into place slowly, and backed away from her vantage point at the window. There were three still alive out there. This would be easier than the battle of last night, but it still wouldn't be a cake walk. She picked up her gun and weighed it in her hands. 9 bullets left. Well, 8 if she saved the last one.

Don't think about that alternative, she chided herself.

As she turned back to the window, she caught sight of her own distorted reflection, hanging in the mirror above the fireplace. Her matted blonde hair was tied up behind her head, hiding the fact that clumps had been torn off in one of her many scuffles with the walking enemies she faced everyday. Her skin had turned pale with fear, although in certain lights it made her look sallow and sickly. Her face was gaunt and drawn, craving nourishment and happiness. Her black coat was zipped up to her chin, but even this was tattered and torn, ripped and spattered with splotches of blood that blended in with the dark fabric. She allowed her eyes to meet the eyes that stared back at her through the dirty mirror. They seemed deadened, miserable, sunken into her dark eye sockets. Darkened through bruising and lack of sleep.

This so called "apocalypse" had changed Martha beyond repair. One of her close friends had said "Why live, if we are making monsters out of ourselves to live in a world of monsters?". The friend then shot herself. Martha couldn't even remember her name.

Sick of herself, she turned and began cleaning the gun. Her spindly fingers worked the gun's cool metal like she had been doing it all her life, and she had learnt not to wince too much as the dry chapped skin on her hands cracked with the movements. She loaded in the clip and tested the weight in her hands once more. When satisfied with her prized possession, she pulled the blind aside and unlocked the window.

As the window swung outwards, the three zombies turned their attention on her. Death rattles escaped from their throats as they lurched forward, hungrily. Martha took a deep breath and aimed her trusty gun.