Days Later

One.

Two.

Three days.

Three days passed. Television channels died on the second day. The horns on the avenue stopped on the third day. Now the screams reigned. Cars or walking survivors were like sporadic events. You watched everything from your bedroom window.

No news about your aunt. No news about your parents. No news.

Your neighbors stopped turning on the lights. You didn't know if they were being careful like you or if they had just died. You wouldn't go there and check.

You were afraid the food would run out, but there was still enough for a month. Three meals a day and that's it.

Another day passed. You cried a lot that night, realizing that everything you knew was probably destroyed. The people you knew were wandering out there, now cannibal killers.

You lay down to sleep.

At dawn, you heard a noise downstairs. You woke up like a watchdog, alert. The fridge opened! You felt butterflies in your stomach. A survivor! Zombies didn't know how to open the fridge, of course!

You came down to investigate. You had your grandfather's revolver in your pocket, but you were afraid to use it. You didn't even know how to use it.

From the stairs, you spotted a silhouette searching your kitchen. From the shadow, he looked like a man. He had a backpack on his back and a hood hid his face. It was so dark you couldn't see that man's face even without the hood.

“Who are you?” you say, raising the gun at him.

“Oh fuck!” the man stumbles over a chair and falls over the sink. He holds up his hands when he sees the gun. "Calm down! Please!"

Your hands are shaking.

“Don't shoot me! I didn't know there were people here"

"What do you want?"

“I'm looking for food. Please put the gun down. I didn't know the house was occupied, man. I'm leaving.”