The log cabin sat within a small clearing of the Catskill Mountains, two miles north of the minute town of Roscoe, New York. The hamlet, at one time, had been a resting point for travelers, its location just off Route 17, a busy highway used by people traveling from New York City to Binghamton. The nearby, Beaverkill River, combined with the cabin’s wood stove, supplied drinkable water. The water had to boil at least twenty minutes, making sure all contaminants were killed off.

Two beds stood off in the far right corner of the bungalow, separated by a nightstand made from tree limbs. Each bed had a down pillow and two wool blankets, keeping the occupants warm during the wintry nights.

Although it normally snowed during the month of January, an unlikely rain shower hit the area. The roof was watertight, the recent downpour proving the inside dry.

The cabin was stocked with food. Canned goods, jarred vegetables, beef jerky, pasta shells and oatmeal filled the shelves in the underground basement, a roughly dug out pit beneath the cabin. A red Oriental style throw-rug covered the hidden door leading to the food supply.

Bill and his daughter, Riley, were blessed to have found the place, wondering for the first few days if the original owners would show. They never did. Bill approximated the food would last about three months between the two of them. They would dig in, rest for a spell, at least until the harsh winter ended. That was all before Bill became infected, having less than a few days to live.

The infection was spreading rapidly. He’d dug a grave, fifty feet from the cabin, as soon as he came back from town. His right arm was chalky white and cracked with purple veins by the time he went to bed. He’d been bitten while scouting the nearby town. It had seemed vacant, like most others this far north, but a group of the crazed ones had been hiding out in one of the desolated stores.

The living dead became docile, like a computer monitor switching to sleep mode, as if conserving power. Bill never understood why they needed energy. They were dead, after all. Maybe it was the whole energy could never be destroyed concept. Basic science taught how energy was never destroyed, only converted to another form. Maybe the living dead needed energy the way a living thing did. Maybe that’s why their eyes glowed.

Not much was known about the human brain, even in the year 2015, but for some reason it functioned in the dead. You could blow a zombie’s brains out, but you’d better make sure the brain-eye connection was severed. They had an eerie, radiant-like quality as if the eyes held the source of power. Usually a shot to the head was enough to sever the connection, but taking out the eyes themselves was a sure way to stop them.

Bill had entered four stores, looking for supplies, during his time in town when the fifth proved fatal. Four zombies sprang at him like hungry hyenas on a weakened prey.

He’d managed to take out three with his .30-30 rifle, his speed and former military training proving handy. The fourth, however, grabbed him. Man and zombie wrestled, slamming into walls and thrashing about, sending empty bottles and cardboard boxes sailing. During the struggle, Bill dropped the rifle, his hand slipping up high and grazing the creature’s mouth. He felt the nauseous sting of rotten, infected teeth puncture his skin. The zombie held on like a pitbull, biting down with ferocious force, taking a large chunk of Bill’s fleshy hand.

He needed to chop off his infected arm before it managed to spread, but the zombie was done with its bite and wanted more.

Bill dove, grabbed his rifle from the floor and managed to get the weapon under the creatures jaw. He pulled the trigger and sent a splattering of brain and skull matter to the ceiling. The zombie’s left eye went dim, but the right was still aglow. The creature attacked, slamming its fist into Bill’s temple as he got another shot off, blasting its right eye to hell. The creature slumped to the floor like it was made of blubber, but the impact from its punch sent Bill flying backwards. He bashed his head against the countertop’s jagged edge, knocking him unconscious.

He awoke four hours later, amputation of the infected area no longer an option. The sickness had had enough time to spread throughout his body.

The disease was spread through the blood stream, killing cells as it traveled. He’d bandaged it, hoping there was a chance he’d be okay, but that evening his joints were already aching. By the next morning he found it difficult to move his limbs, experiencing the beginnings of living rigor mortis. He hadn’t told his daughter, the thought of her alone in the world was horrifying.

Since the planet’s initial outbreak, in 2013, Bill had been keeping a journal of their travels, sights and methods of survival. Since returning from town, he’d spent his time writing down everything he could for his daughter. Every military tip he could think of, adding precise details for fishing, boiling water, cooking meat, and hunting. Tears fell on the paper as he wrote blurring some of the words.

When she was awake, he spent every second near her while teaching her the basics self preservation and giving her as much love as he could. She was only twelve.

She had asked him why his hair was falling out. If he was feeling all right and why he looked so weak, each time telling her not to worry, he’d be okay.

Alone the food would last her eight months. He’d already taught her how to shoot; a necessity for surviving in a world gone to hell. Her shoulder, from practicing over time, had hardened making the rifle’s impact no longer a problem. Bill’s time was up.

“Daddy’s going away,” he said, her azure eyes locking onto his. He stared into the extension of himself, the female version. Her silky dark hair hanging off her shoulders like Angel Hair spaghetti.

“When will you be back?” she asked, gripping his hand, worried.

Bill was sweating, the fever reaching delirium levels.

“I’m sick, baby. I don’t have any time left.” He paused, holding back tears. “Everything is prepared, a bit rushed but ready, nonetheless. You don’t have to worry about food or water for some time.

Bill’s head ached as if a hammer pounded at it. He was having a difficult time concentrating. “Wait here,” he said, getting up off the bed. He walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall, his reflection sickening, as if staring into the face of a severely burned radiation victim. His hair was almost gone as strands poked about in patches. Blackened teeth lined his bleeding gums, his eyes sunken in and hollowed out revealing the skull beneath. The face he looked upon so many mornings was now an unfamiliar gaunt mess, void of color as beads of sweat lined his skin.

“I have to go now,” he said, turning to his daughter. He was amazed at how little she’d asked about his condition as it worsened hour by hour. She had believed him when he told her not to worry.

“No, Daddy,” Riley cried, jumping off the bed, running to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. Bill let her have her last good-bye before pushing her away.

“I love you, Riley. Always and forever.” Bill turned, grabbed the rifle, knife attached to his belt, and left, closing the door behind him.

He limped, brushing aside prickly pines and bare branches, leaving a dogged trail through the snow covered forest. His right leg dragging as it refused his commands. When he made it to the grave he turned and stood with his back to it.

If done correctly he should fall backwards, collapsing and breaking through the branches he placed across the hole. The forest leaves, twigs and other debris should cover him enough. He didn’t want his daughter burying him or seeing his dead body when she came for the rifle. He’d left her with the .38 Snubnose revolver. A nice piece for close encounters, but she’d need the rifle for hunting and long ranged defense.

Bill picked up a small branch and bit down on it before raising the knife to his left eye and jabbing himself with the tip. The eyeball ruptured, its juices exploding like a jelly filled balloon. He moaned, wanting to scream from shear terror, but his daughter might hear.

With blood and eye fluid leaking down his cheek, he spit out the piece of wood. He placed the rifle against his good eye and pulled the trigger, knowing his daughter would be fine.

The End

Bio: When David isn’t writing horror, he’s usually reading or watching it (yes, especially the direct to DVD ones). Cola and pizza are what give him the energy to write deep into the early hours of the morning. MMO games and watching baseball are always lurking around corners like good old fashion boogeymen with chocolate ice-cream, using their transitive powers to pull him away from his work.