"Daddy, Please...."

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: BoMoWriCha Prompts
We all know what to expect from a zombie apocalypse, don't we? Inspired by a challenge at the BoMoWriCha Prompt House.

Submitted: February 19, 2019

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Submitted: February 19, 2019

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Daddy, Please...”

We’d all watched the programmes, the movies. We’d been scared by them, laughed at them, certain that such a thing as a zombie apocalypse was nothing more than a flight into horror-based fantasy. It couldn’t happen, wouldn’t happen, and even if it did, we’d seen so much stuff about it that we’d know how to cope. Such a thing would be brought to a very swift end and we’d all live happily ever after.

The thing is that sometimes they get things wrong, the ones that imagine these outbreaks, these zombies, these man-eating, disease-spreading threats. If you are being threatened by an animal of some sort, you’d be able to fight back, wouldn’t you? Or a stranger, an adult, maybe even a member of your own family. If it meant your survival, you’d be able to fight against any adult, wouldn’t you?

But what if it was a child? Your child? Could you be brutal in your own self-defence?

It happened quite suddenly, spread very quickly. No one suspected a thing when children suddenly started to fight, to bite; some of them had always been known to do that, hadn’t they? It just needed a bit of firm discipline, that’s all. Who was to do it though, when the parents, the teachers, any adult that came within range was bitten, became swiftly ill and died.

That was the strange thing. Not one of the adults turned in to zombies. They just sickened, died and nourished in a very different way to what they had ever expected. There was never much left after a few days, only bones.

Even babies carried the virus, toddlers who had not yet mastered the ability to walk. Teenagers too, but we’d all learned to be a bit wary of them anyway due to adolescent volatility.

We couldn’t do it. We could not carry out the slaughter needed to cut off the infection while it was still sufficiently localised. And like all epidemics, it spread so quickly that very soon it was a global pandemic and there were way too few adults to fight back remaining.

It’s quiet at the moment but I know I’m going to hear the banging on the door soon. She’s out there, my daughter, five years old and way more dangerous than any rabid dog. I should move away from the door, keep my distance. I should plug up my ears, deafen myself to her pleading voice. I know all this and yet I can’t do it.

I feel the thud as much as hear it. She must have her scooter out there now and be riding it backwards and forwards into the door. Every parental impulse in my body screams out for me to stop her; she’s going to get hurt. It’s a fight I have to go through constantly, to keep silent, which is stupid anyway as she seems totally oblivious to pain.

I can hold out against her. I know I can; well, I think I can. At least until the crying starts, and the pitiful voice begs, “Daddy, please...!”


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