Had you been in anyone else's steel-toes, you would have punched a hole in the idiot's skull the second he got bit then spilt his carcass out the hatch as though it were a sack of empty cans. Unfortunately, the idiot this time is you, and that is indeed an oval-shaped bite where the heel of your palm used to be. You were the one with the simplest task to fulfill. Marlowe jogged the mile-point-five to town to scavenge, fill the haversack and jog back to your bunker, ducking the undead every yard of the way. Daniels leapt out the hatch once he caught sight of Marlowe and cleared a path among the locals, the zombies that linger outside like strays around a meat packing plant. All you had to do was hold the hatch open until everyone got in safe or you retrieved the haversack, whichever came first. But while you stood there, your hand squeezed into the handle loop, the flesheater known as Gladys leaned out from behind the hatch and bit into your palm as though it were an overripe p...
Del Sol SFF Review is a co-publication of the long running Del Sol Review. We strive to give writers a place to publish quality speculative fiction regardless of type or genre.