NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The farmhouse smells of damp cedar and stale floor wax. Rain drums against the rotting shingles like a frantic heartbeat, while thunder rattles the window panes.

Suddenly, the front door groans under a heavy impact, and a splintering crack echoes through the hallway. A new figure, a man with a wild beard named Miller, rushes into the room, gasping for air.

Seth steps toward the center of the kitchen, his AK-47 leveled at the threshold, while the air thickens with the scent of ozone and encroaching dread. Elena drops to her knees, tearing at the hidden floorboards with frantic, precise movements. Miller slides into position, his knuckles white as he grips his handgun. The wood of the front door groans again, yielding to the pressure outside as a shadow creeps into the light of the hallway.

Seth’s voice is a low, rhythmic vibration. The front door shudders under a heavy impact, the frame splintering further as a boot kicks through the rotted wood. Outside, guttural murmurs rise in volume, signaling the swarm has reached the threshold. Seth tracks the movement in the shadows of the hallway, his finger curling over the trigger guard of the AK-47. Miller kneels behind the kitchen island, his pistol leveled at the gap. Elena pulls the iron ring of the cellar hatch upward, the heavy wood grinding against the floor as it finally gives way to reveal the dark, narrow descent into the tunnel. A figure lunges through the splintered doorway, its silhouette framed by the harsh midday sun.

Seth does not hesitate. As the silhouette breaches the threshold, he squeezes the trigger in a controlled, fluid burst. The muzzle of the AK-47 flashes, and the intruder drops instantly, clearing the path for a split second. Miller fires twice over the island, his shots clipping the shoulder of a second runner behind the first, sending them stumbling back into the light. The farmhouse vibrates under the weight of the encroaching horde. Elena holds the hatch wide, her knuckles white against the iron.

The sound of tearing wood grows deafening. A swarm of hands reaches through the splintered door frame, clawing at the empty air where the first attacker fell. Elena gestures frantically toward the dark, yawning mouth of the cellar hatch.

Seth lunges forward, his movements precise and practiced. He kicks the lead corpse aside, snatching a tactical belt and a high-capacity magazine from the vest before pivoting back toward the hatch.

Seth tosses the scavenged gear into the dark opening, then swings his legs over the threshold. The floorboards moan under the combined weight of the intruders, the wood splintering inward like dry parchment. Elena is already halfway down the ladder, her boots scraping against the stone. Miller lunges for the hatch, his hand outstretched as the frame above begins its final collapse.