Neighbour

Next morning her husband heard a low grunting and moaning at the front door. He looked through the textured glass and saw the blurred figure of his neighbour. What remained of him at least, since the outbreak. He had always moaned. Complained. But now it was literal.

Just standing there, waiting. Swaying, hunched over, like a drunk man. Bony fingers began tapping on the glass.

His wife and daughter started to cry, huddled on the sofa in the living room. His hatred rose again, remembering the troubles of pre outbreak times.

His neighbour's complaining, blaming and threats. After all that he had done for him. Getting his old, broken roof tile fixed, after it had let tonnes of rain into their cavity wall. Making salt come out the bricks. A white stain growing like a cancerous tumour on their only home. Propping up his shoddy fence. Clearing the overgrown jungle next door. And still no gratitude. The toothless, retired lorry driver was fucked in the head anyway. On medication. No excuse. Today was payback time.

He went to the back door and grabbed the shed keys handing on the wall. The heavy axe lay on the garden shed floor. The pitch fork hung on a wall hook. Which to use?

His wife and daughter pleaded with him to stay in. To not go out. To not risk it. They were slow, true, but much stronger than humans.