Dont talk to me about zombies before bed

It's Christmas. There are baubles, holly, strings of decorations up, a festive tree, lights on the porch. My family is all around me, a simmering wood stove embracing the kitchen and everyone in it. I am holding a seething, twitching child's head to the floor, as he bleeds from his eyes and mouth. I speak calmly and reassuringly to him - it's ok, darling. It will be okay. My other hand holds a snarling puppy to the floor in the same manner. It too has crusted blood around its bloodshot eyes like half dried tears, darkening flaking blood on its gums. His eyes roll sideways, baring their whites as he strains to look at me. My sister looks at the child on the floor. It's OK, she echoes, spooning cereal into a baby's mouth. Auntie Charlie is a Bitey too. Around the warm & inviting kitchen, several small children & pets stare silently at the room, their faces all but concealed under purple and silver duct tape, burning bloody eyes the only evidence of what they are. Biters. We tape up the ones on the floor, and wash the hands of the curious child who had removed their tape, and will probably join them within a day or two. I think of Christmas, and carry on.

It's not our house. We are running. We carry all that we can, and leave everything else. The plague is taking more people every day. Few, like Charlie, are only carriers - they feel no mindless urge to bite, just exhibit the darkened, crusted eyes and mouth. Most are lost to it. The children we try to save, neutralised with duct tape. We cannot bear to leave them behind.