It had been years since Jack had been within the walls of his now ruined home. The memories had not disappeared, however. Each room held many memories that were dear to him, a final testament to the seventeen years he had spent surviving with his son in the hellish world.
He stepped through the space that had been torn through the oak door. He gazed in reverence to the remnants of the attack that had occurred so many years ago. Dried blood coated patches of ground and had spattered parts of the walls, shards of broken glass lay on the ground near the broken down windows, and a few nearly decomposed corpses littered the main hallway.
Jack walked down the hallway, stepping over the bodies. His eyes shifted into the rooms to his left and right as he slowly walked down the hall. Those rooms were unscathed… Those monstrosities hadn't gone through there. They hadn't had to.
Hesitantly, he stopped at the third door on the right. His son's room. Jack turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly. The stench and sight of a group of rotting corpses assaulted his senses, but they paled in comparison to the magnitude of which the sight of the corpse sitting in the middle of the pile struck him.
Amongst the carnage, the body of his son sat. His torso had been torn open by the undead assailants, his body was riddled with bite marks and chunks of missing flesh, and a bent, bloodied bat was clutched firmly within his right hand. Within moments, his son stirred. He raised his head and gazed at his father. He rose to his feet.
Jack reached into his coat pocket, dreading the task that needed to be done. He drew his revolver, cocked back the hammer, and aimed it at his undead son's head.
As his son let out a bestial scream, Jack said, with tears in his eyes, "I love you, son."
He pulled the trigger.
