My stomach growled.
Hungry, again? I shuffled towards a small house, a light flickering in the distance. The dry leaves under my feet crunched and cracked, and I was reminded of a loose bag of chips I had found the other day. So good... Sure, there was a little of a Spitter's spit on it, but who was I to get picky? As I started to walk uphill towards the cottage ahead, I myself spit to get rid of the nasty glob of God-knows-what accumulating in my mouth. Gross! My human self would have shrieked. Nas-ty! I chuckled. Nasty was my new skill, being what I was now: A fat, nasty Infected, whose pastime was vomiting on others. I reached the front door and shoved my weight against it. The door cracked and broke, and I walked inside. Kitchen... kitchen... Where was the stupid kitchen? A strange gurgle came from my stomach, and I scowled. Back before the Infection, people had avoided me, calling me names like "Fatty!" and "Burger Boy!", shoving past me in the halls and making disgusted faces when I passed by. I laughed heartily. Now look at them! Skinny, screaming freaks that ran towards me and tried to eat my barf, adoring worshipers of my godly vomit. Hah! I spotted the familiar shape of a beat-up refrigerator out of the corner of my eye. I quickly walked over and pulled it open. Numerous fruits, a bowl of salad, some half-filled bottles of water, and a couple cups of yogurt grinned back at me.
"Ergh!" I kicked at the fridge. Healthy food! Where was the good stuff? I grabbed a cup of yogurt and it broke in my hand, the creamy mush spilling onto my wart-filled fingers. I brought the cup to my mouth and licked up the tasteless garbage: at least I had something to eat. I ripped open the cabinets and looked for something- anything -better than this health-freak crap.
I froze when I heard voices coming from outside the house.
Survivors? Not this far away from the main city! I shuffled to a nearby closet and hid inside, thankful that this was a closet larger than the rest. The voices became clearer, and I had to come up with an escape plan. Should I just vomit on them and run? Let them shoot me? Run? The floorboards of the house creaked as they came inside.
"God, I hope there's food here. I'm starving."
They walked into the kitchen and started to look through the refrigerator and cabinets. They cheered at the sight of the healthy snacks, and I groaned inside my head. Maybe if I had laid off the burgers, I wouldn't be so damn picky with healthy food. Suddenly, the worst thing that could possibly happen, happened.
I let out a fart.
Yes, that's right, I picked the most amazing time to let out a toot. You should have seen what the kids at my school did when I farted: screams of horror, laughter, taunts, fake faints. But these guys weren't kids. They were gun toting, merciless Survivors that knew exactly what zombies did what, and how to fight till the bitter end. They grew quiet, and my stomach let out another gurgle. I could hear them creep towards my closet, and the familiar ch-chink of a gun. That's it, I'm through. So long, McDonald's fries, sweet onion rings, cold Cokes. I let out one final, perfectly timed burp and-
The screech of a Hunter echoed through the air. The Survivors turned around to face the second zombie and I stumbled out of the closet, letting out a disgusting wave of vomit in their direction. The girl screamed, and her yelp was followed by the screams of a hoard of Infected. Jeez, those things could smell barf a mile away! I edged around them- they couldn't see me due to the blanket of fluid covering their faces -and I shuffled out the back door of the house, thankful for my escape. Maybe it was time to lay off the junk food.