3. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

What would you do in a Christmas zombie apocalypse?

Once again, I hold my breath as loud moans leak through the cracks in the wooden trapdoor, barred with two long iron bars. walls. Heavy footfalls and the pounding of fists sound above, and I'm suddenly thankful for the basement to hide us, and the strong amount of dust and musky scents to mask our own from the creatures. I let out a light sigh when the noises cease and focus on the small fire that Pete had built in a metal bucket in the middle of the concrete floor. The fire leaps from the curling corners of newspapers set aflame for warmth against the chilly night. The cold stings my bare fingers, which I bury in the folds of my extra-large (I actually think it's a men's) jacket. I look around at the group, all of us strangers. Some cling to each other, either because by some chance they know them, or they just need comfort.

Family is an almost unknown thing in this new world.

I have Pete, one of my dad's fishing buddies. He'd come to check up on my family after the disease broke out, but he was too late for us.

Not me, though, as you can see.

He'd found me curled up in the corner of the pantry, blood on my hands, knees, and cheeks, a gun with an emptied magazine in my grip. A girl, in a house empty save three rotting corpses. 

I watch from my spot against the cold wall as two girls, both maybe thirteen or fourteen, cover their ears so as not to hear the moans from above. I glance at Pete, noticing his gaze is on them as well. Then he does something I almost don't expect.

But I know Pete.

And I remember that tonight is Christmas Eve.

Pete opens his mouth to speak, or, better, sing.

"Hark! the herald angels sing 'Glory to the newborn King'."

I listen as he continues to sing, the words along with his southern accent sounding better from his lips than any church choir. Others join in, timidly, then growing stronger, louder. Brave tears trickle down bloody, dirty cheeks.

Probably because it was only a matter of time before each of us turn into the things hammering against the wooden walls protecting us.