Joe the Lumberjack: One Last Chop

You ever get that feeling where the world just decides to screw you over? Yeah, that’s where I am right now. Knox County, middle of nowhere, Kentucky. Used to be a nice place. Quiet. Good trees. Good beer. Now? Just zombies. A whole lotta zombies.

And me, Joe. Lumberjack by trade, unlucky bastard by fate. I’ve been wandering through these woods for days, trying to stay ahead of the hordes. Lucky for me, I found this house today. A decent one, too, by post-apocalyptic standards. A roof that doesn’t leak, windows mostly intact, and—get this—a couple cans of beans still in the pantry. Jackpot.

I pop open one of the cans with my pocketknife and eat it cold. Cold beans. Hell of a meal for a guy who used to make killer steaks on the grill. But hey, not dying of hunger counts as a win these days.

I lean back in the rickety chair, staring out the dirty window. The sun’s going down, casting that orangey glow across the yard. You know the one that makes you feel nostalgic for simpler times? Like, when the biggest worry was if you were gonna catch TRL before dinner. Now, my biggest worry is whether a zombie’s gonna chew my face off while I sleep.

I give a sigh and wipe some sweat off my brow. Gotta secure this place before dark, or I’ll be dinner for some undead freak. The kitchen’s empty except for the beans, but hey, I’m not picky these days. I’ve learned to eat whatever, kill whatever, and feel nothing. It’s how you get by now.

I grab my axe from where it leans against the wall. This thing? This thing’s my best friend. Saved me more times than I can count. Nothing quite like a good chop to the skull to make you feel like a goddamn superhero.

So, I board up the windows with whatever scraps I can find—broken chairs, busted doors, you name it. Might not hold for long, but it’ll keep me breathing another night. At least that’s the plan.

Just as I finish jamming a chair against the back door, I hear it. That low, moaning sound that’s become the soundtrack of my life lately. It starts soft, but it’s getting closer. Great. Just great. Can’t even enjoy my gourmet beans in peace.

I peek out through the crack in the boards. Yeah, there they are. A group of ‘em, probably five or six, shambling their way up the street like they’re on some demented parade float. Faces all slack, skin hanging off in chunks. Real charming.

“Seriously?” I mutter. “You guys can’t leave a guy alone for one night?”

I tighten my grip on the axe. It’s just me and this beat-up old house. One lumberjack versus a bunch of brain-hungry freaks. Story of my life, right?

The first one reaches the window, pressing its rotting face against the glass. Half its nose is gone, and its eye’s dangling by a thread. Lovely. I swear, every time I see one of these things up close, I think, Yeah, this world’s gone to shit.

I wait for the inevitable—CRASH—the window shatters, and the zombie lunges through, arms flailing like it’s gonna win a prize. I plant my feet, swing the axe, and—THUNK—its head pops like a melon.

Blood splatters across the floor, thick and black like oil, and the thing crumples. But more are coming. Of course they are. Why wouldn’t they?

“Alright, let’s do this,” I mutter, stepping back as another zombie claws its way through the broken window. I swing again, burying the axe deep into its neck. The body convulses, twitching as it slumps to the floor.

But they keep coming. One by one, they shove their way through the breach. I back up toward the stairs, but my options are running out. I can’t hold them off forever, and more are gathering outside.

I bolt up the stairs, slamming the door behind me. That should buy me a few minutes. But, who am I kidding? A few minutes is all I’m gonna get.

I catch my breath, my back against the door. The moaning’s getting louder, closer. The sound of fists banging against the wood, splintering it. My heart’s pounding now, harder than it ever did when I was just chopping wood for a living.

I glance around the room. The windows up here are broken too, which means I’m screwed. Maybe I could jump. Break a leg, sure, but better than having it chewed off.

But, nah. It’s too high, and I’m not that lucky. The banging at the door gets louder. The wood’s giving way.

This is it.

“Well, ain’t this just a bag of dicks,” I mutter to no one. I tighten my grip on the axe and brace myself. “If I’m going out, I’m going out swinging.”

The door splinters, and the first zombie pushes through. I swing with everything I’ve got, the axe slicing through its skull, but another one’s right behind it. Then another. And another.

They swarm me, grabbing at my arms, my legs, my chest. I hack one down, but there’s no stopping them. My foot slips in the blood, and I crash to the floor, losing my grip on the axe. It skids out of reach, and that’s when I feel it—the first bite. Sharp. Deep. Teeth sinking into my arm.

“Son of a—” I scream, but another one grabs my leg, tearing at the flesh. Blood pours from the wounds, and I try to kick them off, but it’s no use. They’re on me, pulling me apart like a pack of wolves.

I’m screaming now. Can’t help it. The pain’s too much. My skin’s ripping, muscles tearing. One of them’s got my arm in its mouth, chewing through like I’m a steak. Another’s digging its claws into my chest, peeling away the skin like they’re opening a gift.

I feel it—the moment my body gives up. The pain’s still there, but it’s distant now, fading. I’m staring up at the ceiling, gasping for air. The last thing I see is one of them leaning over me, its face just inches from mine, teeth gnashing.

And then everything goes black.

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The End