After what felt like an eternity, I finally stumbled onto Nehring Avenue, the familiar street just around the corner from Bowdoin Street.
My body was barely holding together, bloodied and battered from the relentless attacks of zombies gnawing at me, their bites tearing away more of my flesh bit by bit.
I was at my limit, teetering on the edge of death.
My vision blurred, swimming in and out of focus, and consciousness became a tenuous thread I struggled to hold onto.
Then, it happened again—my vision turned a golden hue. But this time, it didn't fade. It stayed, washing over everything like a distorted, otherworldly filter.
Through the haze, I saw it—the same humanoid figure from my dreams. Blood coated its spectral form as it perched silently on a pole, its gaze locked onto me.
It did nothing but stare.
I ignored it, forcing myself forward. The door to my house was unlocked—a small mercy in this nightmare.
I stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind me to keep the horde at bay.
For a moment, I collapsed against the door, breathing heavily as I tried to regain what little strength I had left.
My blood still poured freely, yet, strangely, I wasn't dying.
Despite the wounds, despite the blood loss, I remained alive.
The confusion nagged at me, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. I pushed myself to my feet, trembling, my voice hoarse as I called out.
"Mom! Mom! Where are you!?"
I limped through the house, my bloody footsteps trailing behind me.
The idols of gods on the shelves fell as I knocked against them, my unsteady frame causing everything to tumble. Blood dripped onto the fallen relics, staining them crimson.
Another wave of nausea hit me, and I vomited blood, collapsing briefly against the stairs. I gritted my teeth, fighting to stay conscious.
Then I saw her.
She emerged from the shadows, moving slowly, her steps unsteady and unnatural. My mother.
At first, I struggled to see her clearly through the golden haze clouding my vision, but I knew.
I knew it was her.
The decapitated body of a zombie lay nearby, evidence of a fight she must have won. But the victory had cost her everything. She had been bitten. She had turned.
"Mom..."
The word fell from my lips like a prayer, or perhaps a curse.
Cold despair gripped me, freezing me in place.
My mind broke under the weight of what I was seeing. I couldn't process it, couldn't accept it.
My mother—the one person I was fighting to protect, the one I had risked everything for—was gone.
If I hadn't stopped to help those people... if I had been faster... maybe she would still be alive.
She must have been waiting for me, hoping I'd save her. And I failed.
I failed as a daughter.
She staggered closer, her once warm, loving eyes now lifeless and clouded. I raised a trembling hand, pressing it to her forehead to keep her from coming any closer.
Behind me, the groans of the undead grew louder as the horde outside began to gather, their fists pounding against the walls and windows.
But I couldn't move. I was paralyzed, staring at what had become of her.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.
But all I could feel was a hollow, all-consuming rage.
The pain in my head intensified, a sharp, ringing agony that seemed to split my skull.
My vision began to shift, the golden hue growing sharper and more vivid. I didn't even notice that the wounds on my neck, chest, and missing arm had stopped bleeding.
Hatred consumed me.
"These monsters will pay," I muttered, my voice low and venomous.
The life I had known—perfectly normal, painfully mundane—had been shattered by these abominations. These creatures were not meant to exist.
They were wrong. Anomalies. Atrocities.
Problems that needed to be eradicated.
"I'll kill them all," I whispered.
The words felt foreign, yet deeply familiar, as though they had been waiting within me all along.
"Every last one of them! I'll restore everything to normal! And maybe... just maybe... she'll be proud of me."
Then, the voice came.
HVA... ER... DITT... ØNSKE?
The words echoed in my mind, reverberating like a foreign melody I couldn't quite grasp.
I froze, my breath hitching as I felt a presence behind me.
I turned slowly, and there it was—the humanoid figure from before. It stood just a few feet away now, its form as blood-soaked as ever, its dark, hollow eyes peering into the depths of my soul.
But this time, I didn't flinch. I didn't scream. I didn't feel fear.
Instead, I felt... connected.
As if this figure wasn't a stranger at all, but something closer. Something intrinsic. Something that had always been there, waiting for me to notice.
It felt like looking into a mirror.
"Were you sent by Odin? Were you sent to punish these monsters?" I demanded, my voice cold and unyielding.
The throbbing pain in my head intensified, but I ignored it. It didn't matter anymore.
The figure stood motionless, silent as ever. Its dark, blood-soaked form gave no indication of acknowledgment or response.
Perhaps the questions weren't meant for it to answer. Perhaps they were meant for me.
I tried to think—tried to summon memories of a time before all of this, a time when life was simpler.
The carefree days of laughing with Caitlyn and Jasmine, the petty worries over school grades, the fleeting moments of happiness that seemed so monumental back then.
But those memories were like fragile wisps of smoke, fading into nothingness.
None of it mattered anymore.
All that mattered now was the eradication of these abominations. These creatures had shattered the world, and I would not stop until every single one of them was destroyed.
My purpose was clear. My mission was absolute.
Failure was not an option.
I clenched the shard of glass in my hand so tightly that the edges bit into my skin, drawing blood.
Yet even as the crimson droplets trickled down, the bleeding stopped almost immediately, as though my body refused to falter.
Without hesitation, I stepped forward and drove the shard into my mother's head.
Shkk!
"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered as her lifeless body crumpled to the floor.
My voice was hollow, devoid of emotion.
"I'll make those monsters pay."
A proper burial... it was what she deserved. But I couldn't allow myself the luxury of grief.
My rage burned too hot, consuming everything else.
Suddenly, the groans grew louder. The front door splintered under the weight of the horde, and the undead began pouring into the house.
The figure was gone now, vanished as silently as it had appeared.
I knew what I had to do.
This wasn't the end. I would keep fighting. I would never surrender. I would not let myself become one of them.
As a runner zombie lunged at me, I turned just in time.
My missing arm—the one they had torn from me—began to regenerate, the flesh knitting itself back together in a grotesque yet miraculous display.
Before the regeneration was even complete, I drove the shard through the runner's skull.
I yanked the shard free as my arm fully reformed, my fingers flexing instinctively. My wounds—the gaping holes in my neck and chest—had vanished.
The haze of exhaustion and disorientation was gone.
I felt strong. Powerful. Whole.
"I have been given a chance by the gods!" I roared, grabbing a kitchen knife from the counter.
Squelch!
The first zombie's head flew clean off, its lifeless body collapsing to the floor with a sickening thud.
More surged toward me, their growls filling the house like a cacophony of despair.
"I will use it to kill all of you bastards if it's the last thing I do!"
The words echoed through the blood-soaked walls as I waded into the swarm.