Survival: Short Fiction (Post-Apocalypse Horror), by Jeff Stover
“We don’t need him, Jerry. Just shoot,” I said. My response was too quick, too insistent. Jerry leaned back from the scope to look at me.
“You don’t need me, either,” he countered. I laughed into his simple steel face of sincerity and quickly deflected.
“Of course I do. I can’t shoot that thing.” I motioned to the iron lance of precision Jerry cradled as he lay on the bed, aimed out of a second-story window.
A grin broke through the steel, and he said, “Sure you can.” Jerry returned his attention to the mass of forms waiting for us at the gate of the suburb. We’d taken refuge in someone’s standard cardboard cutout mansion, not bothering to notice the three dead small children laying in the foyer as we entered. We also ignored what could only be their parents, each laying in the bathroom after braining themselves sometime ago. …