[ WP ] A man is locked in his bedroom . His zombified wife and children struggle against the door to beat it down . A loaded pistol rests on the dresser next to him .

Freddie stared at the wall. Freddie was sitting on the floor. He had shit himself. That was three hours ago. Freddie had enjoyed the smell. It was something natural, shit. Every single person in the world took a shit. Billions of people have taken a shit, or used to. It was one of the few things that have n't changed in Freddie's life. Shit was one of the few things that blocked out the smell of rotting flesh; an aromatic shield against a new, twisted reality. 
 The smell went away and all Freddie could smell was flesh. Freddie stared at the wall. A crude crayon portrait hung of Freddie hung on the wall. `` I love you daddy'' was the only signature. Johnny never went to school. Maybe he could have been an artist, a new Picasso thought Freddie. The banging started again, which Freddie registered with a casual glance. The oak door with a mahogany handle was now blocked by a night dresser and his computer desk. They were weak, it would take them a long time to get through, but not that long. 
 Freddie looked back at the wall, with it's baby blue walls seemingly out of place in Hell. The Devil has a sick sense of humor. The Devil liked expressing this in as many ways as he could. The Devil liked it when he could watch people feel pain. Now there is pain in a myriad of forms. Freddie wondered if the Devil was pleasuring himself even now, watching what he had wrought to the planet. Freddie wondered if he had orgasms, 
 witnessing the death throes of man. Freddie decided that no one could have caused this, it was not humanly possible. 
 There was another bang at the door. Growling and howls came from the other side. They were parodies of voices of those he had once loved. So it goes. A picture fell off the nightstand. His wife was the most beautiful woman in the world, with auburn hair, a rich smile and pale skin. She was the most gentle person Freddie had ever met in his life. From the moaning he could tell she was n't being gentle *now*. Freddie laughed. Then Freddie cried, still sitting in the shit. 
 Another bang. His wife and son were almost through the door. It had been in the room for a day or two, Freddie could n't tell anymore. Freddie was pitiful, a sack of steaming shit. Freddie wondered how many others were in his exact position; the great masses of humanity that were wading through their filth with no particular inclination to do anything about it. 
 One more bang now. The smell of flesh and the growling were overpowering now. Freddie looked at the gun that had been sitting there since he boarded himself up in his citadel of filth. His wife convinced him to buy it in case something went really wrong. Well this is *really* wrong thought Freddie. He knew he could n't shoot his family. They were the only people that had mattered. Freddie had plenty of bullets; he just did n't want to stay an eternity in Hell. 
 Freddie picked up the gun. When he got to heaven he would force St. Peter and even God himself to kneel at his feet and beg for his forgiveness. He knew he would go heaven because he was already in Hell. 
 Freddie put the fun to his chin and smiled. He was finally free. He pulled the trigger and died in his own shit.
