[ 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 .

The silver glock was poised like a beautiful swan. Loaded, like a bird ready for flight, and elegant, it's slender muzzle extending like a bird's neck, ready to catch it's prey. It was waiting. 
 
 Silently, it rested on the old wooden table, gleaming against the black material, like a candle in the darkness. I remember the day, twenty years ago, when that woman brought it in- the table, that is. It was a callback to the old days, a witness to the eternal summers me and her had spent, the autumns spent joking, springs spent playfully, and solemn winters. It had witnessed us move in, fight, break up, and our unconditional love for our daughter. Now, the wood appeared darker than ever, the only light being the gun it nestled. 
 
 Another round of thudding shuddered the door, but this time, one of the hinges gave loose. Time was almost up. I spent a long time inspecting the door. Whole others might have been assessing how much time they had left, but that did n't worry me. I simply marvelled at what had been, long ago, a prophesy of the happy days which now seemed to have never existed. With another jingle coming loose, I decided to take a long look outside. 
 
 The scene beyond the window, the world was no longer the world I knew. It was a mess of destroyed cars mixed with sirens blaring constantly, unanswered. 
 
 Despite the noise, however, I was at peace. My time was up, and I was happy. 
 
 I closed my eyes. My last memory was the cold, hard gun in my hand. 

