Creepypasta #1303: The Worst Of It All
It wasn’t the alarms or evacuation. That much we’d planned for, being paranoid first-time parents who practiced with our little one every other weekend.
It wasn’t the horror of the potential apocalypse. I’d grown up on thrillers and took pride in knowing what to do regardless of whether they were fast or slow.
It wasn’t the panic of rushing to the lake, hoping no one would follow. The back roads were treacherous and unkempt for sure, but my baby handled it like a smooth raceway.
It wasn’t the silence around us. We rotated watch, eyes peeled and ears on alert for any signs of the shamblers. Word on the radio was the fast ones burnt out quick. Not many outside the cities.
It wasn’t the survival. Mary grew up on a ranch and I led the scouts so we knew how to trap and fish without guns making any sounds we didn’t want.
It wasn’t the lone crawler we found expired out on the trail during one of our rounds. We knew it would only be a matter of time, and time out here was still on our side.
It wasn’t the time on the lake we saw a handful of them falling into the water, drowning. We felt relieved they couldn’t swim or walk on the lake floor, though we had no island escape.
It wasn’t the time Mary didn’t return from her rounds.
It wasn’t the note I found on one of our traps. The last message from my beautiful wife.
It wasn’t the pause my son had when they attacked. He was still young, and he’d know better next time.
It wasn’t the look on his face when I hacked off my own bitten arm, searing the end with the bottom of the pan we’d been using to fry fish.
It wasn’t the exhaustion from taking double watches.
It wasn’t the pain, or the fever, or the chills.
It wasn’t the nap I took accidentally. Something so seemingly short and pleasant that left the path wide open.
It wasn’t the screams, the blood, or the dead. We continued to survive the best we could.
It wasn’t the infected, the ones who finally took him from me.
It wasn’t the shame I felt unable to help him.
It wasn’t the memories I held onto. Of our peaceful little family on the outskirts of a small neighborly town.
It wasn’t the fact I’d never see our friends again. Or my parents. Or even my darling Mary, if I was lucky.
It wasn’t even seeing him again, changed by this nightmare no one should ever have to experience.
The worst of it all was how my mind still knew he was my boy when my body tore into his flesh.