There were just too many of them. Frank’s arms were exhausted from swinging the bat; he wasn’t doing any damage anymore. The zombies just kept coming. Frank and Jean found themselves cornered, trapped a stranger’s bedroom, dresser against the door, windows barred.
Eventually, when the pounding and moaning outside became to much, she said; “Frank.”
“Don’t. You tried.”
“I don’t want to get eaten alive, Frank. I really don’t.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She paused for a long moment, deciding whether she really wanted to say it. “Maybe there’s pills. In the bathroom. Check?”