MicroHorror

Megan’s troubles had never been out of the ordinary. Young, blonde and appealing, single, working in a florist’s in the High Street. If there was any great sorrow in her life, it had come some years back, when the doctors had frowned and looked solemn, and told her that she would never be a mother. Her uterus was… twisted. Wrong. Even if, by some chance, she was able to conceive, no child could ever survive to term inside her. But she accepted her fate, and Megan moved on.

Megan’s troubles were like those of billions when the light passed across the sky and the dead began to walk. Up from the graveyards they rose, and they converged upon the cities in a shambling parody of life, feasting upon the flesh of any living person unfortunate enough to stand in their way. Civilization, in a word, collapsed. Anarchy reigned, for how can society survive when the dead refuse to rest? Megan became a refugee, competing with the other survivors for food and water in the ruins of London.

Megan’s troubles were eased when Dafydd entered her life. A soldier he was, tall and handsome, with curly hair and hazel eyes that sparkled. He and his men brought food; they brought weapons; they brought order into chaos. And for Megan, Dafydd brought much more. He was kind to her, even upon their first meeting. He was charming. As they grew closer, Megan learned that he was smart, witty and brave. And when they became as close as any two people can ever be, he showed her that he was gentle and giving. Megan and Dafydd became lovers, there in the ruined city, and they were happy for a few short weeks, until a patrol went wrong. Dafydd was torn limb from limb, and devoured by the dead.

Six months had passed since she had lost him. Six lonely months, in which she barely spoke, barely ate, could barely muster the drive to hide when the walking dead came near. But she survived. Now, though, Megan’s troubles had worsened. For deep inside her barren womb, Megan felt a kick.