There was a shotgun in my left hand. I remember the weight of it keenly. I knew how to use it.
Which was odd, since I’ve never laid eyes on a gun before.
It may have been dusk, though the trees curling above made it impossible to really tell. There was a green tinged mist in the air, a smell of moss and sodden dirt on the breeze. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked around and seen something so unfamiliar.
The path before me was a poor example. Little more than mud and leaves twisting in on itself. For every two steps it followed one direction, you had to take three in another.
Good thing I didn’t seem to be headed anywhere in particular.
There were shacks ahead, old and presumably abandoned. Cracks in the rotting wood, splinters sticking out of the posts that held them aloft above the murky river they sat on the bank of. I was walking toward one of them when I heard something behind me.
I didn’t turn, but I levelled the weapon and held it close. Perhaps I wanted to be followed?
I approached the end of the sodden path with a fierce determination. My boots crunched over fallen branches, my steps slow and careful. I paused at the edge of the swamp proper, looking off into the distant dim. I felt very sure that I was going the right way.
A hand landing heavily on my shoulder gave me enough of a start to force me back to the waking world, splintering my dreamscape until it shattered quietly to the floor around my bed. I sat up feeling quite bereft for a while. I think I’d been hunting something…
Perhaps I’ll get it tonight.
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Written for the Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) challenge over on the Daily Post! The moral of this story? Don’t play zombie games before bedtime. Or play more.