Peter Mullen loaded a 17 round magazine into his Glock 17 and chambered a round. He felt the weight of the weapon in his hand. It was smooth and light in his hand, fitting into his hand perfectly. The house was dark and deserted expect for the faint glow of the TV coming from the living room. Sunlight peered into the kitchen through the windows, the faint glow of dusk. Splattered before him was the family album. Josh was with his grandma tonight and Sally was out with her friends. Taking another swig from the half empty bottle of Jim Beam, he examined everything that would come after this. Josh was seven years old and Sally was 14. With the leftover capital and the lifetime insurance policy they could live fairly comfortable lives with their grandma. That's what he hoped for at least.
He lifted the handgun up at eye level and examined it. The gun was purchased alongside a box of 200 9mm bullets when the McAllison home down the street got broken into.
Six months ago a group of meth addicts decided to rob the place so they could feed the demons in their heads. They did it in the middle of the night. The McAllisons were tied up in the living room. After the junkies stole everything that wasn't nailed down, they were promptly shot in the back of the head, one by one. Father, mother, two pubescent daughters.
Peter moved into the neighbourhood to avoid this but it managed to crawl up from downtown right into suburbia. White picket fences stained with blood:
And now a gun which he had bought out of fear, a gun meant to protect his family was going to do the exact opposite.
He walked through the house one last time, gun in hand. The life that he had built, together with Margaret. Now it was time to leave it behind.

And thus he drove, he rode the Volkswagen family chariot. On the road to nowhere, Peter made sure to drive slow. He examined the pedestrians. So many lives existing alongside his own. No one cared, no one would ever care. The sky was orange and cloudless. An absolutely perfect last scene.
The address that the private detective gave him was an apartment block in the downtown area. Shady figures stared at him from the corners. The number of walkers in this area was dramatically lowered. Everything was dark now, street lights had turned on.
The chariot stopped. A decrepit three story brick building was infront of him. No lights. No noise expect for the distant rumbling of cars.
It all started three months ago when Margaret began arriving home late. Usually, her shift at the hospital lasted from 8 a.m. in the morning until 5 p.m.
Then it turned into 6 p.m., then 7 p.m. and finally 8 p.m.
A PI tracked tailed her for a week. Three days ago in a Vietnamese restaurant the PI explained to Peter how should we enter this building after work and come out hours later. Apartment number 33. Peter paid the fee and left.

Peter stood in front of the apartment door. Cheap LED lights flickered above his head. For days the thoughts kept spinning in his head. Was it all a lie? What was the point of doing anything?
She seemed so happy with him. No matter how much he mused on it, no concrete answers seemed to come up.
But now it was too late. Peter Mullen gripped the gun in his right hand tightly and turned the door handle. Darkness and silence. No wait - skittering.
He let his eyes adjust to it. A narrow hallway. The smell of lavender is in the air - her perfume. A cluttered living room. In the left corner a door with a lighting shinning under it. The skittering becomes louder. Peter Mullen is scared. Peter Mullen barges in with his gun drawn.
Everything - from the ceiling to the floor was covered in flesh. Pulsing, dripping, wet flesh. Peter's thoughts stopped. For some reason he was thinking of nature documentaries. The floor was wobbly when he stepped on it. The air, unbearably hot and sticky clung to his clothes. It smelled like sweat.
And there was Margaret. Naked. Floating in what appeared to be a cube of cube of reflective gelatinous meat. Her entire face was frozen in an image of euphoria. She appeared completely unaware of her surroundings.

A touch on his shoulder. Too scared to move. Peter Mullen was engulfed in darkness.

He awoke on the floor of a bathroom, naked. Pushing himself up, he wobbled to the mirror.
In the middle of his forehead was a fist sized yellow cyst.
Peter Mullen smiled.