I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

The zombie horde, lured away by the bell, was back.

Drawn by the sound of their quarrel.

“No…”

The color drained from Patrick’s face in an instant.

It hit him then, a punch to the gut. The real danger wasn't always the monsters. Sometimes, it was the people you were trying to save.

The human heart, a calamity in its own right.

And he had just made a fatal mistake.

DONG—!

A distant chime pierced the bakery’s thick walls, a final, fragile layer of hope.

No!

How ridiculous. Just a desperate fantasy born of despair.

How he wished, in that moment, that the unknown, brave person high in the clock tower would pull the heavy clapper once more, drawing the not-quite-dead monsters away from them.

However, the rhythmic chimes, the steady heartbeat that had been their shield, suddenly, without warning, ceased.

Inside the bakery, it was dead silent.

Outside, the low growls made the silence even more absolute.

“No…”

Patrick’s heart sank slowly.

He remained frozen, a sense of dread coiling around him, tightening its grip.

Why? Why NOW?!

He had no time to think, no strength to ponder.

Because in the moments the bell had fallen silent, another sound, clear and distinct, grew louder just outside the bakery’s not-so-sturdy wooden door.

“Hhhh…”

The sound was hoarse, thick, so familiar it made every child’s body go rigid, their blood feeling as if it were freezing in their veins.

The two boys who had been arguing fiercely just moments before were now silent as mice, the anger and resentment on their faces replaced by a pure, primal terror.

CRASH!!

The wooden door shuddered violently! The heavy impact made it groan, fine dust and splinters filtering from the cracks.

They were here.

The realization hit them all like a sledgehammer.

Patrick watched helplessly as the door, under another blow, the hinges let out an overloaded “creak,” as if it would shatter completely in the next second.

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“Everybody, shut up!”

He roared in a low voice, his words hoarse but carrying the ferocity of a cornered beast. The force of his presence instantly silenced the children's cries, making them instinctively clamp their mouths shut.

But everyone knew it was only temporary.

Patrick didn’t hesitate. “Go! Out the back! Now!!”

He’d been here more than once, and even in this dire situation, his mind was still clear.

However—

“Aaaah—!”

A piercing shriek, filled with utter terror, came from the direction of the back kitchen!

The sound was like a dagger, instantly piercing the fragile courage they had just managed to build. It also pierced Patrick’s heart!

His heart clenched. Without time to think, he grabbed the heavy, wooden-handled pitchfork from the corner—the one used for handling straw—and charged toward the back door!

He saw the boy who was supposed to be covering their retreat, using all his strength to jam a wooden stick between the zombie’s jaws. The zombie had already sunk its teeth into the boy’s arm and was tearing at it frantically. The boy’s face was slick with cold sweat from the pain, but he still refused to let go.

And in front of him was the bakery’s portly owner, now also a zombie.

“Get back!”

Patrick roared, yanking the struggling boy away and facing the zombie himself. The pitchfork in his hands whistled through the air as he brought it down with all his might!

Thump!

The sharp tines sank squarely into the zombie’s eye socket.

One!

Patrick didn’t stop. He twisted the pitchfork, putting all his strength into it, using it as a lever to force the zombie’s head to the side.

Shluk!

The tines pulled out a gobbet of brain and rotten flesh.

Two!

The zombie’s movements froze. The killing intent in Patrick’s eyes exploded. He kicked out, his foot sinking into the zombie’s gut and sending it stumbling back. Then he raised the pitchfork high and brought it down, aiming for the top of its skull!

Three!

Thump!

This time, the tines sank deep. There was no more movement.

Brain matter splattered, the foul-smelling liquid covering Patrick. He panted heavily, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot, staring at the corpse.

However, he heard no cheers.

His friends behind him didn’t cheer. They were quiet, terrifyingly quiet, like a flock of chickens with their necks wrung, even their breathing had stopped.

The sense of dread in Patrick’s heart grew stronger.

His nerves taut, fighting back the bile rising in his throat, he slowly, stiffly, raised his head to look around—

At some point, outside the bakery, in the small square, the dense, black mass of zombies that had been lured away by the bell, had regrouped.

They poured out from every corner of the street, from the shadows of every house.

Their target was this very spot.

Patrick, dragging his injured companion, retreated back into the bakery. With the help of the other children, they slammed the back door shut and braced it.

They were trapped.

CRASH!! CRASH!! CRASH!!

Violent impacts came from both the front and back doors simultaneously.

“Quick! Barricade the doors! With the flour sacks! With the tables! Anything!”

Patrick’s voice was hoarse and desperate as he directed his friends, using everything they could to hold the doors shut. The windows were also sealed tight with wooden planks and flour sacks.

The bakery, once a place of warmth and food, had become a dark, damp brick-and-mortar coffin, suffused with the stench of fear.

They were safe, for now.

But everyone knew this safety was temporary. To stay here meant only one outcome: death.

Someone shot an angry glare at the two boys who had fought over a piece of bread, their eyes full of accusation. Patrick glanced at them too, his gaze icy. The two boys bowed their heads in shame, wishing they could disappear into a crack in the floor.

But Patrick knew, it was meaningless. Blame wouldn’t save them. It wouldn’t save the doors that were being battered, threatening to give way at any moment.

The air in the bakery grew more oppressive. The scratching, the impacts, the low growls of the zombies were like the drums of death, beating on every heart.

Someone started to cry softly. The sound seemed contagious, and soon, choked sobs were spreading through the cramped space.

Despair, like the thickest ink, rapidly seeped into every corner, staining every heart.

Patrick leaned against the cold wall, slowly sliding to the floor.

The pitchfork in his hands, covered in brain matter and blood, was impossibly heavy.