#samuelbennett

These are the last pictures of this kid as a seven year old. Next time I see him he’ll officially be eight. (Not counting the 17 times he’s going to get out of bed to get a drink or pee or check the weather or ask a very important question about walruses).

      Casey Liem stood tall like a tree. He was hard to push over, firm and statuesque. His stature made him a great football player, no one could push past him, it was like trying to move a car. Now, however? Matthew was right, size wasn’t everything, or rather that the lighter ones fared better. Never did he curse his own height  ( in fact, it was the one thing, being 6′4, that Casey felt comfortable lording over others )  more than when he was running away from the undead—he was fast, legs stinging with the familiar feeling of muscles being stretched and used again, but he felt more like a bull than a gazelle. The undead were fast, too, much more than any zombie media he had watched before had suggested, but he supposed that was the nature of fiction. They were fast, but fortunately still not fast enough to catch him even on a slow day.

      That didn’t mean Casey liked to dawdle when outside though and the force in which he barreled into the house could have struck the door down. Luckily it didn’t, or he wouldn’t have been safe... temporarily, always temporarily. Pressing up against it, his fingers fumbled to lock the door before the strength of the zombie on the other side could get a chance to overpower him. Once it finally switched into place, Casey hesitantly stepped back, sweat clinging to his skin despite the still-cold air that washed over him as he walked further into the empty house.