This is another entry for Cracked Flash Fiction, a weekly challenge and competition where you get the first sentence and 300 words with which to finish your story. (You are allowed to tweak the first sentence; for instance turning it into dialogue, and in this case I substituted an exclamation mark for a full stop.)
I woke up with a shovel drenched with blood in my hand, and there was a trail of blood leading up to me. I got up slowly, stumbled, and then righted myself by using the shovel as a crutch. My left leg didn’t want to carry weight.
Some of the houses lining the street were burnt. Cars – some burnt, some simply left with their doors open – stood around haphazardly. My own car was crumpled against a street pole not far from where I had woken up. I looked down at my left leg and gagged. My left foot was gone, the flesh ripped, but the wound not bleeding. There wasn’t any pain. I gingerly touched my face with red-stained fingers. Where a stubble-covered jaw should have been there was nothing but raw flesh. A shiver shook me.
I limped towards my car, hoping to find my phone in working order.
A mangled body at the end of the gory blood trail drew my attention and I limped closer. It had been a woman. Now her head and chest was a bloody pulp. In her hands she clutched a foot. My foot.
An overwhelming desire to taste some of the flesh overloaded the synapses in my brain until spots appeared in front of my eyes and I came to myself once more.
My gurgled scream sounded across the street and deserted cars as I remembered what had happened before the alluring scent of fresh flesh drew my attention to my right and I dropped the shovel.
Some people stood there. One had a shotgun aimed at my head.
“Kill me,” I tried to beg, stretching out my gore-covered hands. But the words stuck in my throat and sounded like a growl.
I lurched forward.
The gun fired.