My Six-Year-Old Is Trapped in Daycare—So I Fight Through the Apocalypse
545 Views · Ongoing · August
On the third day of the outbreak, I sat in my company’s executive conference room, gripping the red toy car I bought for my six-year-old son.
Outside the door were zombies filling the building. Beside me were six executives still breathing only because I was.
They wanted meetings. They wanted to wait for rescue. They wanted to chain me with morality.
But I wanted one thing—my son was still in daycare. Three days. No one went for him.
At dawn, I opened the door they’d barricaded shut.
I can shoot. I can clear a path. I will carve my way through to bring him back.
Anyone who stands in my way dies.
Outside the door were zombies filling the building. Beside me were six executives still breathing only because I was.
They wanted meetings. They wanted to wait for rescue. They wanted to chain me with morality.
But I wanted one thing—my son was still in daycare. Three days. No one went for him.
At dawn, I opened the door they’d barricaded shut.
I can shoot. I can clear a path. I will carve my way through to bring him back.
Anyone who stands in my way dies.















