Personal Narrative: My Father's Machete

My heart leaps out of my throat and I gulp as the creature’s pale white eyes glare into my soul. The intoxicating smell of blood floods my nostrils. Blood slowly trickles down her chin and her once friendly face is now without emotion. Taking a step back, I glance behind me and see my razor-sharp machete lying on the ground, no more than twenty feet from me. I glimpse a final time at my best friend and bolt over to my machete, picking it up quickly. I then sprint straight for my backyard a few blocks away. Once I arrive, I dash past our treehouse, my “base”, and into my parent’s bedroom where I unlock my military father’s safe, which contains landmines, grenades, a shotgun, and a duffel bag to hold everything. I will place the landmines outside
of my “base” as traps, and the grenades will be thrown from my “base” and at the decaying zombies. Immediately, I shove everything into the duffel bag, machete in hand. I immediately chuck the bag over my shoulder as I tear out the door and into my backyard. After placing the landmines a safe distance from the treehouse, I scurry up the ladder, with a machete in one hand, a shotgun in the other, and a duffel bag full of grenades at my side as defense, and wait.