No Room At The Inn

To Whom it may concern:

I hate you all. You smug bastards with your fortified church, your heavy oaken doors, your seemingly endless supply of ammunition. I've watched from my window as you pick them off one by one, laughing and whooping in the bell tower like this was some big game. As if they really had a chance of clawing through those stone blocks or leaping high enough to shatter your precious stained glass windows. You waste your bullets on some twisted, fucking sport when people in the streets are dying. You hole up in the House of God and turn away those who actually make it close enough to plead for sanctuary with mocking cries of "No room at the inn, no room at the inn."

You killed my daughter, you officious pricks. You allowed her to be dragged away in the streets, watched as she was torn apart, washed your hands clean. You can spare a bullet to shatter the skull of something that doesn't even pose a real threat to you? But not to end the suffering of a little girl, an innocent, whose screams I know you could hear? And then to have the audacity to hang a banner from the roof reading "Alive Inside"? I think not. I think you are all must be dead and festering inside, your souls a putrid pile of filth and bile.
 
You sicken me. You make me ashamed to call myself a human, to even try to dream of a world beyond this. Why in the name of all that's holy would we ever want to rebuild our towns and cities if they were only to be populated with hives of depravity and wickedness? How could we, in all good conscience, refer to rebuilding "civilization" when you have proven, time and time again, that nothing cultured or refined still resides within your heinous little enclave?

I hate you all.

I still cry myself to sleep only to wake up in the middle of the night with her screams echoing through my dreams. All while your heads rest easy on pews meant for the righteous. You self-serving fucks.

Well, I've had enough. You'll find this note tied to a brick, a brick that shatters that big window facing the street. You will be standing there, reading it, while I am out outside, drawing those damn things to me like a beacon in the night.

Do you realize how much mass a body loses as it decomposes? How lightweight most of these creatures have become? A little girl may not be able to fend them off, but a full grown man? A full grown man can easily pick them up, can easily throw them through the air if he has spent countless hours doing push-ups, pull-ups, preparing for this very moment. Eventually, they will swarm over me in such numbers that I know I will die. They will rip, they will claw, and they will tear . . . just like they did to my sweet Adelia.  But before they do, I will have the satisfaction of watching the ones I have tossed as they disappear through that shattered window.

And you will have been distracted by this letter just long enough that the first one will bite before you have a chance to pull your weapons.  Die, you worthless, arrogant, barbaric pieces of shit.

I hate you all.

Johnathon Kincaid