Safe House

The flickering light of the old television cast dancing shadows across the Deckard's worn living room. On screen, a reporter’s face, etched with worry, detailed the escalating nightmare: "2,000 previously dead loved ones have risen today. Numbers are expected to continue to grow."
Baron Deckard, slumped in his recliner, his mouth full of gooey cheese whiz, grunted. He glanced at Norma, then back at the screen, a smug look on his scruffy face. "Hah! What about that shit, Norma? Best thing ever happened to this shitty world, I say. Full of too many fags and loud mouthed women. Now's the time to wipe them all away."
Norma recoiled, a familiar shiver running down her spine. Not from the news, but from the venom in her husband’s voice. She imagined her head floating, empty, just as he liked it. Then, the beer bottle shattered against the wall, glass showering the carpet and their terrified basset hound, Lollie. "Why'd you do that, Bear?" she whispered, already feeling his invisible hands around her neck, squeezing.