"You are the owner of a magic backpack; every morning you stick your hand in and it contains exactly what you need for the day. One morning it contains a gun." - @ writing-prompt-s 

I glance through the cracked open door. I never wanted to do this. I slowly check for bullets. Only one bullet. I can feel the cold sweat traveling down my back. I can hear my mom warning my father to get away from her. I cocked the gun ready and stand up. I peek into the room. My father, clearly having the virus that has killed millions before him, is tempting to coo my mother into believing he is alright. I aim the gun for his head. 

I take a deep breath, feeling the tears run down my face, as I ready the trigger finger. I suddenly hear my mom cough. I quickly switch the pistol's safe mode on as I watched. My mom coughed up blood as my father watched like a hungry animal. I had my mouth guard on, and my mom hadn't put hers on for a whole day. I can feel my eyes burn as my mother laid on the ground.

My father walked over and started ripping her clothes off before starting to eat her. I look around for something, knowing there is a 35-75% chance my mother will rise up like my father. My eyes widened at seeing the gas chamber. A bullet should do it, but I'll have to be ready to run. My only chance is to kick the door open, shoot the gas chamber, and run for my life. I already knew I may not be able to do this, but I have no choice.

I kicked open the door.