Pizza Palace

Everyone is dead. Friends, family, coworkers, everyone. They're surrounding my house, and I'm the only one left alive in this town. And it's all because of that damned Pizza Palace. I'm writing this as a word of warning to never eat at Pizza Palace. Unless you have some psychotic death wish, never eat there. Ever, ever, ever. I'm writing as the freaks are trying to breach my fortress, so I need to be quick. It all started on my brother Allen's birthday. He's about five years old, and he loves pizza. I'm Alex, and I'm about 16 years old, and I'm not that huge a fan of pizza. There was a new place in town opening up, and it was called Pizza Palace. My brother wanted to go there, mainly because it resembled Chuck-E-Cheese. My parents liked the idea, mainly because it was half the price of Chuck-E-Cheese, and we were in a tight spot with money. So we went there on March 2nd, which is Allen's birthday. It was alright I guess. He had fun, and my parents didn't spend a fortune, so it was a win-win situation. I didn't eat there; thank God for that. The real trouble started late at night, about 11 o'clock. Allen woke up in the middle of the night to vomit. He sat in the bathroom and vomited for the longest time, which seemed like an hour. When my dad banged on the bathroom door to check on him, he was silent. My dad got a popsicle stick and picked the door open. We all looked at Allen, and were shocked at what we saw. His skin was so pale that it looked gray. There were blood streaks running down his cheek. His teeth looked green and rotten. The toilet was red, meaning that he had been vomiting blood that whole time. My mom let out the loudest scream you would ever hear.