We are the dead.
Well, “We” aren’t. I mean, you aren’t. You’re the living. Specifically, you’re living inside a farmhouse, windows and doors barricaded, huddling together, trying not to scream or cry, praying for rescue that’ll never come.
We are the dead, out here, outside the farmhouse, shambling, moaning, hungry. Banging on the door, waiting for it to collapse under the weight of our combined assault.
Your barricades are too hastily built, blind terror kept you from reinforcing them properly. The door won’t last long under a siege of rotted flesh.
And when it opens, we’ll be the dead.