Zombie Story

Run.  Eat.  Sleep.   Life doesn't seem much different from those rotting corpses walking around.   How many times can you beat the antithesis of what life used to be into a quivering pile of flesh?  In fact, how many times could you stand to hear another human being, a survivor just like you, scream in agonizing pain while they are being eaten alive? I hate to break it to you, Billy.   You have to get used to it real fast.  After watching bits of skull fragments and brain matter hit the wall so many times it stops having shock value.  Put a person under extreme circumstances for so long and they become numb.  I sometimes ask myself, what is the point anymore?

You can't let them win, you have to survive.

Yeah.   You keep telling yourself that.  I am going to tell you something different.  This is where our story begins.

It all started with reports of small outbreaks.  Soon the media was flooding newspapers and magazines. Television stations had around the clock broadcasts of people eating other people.  Haphazard explanations ranged from viral infection to radioactive contamination and even went so far as divine punishment.  Evacuations were ordered. Everyone panicked.  Police and military teams tried to set up barricades and quarantine zones.  Congested highways and overcrowded emergency rooms were easy targets.  In the first forty-eight hours, eighty percent of society's infrastructure failed.  Now there are no more doctors.  No more police.  No more government.  Most of the natural resources have been looted or destroyed.  People have turned on each other.  Vast majorities flocked to churches praying for salvation. They thought it was the end of the world.

Technically, it was.

"Mommy, what are you doing mommy!?!"

When someone is gnawing the flesh off of your arm, she isn't your mother anymore.  I don't know how many times I screamed, "Get the hell out of here!  Run!"  But it was to no avail; people and their damn logic.

"Something has gone terribly awry.  There has to be something we can do."

Boy, did you nail that one Captain Obvious.   The only thing to do is to put a bullet between their eyes.  End of story.

The sun rose.  Memories of the past week were flashing by in my mind as the taste of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey were still on my breath.  I didn't use to drink.  Or smoke.  It was cold.  Stumbling off the floor, I sat next to where the fire used to be.  The embers were still glowing.  I piled what was left of the firewood on and sat patiently for the fire to spark.  Why didn't I see this coming? I should have been more prepared.  A million minds and a million voices were flying through my head.  The fire coughed, sputtered and soon it was going again.  It was time to eat.  Oatmeal tasted like Styrofoam.  The water went down like rusty nails.  I watched flames quietly die.  Standing, I peeked between the two by fours that barricaded the windows.  Snow was softly falling.  Even the color seemed bleached and lifeless.  It was all so surreal.   I saw a zombie standing about ten feet from the house, swaying slightly.  It hadn't caught my scent yet.  Gathering my supplies, I snuck out of the back door.  Sorry for crashing at your place, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.

For fear of more unwanted company, I slowly crept behind.  The smell was awful; worse than most.  It still doesn't know I'm here… Raising the butt of the 12 gauge, I smashed the back of its skull in one swift move.  The flesh sunk and the bones buckled.  A thick black substance oozed from the impact site.  This thing had been dead a long time. As it crumpled to the ground, I immediately turned around to see if I had stirred any undead among the abandoned houses and empty retail stores.  Save fifty percent off all outer wear.  All was still.  I got lucky this time.

There is always one thing you have to remember about zombies.  No matter how safe you think you are there will always be twenty or thirty more coming after you; aimlessly pursuing what they think is their next meal.  They never get tired.  They never stop.  You could sleep fifteen miles away from the last zombie and you could wake up with broken fingernails clawing at your ankles and your femoral artery pulsing blood till you either die from shock or loss of blood.  Either way, it's pretty bleak.

I turned back to the rotten corpse at my feet.  The stench hit me like a brick wall.  What was left of its face identified it as a male in his late forties.  He was wearing a ripped flannel shirt with bits of rib cage and internal organs peeking through.  Various battle scars and bullet wounds indicated this thing must have been spotted by  a few survivors.  His skin was pale with spots of mold and gangrene. The bottom of his jaw was completely gone.  His left arm was missing.  Both legs looked as if they had been broken in six or seven different places.   He is still wearing one shoe.  I pondered why on earth this could have survived for so long until I heard that all too familiar sound.

"Mrrrh"

So I ran.  I ran as hard and as fast as I could to the nearest structure.  A few moments later the crack of a rifle spliced through the silence.  Taking cover behind some debris facing away from the street, my mind was numb with cold and thoughts of who might be out there.  Turning around, I gazed to see where the shot came from.  Fog was blocking a clear line of sight from anything more than five feet away.   Silence returned.  A small amount of time elapsed before I heard more shuffling.  More moans.  Thanks for waking up the neighborhood. Whoever it was, also knew I was close by.  The body left in the street was evidence enough.  Are they friend or foe?  Were they shooting at me?  Will they rob me blind and leave me for dead or can we find an escape together?

Which also reminds me…

Once the world goes to hell, most of the people go with it.  Extenuating circumstances bring out the worst in everyone.   Some use the apocalypse as an excuse to go absolutely insane.  At first, people guarded their personal possessions with a religious fervor like this whole event was temporary and would eventually blow over.  After that, it wasn't very long before people started robbing and killing other survivors.  I've seen raiding parties do more damage than any amount of zombies could. The outcasts of society are the ones who seem to flourish in this chaos.  Maybe it is because they didn't have blind faith in the system like so many of us in the first place. That isn't what scares me though.  What keeps me up at night, other than the undead, is the thought that those guys know exactly what they are doing and somehow still don't care.

Another shot.  Except this time it landed right next to my head as bits of dirt and ice scraped across my cheek.  I quickly rolled behind the loosely assorted pallets and empty oil drums.  My face was bleeding.  Adrenaline was running a muck in my blood stream.  Bracing the shotgun on the ground, I fired a warning shot.   When most people hear the sound of a police issue twelve gauge, they stop to think, if only for a second.  Luckily enough the unidentified assailant followed my declaration with a, "Hello?  Is anyone there?"   Almost in a blind rage, I stood up and immediately made my way back to the house blatantly disregarding caution or any means of logic.  A murky outline of a human could be seen crouching almost in the same snow prints I left a moment ago.  Before glaring at the person who almost took my head off, I checked to see if we were being followed.  Sure enough, five or six figures lurched lethargically toward us from fifteen or twenty yards away.  Taking the attacker by the hand before they could reply, I pulled with a frenzied amount of strength.  We went through the back door.  Slamming it shut, I locked the knob and the deadbolt.  The Johnson's had a heavy, solid oak door with a metal plate to prevent access from a crowbar.  At least their office jobs paid for something useful.  Finally, I turned and approached the person cowering in the corner.  She was female, early to mid twenties.  I stood the lady up and without any control, placed my hand around the girl's neck, pinning her against the wall.  Her eyes were blue and her hair was a deep mahogany with tingles of sun bleached blond.  The strands were knotted and almost dread-like.  Her facial features were delicate other than a scar running down the top of her cheek to the lower bridge of her chin. Despite the harsh living conditions, she was still gorgeous.  Looking at the fear in her eyes, my rage waned and the strangle hold loosened.  Red marks were left where my fingers had been.  She coughed a few times, grabbed my arm and twisting it in a clockwise position while stepping behind me, kinked my wrist followed by my elbow and eventually my shoulder.  Pain shot down the entirety of my back as I fell to my knees.  Relaxing just enough to stop the pain, I straightened my arm and turned back around.  I managed to mutter, "My fight isn't with yo…" before more gun fire interrupted.  She released my arm and I rushed to the window to see what was happening.  A truck full of good old boys was hurtling down the road with its occupants firing carelessly at the undead in the street.  A few heehaw's later and they disappeared.  Nothing was walking in the road anymore.

Stupid rednecks.