Zombie Postcard Fiction: Meanwhile In Florida

"Bubba, you ain't going to believe this."
"What?"
"Headquarters wants us to tag the zombies?"
"Why?"
"So biologists can see where they go!"
"Screw that..."

Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission Law Enforcement truck and ATV.
Photo by Carol Lyn Parrish / Public domain

Zombie Haiku: The Blinds

Blinds closed for summer
A shield against heat and horde
my stomach growling

Zombie Flash Fiction: Rally Z

     The tyres spun kicking up a shower of brown Scandinavian mud and dirt.  We were stuck.  Navigation was Peter's job.  Driving was my job.  I failed at my job, spun us out in a sharp turn, and now my door was jammed up against a roadside embankment.  Now Peter's job was to get us unstuck and back on the rally course fast.

     "I need to get some stuff under the tyres to get us some traction," Peter yelled.
     "How buggered are we?" I asked.
     "We aren't buggered until our fans reach us," he replied gesturing over his shoulder.

Ford Escort RS1600 photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

     Looking across Peter's empty seat and up hill at the long straight away, I could see that a whole mob of spectators had just crested the hill behind us and was trudging our way.   Ordinarily, rally fans were a big help to a racing team that was stuck in a muddy ditch.  But, these rally fans were something different.  They were dead--dead and still walking our way.

    "500 meters," I yelled.  "They are 500 meters away."
    "Don't worry," Peter replied.  "We'll get out of here."

     As Peter gathered gravel, sticks, and other traction, I wondered how I had gotten into such a jam.  The thought of rally racing in Sweden had long thrilled my soul.  When Peter joined the London office, turned out to be from Stockholm, and was into vintage cars, I thought I had found an excellent new mate.  I had no idea that it would lead both of us to this ditch.

   "Can we go?"
     "Not yet!"
     "200 meters.  They are getting closer."

  The dream started when my father left me his old Ford Escort Mark 1 with directions to take her racing.  I had done some laps on tracks in the London suburbs, but those were tame affairs that sometimes seemed like parades.  Everyone was gingerly guiding their aging saloons around the course and then retiring for talk of tyres over tea.  I wanted to push the RS1600 to her limit.  That's what my father would have wanted.  Well, I pushed her and chose a poor time to reach the limit.


  Where the hell was Peter?  The dead were about 100 meters away and they were closing fast.  I nervously watched the horde.  Soon my navigator emerged from a stand of birch with more twigs and underbrush.

    "They are close mate!" I yelled.  "We've got to go!"

    I thought back to the rallies in England and Scotland that we ran in the spring.  They were good training and Peter turned out to be a excellent co-pilot.  We took the ferry from Immingham to Gothenburg and made our way to a rally in southern Sweden.  It was awesome until the spectators turned strange and we ended up in this ditch.  Peter carefully laid out the sticks, twigs, and rocks to provide a bit of traction.

    "Try it now," Peter yelled.  "Go slow."

    I fought the urge to pop the clutch and unleash the lively 1.6 liter twin cam that idled under the bonnet.  Easy.  Easy.  The rear tyres gained traction on a hastily laid bed of sticks, logs, and gravel.  Peter was pushing hard, too.  The Escort slowly regained the harder dirt road surface.  Peter disappeared from my rear view mirror.  I slammed on the brakes.  

Ford Escort Mark 1 RS1600  back on the road - photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

    "Peter!  Peter!" I yelled.
    "Hej, hu mår du?" a muddy figure replied from the passenger window.
    "Get in!  Get in!" I said seeing the dead approaching within arms reach.
     Peter climbed in and shook his head.
    "You are going the wrong way," he said.
    A dead spectator slapped his hands on our bonnet and started to climb up on the car.
     "Go over that troll," Peter ordered.
     I released the clutch and slammed into the dead man.  The little Ford flung him off the road.  I pointed up back up the hill, popped the clutch, and deliberately spun the little racer around in the road, smacking into the dead that surrounded us, and pointing back onto our originally intended course.
     "Get us out of here," I said.
      "Can you handle straight?" came the reply.
      "Yes," I said.
      "Then go straight," he said.  "And there's an EASY left over the next hill."

 -------

Leaving the scene - Adapted from photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

Readers in the United Kingdom are invited to visit my United Kingdom author home page.  Australian readers can find my works with this Australian Amazon search.

Zombie Haiku: Summer Shuffle

Bloated and leaking

Preceded by awful smells

Zombies of summer

Turkey Vultures (buzzards) photo by VJAnderson / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

Zombie Cinquain Poem: Comebacks.

I punch.
He keeps coming.
I kick and he comes back.
He bites my arm, I die, and now
I'm back.

Martial artists in Martinique - photo by Dalia Del Arte / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

Zombie Postcard Fiction: They will survive!

Roaches. They survived the rise of the dead just fine.  You can't run a vacuum when you're surrounded by zombies.  Nobody takes out the garbage.

User Preiselbeere on de.wikipedia /
CC BY-SA 2.0 DE
(https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/de/deed.en)

Postcard Fiction: Stay Inside

  "Don't go out there!"
"I don't see them."

"They're still out there."

"We can't stay."

"They'll kill you."

"I'll be careful."

"They eat careful people."

Zombie Haiku: Hold Your Nose

Summer smells rotten

The dead trudge through the city

roadkill on the move

Zombie Cinquain: Unstoppable

Nothing
can stop me now
I just keep walking and
eating and walking and eating
my lunch

A New Orleans Zombie Walk - photo by Infrogmation of New Orleans / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

Zombie Flash Fiction: No Free Lunches

     "Grandpa, how are we going to run this place without you?"
     The old man grimaced.  He was sweating profusely now.  The bites were taking their toll.  He gestured feebly over to the bedroom bookshelves.
     "It's all in there," the old man whispered.
     "What grandpa?" the teen grandson asked.
     "The Constitution, the Declaration of Independence," he gasped.  "All of it."
     "I've got to read all that?" the young man asked.
     "Yes," the old man replied.  "But, next time, change one thing."
     "What grandpa?"
     "Next time . . ."
     "What grandpa?"
     "In these times, make everyone work."
     "OK, grandpa."
     "No free lunches."
     The old man closed his eyes.  The teen placed his hands under this grandfather's nostrils.  There was no breath.  Soon, those eyes would open again soon.  The young man's hands were trembling.  He knew what must be done, but the revolver was heavy.

M1917 .45 Caliber Revolver - photo by Mcumpston (talk)Mike Cumpston / Public domain