Zombie Flash Fiction Story: Emcee Mike and Apocalyptic Bingo

    "B27!  Ladies and Gentlemen, B27!"

    The bingo crowd scanned their cards frantically.  But, no one seemed to have it.

    "I need a better number than that Mike!" someone in the crowd yelled out.  

    Mike nodded.  He was a large man who worked as a nursing assistant by day and dressed in a traditional black tuxedo to entertain the seniors as the emcee for Bingo in the early evening.  He spun the handle of the bingo cage vigorously to tumble the balls about until another rolled out of the selector.  Beside him sat Betty--a young lady who served as a nursing home administrator.  She looked nervously out at the crowd.

    "G15!" the emcee called out. "Anyone have G15?"

Photo by Cypher789, CC BY-SA 3.0
<http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>,
via Wikimedia Commons

    "Bingo!  Bingo!  I have it!" a gray haired old lady exclaimed with excitement.

    "Congrats!  Miss Higgins.  You've one this can of SPAM."

    The crowd looked at Miss Higgins angrily and hungrily.

    "Damn it," one old man cursed under his breath.  "I just needed one more square."

    "Don't worry folks," the emcee said.  "We collected a few more cans on the last run!"

    "We need vegetables, too." a grandma in a mou mou dress complained bitterly.

    "You know this is not the best idea we ever had," the emcee whispered to the nursing home administrator.

    "Mike, I thought they would like it," she whispered shaking her head.

    "Don't fret folks!" the man said loudly into the microphone.                 "We'll go out this week, kill more zombies, and bring back more food."

    "You better," another old lady piped up.  "I'm almost out of Cream of Wheat."

    "What happened to the National Guard?"  Betty whispered.

    "I don't know," Mike replied quietly.  "It's hell out there."

    In the microphone, the emcee announced, "Alright, clear your cards for a new game!"

Zombie Dribble: A Letter to Santa

Photo by Tech. Sgt. Reynaldo Ramon / Public domain

Dear Santa,

I've been good.  Dad and I are still alive.  I don't want much for Christmas.  I'd like some chocolate.  We found some last year and it was great.  I need a bow and some arrows.  

I also need new hiking boots.  We walk all the time.

Thanks,
Timmy

Flash Fiction: Try Again Later

"While the people appear to be dead, we have to presume that they are merely in an altered state of consciousness.  We have to remember that these disease victims are people's fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and children.  If you encounter a victim of this devastating illness, do not approach them, do not hurt them, and call 911 immediately."
--- Atlanta Mayor's announcement to the city in Zombie Complex.

   "Mom, 911 just plays a recording that says all circuits are busy.  Try again later."
   "Don't worry.  The government will take care of it.  They will clear the streets and deliver us some food."
   "What should we do?"
   "Try again later."
   "But, we are hungry now."
   "That's not my fault.  Your school should have brought you lunch."
   "But, we're hungry."
   "Quit bothering me and go entertain your brothers."
   "They're hungry too."
   "Don't make me whip you.  Leave me alone."
   "I guess we'll try again later."

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

Zombie Flash Fiction: Bomber Z

     The year must have been 1981.  The summer was hot and my brother and I were totally bored during our vacation stay with our grandparents.  We found an old zombie movie on my grandparent's 27 channels of that fairly new wonder we call cable television.  We'd just settled down on the couch and the floor.  Grandma was in the kitchen making supper.  We heard our granddad come in thru the backdoor and stamp the garden dirt off one last time for kicking his shoes off in the back hall.  He entered the living room and looked at us in disgust.

     "You kids turn that crap off!"

     "But, granddad, zombies are cool!"

     "I'm paying for this cable and I'm not watching zombies!"

     "OK, granddad, we can watch something else."

     "I don't know why you are so mad.  Zombies aren't real."

     "They aren't real to you.  Put the Braves game on!"

      Granddad had been a pilot during World War II and we did what he said.  I didn't think anything more about it.  But, last week, I saw his old bomber, a B-29, sitting out in front of an Atlanta airbase.

The Tail of a Z Bomber

Front view of the B-29 Bomber "Sweet Heloise"

    

Science Fiction / Flash Fiction: Beyond Time

A fellow author, T. Alan Horne, once lamented on Twitter that so many science fiction stories featured scenes from beyond time or in space where the normal rules of space and time don't exist, but that so much of that temporal fiction followed traditional sequential rules.  I wondered what a story from a setting like that might be like.  



While this blog is typically dedicated to zombie horror, here's my attempt at breaking the temporal rules of science fiction.  It's a little bit of flash fiction from ---

Beyond Time

Turn the wrench. 

Forget the bleeding. 

Dirk screamed, "I'm hit." 

Tethered. 

Thank God for the self-sealing suit. 

Dirk had to repair the jump drive. 

Blood spattered the visor.

Spinning in space. 

Aaaaah. The pain was excruciating. 

Incoming fletchette rocket darts. 

Hard to see.

Turn the wrench. 

Forget the bleeding.

Dirk screamed, "I'm hit."
Tethered.

 

Public Domain photo from George Eastman House / No restrictions

Zombie Bites: Free Beer

I was hanging by the MARTA station like I normally do. I took a piss and got my sign ready. I needed some money for a forty. I heard the train come in and then people come screamin' out of there. Some were bloody. Some were biting people. I got me the hell out of there. Beer is free now---for as long the supply lasts. Say, you got any ice?

Zombie Short Story: Funk Day Blow Out

     "Rodney, the place is a mess."  Connie in the rental office had said on Monday.  "You need to blow out all the buildings this week."

     "Sure thing Ms. Connie.  I got this!"

Photo by Cbaile19 / CC0

     Rodney didn't care.  Some groundskeepers bitched about the weight and noise of the leaf blower.  It was a challenge walking all over the apartment complex, up every stairway, and down every breezeway.  It was a good workout, but he liked running the leaf blower.  It was fun.  He was in his mid-twenties and still in great shape.  It wasn't too hot out yet.  He liked pushing all the leaves, pine needles, and little trash around and he loved to obliterate bugs, spiders, and spider webs.  It was cool.  He would just put on his yellow safety vest, grab his headphones, crank up the tunes, fire up the blower, and groove through his week.   If the old lady in the 200 building didn't like the racket, she could call the office.  Nobody would mess with him.  Nobody would say anything.

      Now, it was Thursday.  It was Funk day!  Rodney had been through hip-hop day, R&B day, Beyoncé day, and he was moving quickly towards his favorite day:  Friday.

      "You dropped a BOMB on me baby," he crooned to an imaginary audience that wouldn't have heard him over the free revving blower.

      As he worked the second floor breezeway over to get the spider webs and dead moths out of the way, Rodney didn't care who heard him or his blower.  With just two buildings to go, Rodney headed towards the back staircase.

      Unfortunately, some people were on the stairway so the groundskeeper just took his finger off the trigger and let the blower idle.  He was used to standing aside for random folks carrying groceries.  But, these folks seemed to be talking a long time.  Rodney edged over and took a glance down the back  stairs.

       A pale man with an angry face caked with thick black blood glared up at him.  The man was crawling slowly up the steps and there was a whole mob of similarly bloody nasty looking people right behind the first man.  Some were crawling.  Some had twisted and gnarly limbs.  Others had bloody flaps of skin just hanging off of their faces or arms.  Rodney exhaled and removed his headphones.

       "It's o.k. I'll just use the other stairs," he said turning and running towards the front of the building. 

       He got to the head of the stairs only to meet more of the vile, animated, dead who were  just reaching the top steps.  He hit the trigger of the leaf blower and gave the first of the dead a 220 mile-per-hour industrial strength blast of air.  The dead man didn't shrink, shy away, or stop.  He slowed down, but just kept coming with a wind-distorted face that revealed a mouth full of blood stained teeth and bloodshot eyes that were as black as the night.

      Rodney wasn't going down without a fight. He jabbed the first three of the dead about the head, face and throat with the hard plastic air tube to break up their advance.  But, then he felt something tug on his backpack.  The backstairs zombies were grabbing him from behind.

      "Oh hell no," Rodney yelled.  "I'm done for today."

      He released the straps of the backpack-mounted blower, ditched the extra weight, and started spinning.  Rodney hadn't spun that much since he had played running back for McEachern High back in the day.  He had scored a touchdown then and he was running for his life now.  Between all the lumbering dead people, Rodney saw daylight.  He shot through a gap between in the dead, ran for the railing of the breezeway and catapulted over the handrail. 

    He landed on the concrete sidewalk below.  He felt something pop in his ankle on impact and he skidded forward skinning his knees and palms.  But, he didn't care.  He ran as best he could.  He knew he was hurt, but the adrenaline was flowing.  The groundskeeper limped and ran all the way back to the maintenance shed and jumped into his old Nissan pickup truck.

      He put the key in the ignition and fired it up. He looked at his bleeding hands and pointed skyward to give the glory to the almighty.  Then he noticed bloody marks on his forearm.

      "Damn," Rodney said.  "They bit me."

Zombie Short Story: Something You Oughta Know

     At a hundred miles an hour, Zeke Patterson felt alive and free.  Now that the dead reigned, he was done with 11 to 7 shifts.  He was done with spending his entire day down in the pit at the oil change place.  Civilization had crumbled and the old rules that held him back were gone.  He didn't have to put up with women who were too stuck up to go out with an oil change mechanic.  In this new world, sex really was free with a rifle.  Zeke grinned from ear to ear.  He had shown those office women a thing or two on his way out of Atlanta.  

   Now, he was on the open highway south of Tifton, Georgia, and the rumble of the old Mustang's V-8 through the glasspack exhaust was music to his ears.  Zeke wished he would have killed his boss and taken this car years ago.  Now, he looked over at the fully tricked out AR-15 rifle on the front seat.  It had a twin drum magazine with 100-rounds ready to go.  His trigger finger was itching.  He patted the rifle with his right hand and wished he could use it again.

Mustang Mach 1 - Photo by Joost J. Bakker from IJmuiden [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)]

     When his eyes returned to the road, he saw a frail looking dead woman in a blue polka dot dress shuffling along in the middle of the highway.  Zeke realized there was no time to use his rifle.  But, at a hundred miles an hour, it didn't matter.  The zombie was obliterated with a slight twitch of his hand at the wheel.

     "Mustang Mach 1, baby, Mustang Mach 1!" he yelled out of his window as the shattered remains of a woman disappeared in his rear view mirror.  Zeke was too far down the road to see the bloody torso of the female zombie continue her crawl towards Valdosta.

     "I am a total bad ass in this world," Zeke yelled to himself throwing an empty liquor bottle out of his window, "A total effing bad ass!"

     As the sun got lower in the sky, he realized that he was hungry.  He needed something to eat and he needed it right now.  These dumbass redneck farmers would feed him or they would pay.  Zeke pointed the yellow and black pony car towards the nearest exit.  They better turn over their daughters, too.

     He roared off the southbound ramp and onto the two lane black top with so much speed that the big muscle car slid across the road and put two tires in the grass of the shoulder when he cranked the wheel hard to the right.  Right lane, wrong lane:  it didn't matter now.  It was his lane.  He floored it and the Mustang left burning rubber and a trail of bouncing rocks behind him.

     Moments later, Zeke spotted an old farm house surrounded by fields and whipped the car into the driveway.  The blood-spattered Mustang made short work of the farm's flimsy front gate and roared to a stop in the driveway beside the old house and in front of the equally ancient detached garage.  From the backyard, an old bearded man perched upon a bucket looked up in disgust from a spot in his little vegetable garden.  Zeke grabbed his rifle, leaped out of the car, and ran into the backyard.  As he approached the garden he noticed a holstered revolver sitting on aluminum cover of  a small brick pump house by the garage.  This old man is slow and dumb, too, Zeke thought to himself.

     "What in the hell are you doing?" the old man asked taking off his dirty gardening gloves.
     "I'm here to take your food and anything else your farm has to offer,"  Zeke replied training his AR-15 on the old man's chest.
     "Well, my name is Jeb and, seeing as you just broke down my front gate, I'm not offering you much."
     "Old man, I'm here to take what I want and what I can use.  I make the rules now."
     "Since when?"
     "Since I'm the one with an AR-15 and 100 rounds of 5.56 millimeter pointed at you, I'm making the rules as of now."
     "You've got a hundred rounds in that thing?"
     "That's right! One hundred bullets to tear you apart and let your body rot in this little garden old man."
     "Alright," the old man said as he rubbed his furrowed brow.  "But, there's something you oughta know."
     "What's that you old coot?"

     The white haired man removed his well-worn Georgia Bulldogs ball cap and set it in the lap of his work pants.  Zeke involuntarily took a step to the side as a bullet tore through his left side, ripped through his heart, blew apart his back bone, exited his right side, ricocheted off his arm, and buried itself somewhere out in the peanut crop.  Then, as the crack of the shot echoed off the garage,  the younger man collapsed with a look of complete shock.

      With no satisfaction, the old farmer slowly got up from his bucket.  He looked up at his wife who was standing in the back window of their farm home and nodded.  Then he looked down at the fading outlaw.

     "It only takes one bullet to kill a man."
   

30-30 Winchester Round - Photo by Hmaag [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)]

[For the next Chronicle of Jeb story, read "The Road Trip - Part 1" For more background on Jeb, read my flash fiction story:  "Waiting."]

Dear Jesus - A Zombie Apocalypse Short Story

Dear Lord, Dear God Almighty!

I am truly screwed. You must help me get out of this place. When I came to work today, zombies were just a weird story on the radio. But, now I am sitting here in my booth at the gas station watching the whole world collapse. Oh, the day started out normal enough. People would come in, get their gas, and go. There were a couple of broke ass bastards who couldn’t get “their cards to work.” I told them that insufficient funds tended to cause card problems. I know it wasn’t very Christian, but I wasn’t very Christian this morning.

The Gas Station Attendant's Booth at an Atlanta area gas station

But, Lord, I am now. If you get me through this, I won’t ever visit the strip club again. You know I only went every Friday night to help put those poor girls through college? You know that right? I wouldn’t even go if you hadn’t made those women so perfect. Seriously, Lord, that Tabitha has it going on.

Anyway this morning, work went just fine. But, starting at lunch time, the world went crazy. Everyone was filling up. Some people had their cars packed with the wife, the kids, the dog, and almost everything they owned. People bought every case of water we had. We had lines eight cars deep and stretching clear across the parking lot. One guy came to the window and bought 10 cartons of cigarettes. Since he was carrying a rifle, I didn’t ask any questions.

After he paid, he says to me: “You better get out of here. They’re coming!” 
 Since he was making me nervous, I told him, “I guess you best be going.” 

At the time, I thought I was safer behind the glass since he was openly carrying a rifle right here in this neighborhood. I mean, Lord, this isn’t a bad neighborhood. But, that guy wasn’t crazy. He was right. The ‘hood started to go downhill fast, too.

Once that crazy dude moved on, I started keeping my eyes open and looking for weird stuff from my perch in my plexiglass cage. It didn’t take long to start seeing some crazy stuff. About ten minutes later, a really messed up looking white guy came limping towards the station. He was skinny and walked with a strange limp. I noticed that his clothes were torn, ragged, and bloody. As he got closer to the station, I was shocked to see that he had a least three bullet holes in him. I don’t even know how he was still walking. I lost sight of him as he walked behind a Chevy Tahoe at pump number one.

The next thing I saw was a fat dude running from behind that pump. He shouldn’t have run. He came my way, tripped on the curb for the pump island, and went down pretty hard for a middle-aged dude. Before he could even get back to his knees, that skinny, bloody, creature was on that dude’s back. His hands dug into the man’s shirt like claws and drew lots of blood. The big man rolled and raised his arms to fend off his attacker, and that crazy dude just bit right into his arms. He bit down hard too. I mean he took out some serious flesh out with his bite! The big guy was screaming.

He didn’t scream long though. The woman on pump five calmly put her nozzle away, gots in her big Volvo SUV, started it, and ran right into both the big guy and the zombie. She pushed both of them out of her way and peel out of the lot. She was gone and she wasn’t even looking back. I was stunned. The big guy was down and bleeding out and the scrawny biter got knocked out into the parking lot. I hesitated for a moment and then I did my part: I dialed 911. And, Jesus, do you know what happened then? Nothing. The call didn’t even go through. All the circuits were busy. Who the hell contracts out their 911 service anyway?

I hung up the phone and started to go out there to help. Some lady from another pump ran over to the big guy and knelt down to apply direct pressure to his wounds. An older gentleman came sauntering over to offer his assistance and I could see some other customers were still in their cars frantically dialing 911. So, I leave out through my side door and start to come around the front.

And, Lord, do you know what I saw?

Okay, I’ll tell you. I saw the scrawny white dude--with the gunshot wounds and bumper imprint on his chest--getting up.

Lord, I’m not going to lie. I ran the hell back around the corner and got right back in this here gas station hut. The skinny bloody dude was right on my heels, too. But, I got in here and slammed the door in his face. He’s still out there. He is looking through the plexiglass now.

Oh, he took a break, he took a break to bite the old dude who came to help. He took a break to bite the lady who was helping treat the fat guy’s wounds. He took a break to bite everyone who came to help the lady. I don’t know what that guy is on. He bit everyone. Sometimes, he bit them until they were dead. It was horrible. Sometimes he ripped out their guts. Every time I looked out my window, there was blood and mayhem. But, Lord, that isn’t the worst part.

That scrawny guy and everyone he killed is standing right outside my window and right outside my door. The big fat guy is up and staring right at me. He’s bloody and looks pale, but he is up. How does that even happen? The lady and the old man who came to the fat guy’s aid are out there too. There must be two dozen dead people out there looking at me. They are waiting for me. I know they want to bite me too. I can’t even get out to the Coca-Cola cooler.

So here I am Lord. Tell me how I get out of here. They can’t get through the plexiglass and I can’t get out through my door. So what do I do? How can I escape? If you let me get out and live, I’ll start coming to church. Every Sunday. For real, this time. I mean it. I’m a good person. I work hard. Now I need you to help me.

Please, Lord, help me.

Amen.

Zombie Flash Fiction - Rhonda's Ride

     Rhonda loved her new car.  It had everything she ever wanted in a car:  leather seats, a kickin' stereo, a back up camera, phone connectivity, internet radio, and all kinds of safety features.  The car could practically drive itself.  It was smart!  But, today, Rhonda was getting a little worried about the news.  S*&t was getting real!  People got some freaky ass disease and were running around biting people.  Today, Rhonda just wanted to drive straight home.  Of course, she had to go through the old Cumberland Village to get there.  Bumper-to-Bumper:  as always!

Photo By Niels de Wit from Lunteren, The Netherlands [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

      Last week, the sorry ass DJ's on the car radio were laughing it up.
     "There's no such thing as zombies!" they said.
     "Watch out for Frankenstein," they laughed.
 
      They were saying something different today.  Their asses were on the radio beggin' for someone to please bring them some food.
     "Oh, I have food," Rhonda yelled at the radio.  "I have food for my children!"
     "I just have to get it home," she muttered to herself.

     Rhonda looked to her right and some dude was biting an old lady in the neck.  She looked to her left, at the oncoming traffic, just in time to see a redneck dude plow his pickup right into the back of a stopped car--kaabam!  Airbag deployment and everything.  Everybody was looking at the carnage surrounding them.  Everybody was in shock.  But, Rhonda didn't have time for that kind of mess.  She had to get the groceries home and lock up tight.  The kids weren't going anywhere!

     The noise of the collision seemed to bring all the crazy biter bastards out.  They were everywhere.  The car in front of her hit the gas and opened up a gap in the traffic.  But, the biters just walked right into the road and filled the gap in.  There were dozens of them.  Rhonda had to get through zombies or no zombies.  She saw a spot on the sidewalk and punched the accelerator.  If the biters wouldn't get out of the way, she would just run their asses down.

     Suddenly, a big red light lit up on her dashboard and the car came to a halt just six inches from a couple of the monstrous pedestrians.  She punched the gas and car wouldn't move.  She slammed it into reverse, the backup camera came on revealing more dead pedestrians.  The car lurched backwards and came to a half after moving all of two feet.  The red light on the dash warned her again.  The car revved and went no where.  The car would not be used as a weapon.  It would not run down pedestrians.

     "Oh no," Rhonda cried.  "This ride is too damn smart!"