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.

Celebrating DragonCon with a Free Short Story

Labor Day is a big weekend in Atlanta.  There's a lot going on.  The city is hosting the premiere east coast gaming convention DragonCon.  In celebration of DragonCon and all the other events in the city, my horror short story Zombie Cage will be free on Saturday (9/1/2018) and Sunday (9/2/2018).  This is also the last weekend to get my must read zombie apocalypse novel, Zombie Complex, for only 99 cents on Kindle.

Whether you are here in Atlanta for DragonCon, the Chick-fil-A College Football Kick-Off (Auburn vs. Washington), or for the Black Gay Pride Festival, I hope you take advantage of these special offers, enjoy some good zombie apocalypse reading, and have a wonderful time in Atlanta.

Free Zombie Short Story: Dog Walk of the Apocalypse

My Zombie short story "Dog Walk of the Apocalypse" is free for Kindle through Wednesday, March 14, 2018.  You can get it for Amazon Kindle.  Today, it hit Number 1 for free Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Reads.  It also hit #6 for free Literature and Fiction short reads.

It's just a short story and will only take about fifteen minutes to read, but I hope you enjoy it.  When the promotional period is over the story will continue to be available for 99 cents on Kindle or for Free on Kindle Unlimited!

Zombie Flash Fiction - Waiting

Waiting

Jeb decided that the world was going to need more butter beans.  That's why he spent all morning putting up extra poles, stringing lines between them, and laying out a half-dozen rows for planting them.  He had a bucket full of pole beans ready to plant.  But, it was hot and Jeb was an old man.  He needed to sit for a spell.  That's why his house had a front porch with built in ceiling fans.

Myra had made him some lemonade.  She was a good woman, but she was nervous wreck.  It was a good thing she had plenty of preserves to put away.  It kept her busy and stopped her from speculating about the news out of Atlanta.  The latest news from up there just didn't make any sense.

Earlier in the week, all the government officials and medical experts were confident that they could simply round up and treat all the crazy people.  It was a disease they said.  They were telling folks not to shoot the afflicted.  But, Betty had said the afflicted were out trying to bite people.

"Y'all just need to get in your van and come on down to the homeplace," Jeb remembered telling her on the phone.  "Just round up Robert and the kids and you drive on down here as fast as you can."

Jeb didn't really take to Robert.  He was a trifling husband who needed a haircut and a real job.  But, Betty said they were coming.  Now, there was nothing to do but sit on the front porch swing, look down the road, and wait.  Jeb wiped the sweat from his brow and had a sip of lemonade--a nervous sip.

[For the next Chronicle of Jeb story, read "Something You Oughta Know."