Zombie Flash Fiction: The Little Bugout Truck

With a knapsack full of peanut butter, I rounded the corner and ran down the alley behind the grocery store.  I looked over my shoulder to glance back at the horde on my heels.  That was enough of a distraction for me to get my feet mixed up and send me tumbling.  But, in this world, you can't stay down.  I was up in an instant and I hopped, limped, and otherwise made my way back to my little yellow truck.  I climbed in and looked over to see the dead clawing at my windows.  It's always an inconvenient time to dig your keys out of your deepest pocket.

The dead were drooling on my windshield as I finally started the truck.  As it started up with one turn of the key, I smiled and reflected on my little truck.  I  always thought I'd want a really big four-wheel-drive truck with a winch and brush bars just in case the world came to an end.  Now that the world has actually come to the end, I'm glad I have a simple and reliable little vehicle  that sips fuel, cranks every time, and is incredibly reliable.

I put my little truck into drive, accelerated to thirty, and slammed on the brakes.  It was fun to see the dead roll off the hood and down the road.  Escape was simply matter of making a quick turn and hitting the gas.  I left the dead behind me in the rearview mirror.  

When I'm surrounded by a horde, I can't have car trouble.  You can't just call AAA for a jumpstart or a tow.

Photo by:  Ildar Sagdejev (Specious), CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Zombie Flash Fiction: The Resolution

I can share some water with you.  We have a pretty good filter. There's no ball drop this year.  No parties.  No celebrations.  No champagne toasts.  Nothing.  With the infected and the dead roaming the countryside for most of last year, there's really only one resolution for the upcoming year:  I will survive.

If it means stabbing more zombies in the head, I will do what I need to do to survive.  If it means drinking muddy water, I will do what I need to do to survive.  If it means eating bugs, I will do what I need to do to  survive.  If it means killing cute little animals for meat, I will do what I need to do to survive.  Survival is my resolution.  It is THE resolution.

I've learned a lot in this past year.  I've persevered when others have faltered and failed.  I've become fit when I was once flabby.  I've become ruthless when I was once kind.  I've become cautious in situations when I would have been careless.  I've become bold when I was once timid.  The rise of the dead has really changed me.  It changes everyone who has the will to survive.

I only wish I would have resolved to be healthier, more athletic, more prepared and braver a long time ago.  Then, I could have saved more of the ones I loved.

 

 

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

Zombie Postcard Fiction: The Horde is Here!

"What about grandma's china?"

"Leave it."

"What about the photo albums?"

"There's no time."

"The cat is hiding."

"Leave her and get in the car!"

 

Photo by Leo de Vos from id., The Netherlands, 

CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>,

 via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

Zombie Postcard Fiction: A Few Short Blocks

Carl Campbell / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)

I lived a few blocks from the subway.  I tried to walk home.  I'm still walking and I don't even know where home is anymore.






-----------------------------------------

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)

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"

    

Zombie Flash Fiction: Zombies BRB!

     My online meeting is beyond boring.  The subject matter expert is just droning on and on while the developers take copious notes.  My ability to look out my home office window is the main advantage to working from home.  Plus, I don't have to dodge the dead during the morning commute.  Meetings are always tedious.  Today, I see a couple of the dead shuffling around in the neighbor's yard.  They seem pretty listless and are wandering back towards their side yard.  They are such a nuisance.  I should probably call the Home Owners' Association after my call ends.

  

     I glance back down at my computer.  The developers are showing some screen mockups.  I had hoped to avoid the conversation, but now they are discussing fonts and colors.  I put my head down in my hands.  It's official.  This call will never end.  I look back up and Mrs. Lindquist has pulled her old Buick up into her driveway and is rummaging in the back of her trunk.  She's nearly 80 years old.  She doesn't need to carry all those groceries.  I also don't think she saw the dead guys in her side yard.  

     

    "BRB," I type into the chat window.

   I knock on my window.  She doesn't hear me.  Crap.  I pull up my blinds and open my window.  It won't budge.  It's locked.  I find and flip the latch and throw it open.

     "Mrs. Lindquist!  Mrs. Lindquist!," I yell at the top of my voice.

     She just turns around and waves.  Unbelievable.

     "Hey!  Somebody needs to go on mute," I hear in my headphones.  I tear them off and fling them onto my desk.

     "Zombies!"  I yell.  "Watch out!"

     She still doesn't hear.  I get up and knock over my iced coffee.  I dive across the bed to the gun safe.  The keys are in the door.  It doesn't matter.  I have no kids.  I grab my cowboy rifle.  It's a stainless Rossi lever-action in .45 Long Colt.  I crank a round into the chamber.  Damn it!  I'm too late.  The dead are already upon her.  I punch out my screen with the barrel.  Today, I have to use three rounds instead of two.

Zombie Bites: Standing Tall

My name is Buddy Lumpkin and I was up in a Tower Crane by the new baseball stadium when it all went down.  With a corporate headquarters to build, there was no slack in the schedule.  I got to the job site at 6 a.m., made my long climb, put my lunch in the mini-fridge, and looked down to see that we had a whole line of trucks to unload.  It was going to be girders all day.

After a sausage biscuit and a bit of coffee, my bellman, Jeff, finished jawing with the super and got on the horn.  I like working with him because he's got a good eye and he's real good on the radio.  

Pretty soon we were getting it done.  All morning long I was hearing: 

"Left, left, left, 15 feet, 10 feet, 5 feet, hold."
"Trolley out. Trolley out. 10, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, hold."
"Load on.  Hoist!"
"Right, right, right, 20, 15, 10, 5, hold."
"Lower, lower, lower, 10, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, hold."
 
Then, just before lunch, Jeff starts hollering into the radio.
"Holy crap!  Holy crap!  Holy crap!"

I just about crapped my pants.  I had a load of girders on and thought I'd dropped something.  

"What the hell is going on?" I hollered right back.
"Zombies!" came the reply.  "They are eating us!"
"I thought the news proved that zombies were B.S.?"
"Looks like they were wrong, Buddy."

I grabbed my binoculars and, sure enough, there were swarms of monstrous looking people surging onto the construction and just laying into people.  They were just tearing people up and eating them alive.  People running.  Then some of the workers grabbed pipes and heavy tools and started fighting back.  A thin line of orange vests took form and stood toe-to-toe with the horde.

Jeff came back on the radio.
"Hoist that load," he commanded.  "Up 15.  Trolley out."
"What's going on down there?" I asked.
"5, 4, 3, 2, 1.  Hold," Jeff responded.  "We're going to flatten the dead."
"I got ya,"  I told him.
"Swing left, left, 10, 5, 1, hold."
I tried to see what was happening with the binoculars, but there was no time.
"Put the load down hard,"  Jeff ordered.
"Hammer time!"
"We got 'em!"  Jeff replied, "Now hoist 3 feet!"
"Alright," I said.  "What's the plan?"
"Let's smack 'em around," Jeff replied.  "Swing right just a little, 10, 5, 3 ..."
"Did we get them?" I asked.
"A whole bunch," he said.  "Now we got to go the other way."
"Say the word."
"Now right quick," he said.  "Swing left 20, 5, 4, 3 ... that's good!"

Photo by High Contrast / CC BY 3.0 DE (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/de/deed.en)

Up in my cab, a whole bunch of red lights came alive on my dashboard.  The load of girders was swinging like a pendulum and was straining the jib--that's what you might think of as the boom.

"We're gonna have to slow down brother," I radioed down.  "The computer ain't too happy with our batting practice."
 "Well, we don't have much time," Jeff replied urgently. "There's another big mob of them coming through the gate."
"You guys are going to have to pull back," I told him.


 I tried to slowly move the joystick to slew the jib.  I hit the button to hoist the load.  But, the computer wasn't having it.  I could re-boot, but that might take a couple of minutes.  There was only one thing to do.  Take a deep breath and give it a little time to calm down.

"One Mississippi.  Two Mississippi,"  I said to myself grabbing the binoculars.

At three Mississipi, I saw one of the Mexican concrete guys  brandishing a long pipe in an effort to fend off three of the zombies.  The dead didn't care.  By the fifth Mississippi, he was down and being disemboweled.

I looked down again and I saw the Super with his megaphone.  I don't know what he was saying, but all the workers started running into the building.  The Super ran right behind them.  He moved pretty fast for an old guy in khakis and a collared denim shirt.

By the time I counted to the fifteenth Mississippi, I couldn't see anyone below.  The joystick was beginning to respond again.

"Jeff!  Jeff," I called out.  "Are you still down there?"

Sixteen Mississippi.  Seventeen Mississippi.

"Hey Buddy," the breathless bellman finally responded.  "I'm about fifty feet up on your ladder."

"Good,"  I told him. "I've got slew control again."

 "Well alright," he says.  "Let's get to work smashing zombies."

We survived that day and so did most of the workers on the job site.  As soon as the coast was clear, we all headed for our vehicles and headed home.  I remember picking my way through flattened and mangled zombies.  Some of them were still jawing and rasping.  Most of them were just pulp.  I remember walking by the pile of steel girders we left in the entrance.  The blood was just dripping off of them.  It made a big red puddle.

I hope Jeff made it home.  I'd like to work with him again when we start rebuilding this world.

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 Flash Fiction: Young Love and Zombies

It was the first time, Hunter and Rain had a chance to be alone.  Hunkered down behind a hastily constructed plywood blind, they watched the road.  If they saw a hoard of zombies shuffling towards the neighborhood, they would warn everyone of an attack.  But, they saw only a lone directionless zombie here and there.

After spending so much time gardening, building defenses, and killing the dead, they were both tired.  In other assignments, they had a few chances to exchange glances, smiles, and winks.  Rain knew he wanted to connect with her and she had seen him shirtless on a cleanup detail.  She thought he felt the same way.  He had seen the way he looked at her as she planted seedlings.

At first Hunter didn't say much, but Rain got the conversation started.  In just a few minutes, they were talking easily.  Rain had never felt so connected.  After all they had seen since the end of the world, they both needed to talk.  Soon they touched.  It was electric.  There was a spark.  Soon they were holding hands.  He caressed her cheek.  They kissed.  She had never felt so alive.  Soon they were doing everything young lovers could do.  They did everything except watch for zombies.

Today, Hunter and Rain are still together.  Out there.  Somewhere.  Wandering the world with a ripped bodice and no pants.