Zombie Flash Fiction: Good Eating!

    The end of the world stinks.  When the dead are walking around in the hot Georgia sun with their guts trailing behind them, it's not a good smell.  When you've got to stand guard by an overflowing dumpster and trash compactor and the front of your apartment complex, it doesn't help the situation.

    "What are we going to do with all this trash?" my wife, Karen, asked with her hands on her hips.  "It's not like they'll be collecting it with all the dead around."

   

    "We could burn it?" Larry, the former SWAT Cop suggested.

    "If we burn it," I replied. "We'll just attract the dead."

    "Yeah, but if we pile it up and leave it out we'll attract rats and other vermin." 

    "Yes," Larry said with a gleam in his eye. "And those vermin will be good eating!"

    "Dude," I said shaking my head.

    "That's just gross," Karen said turning away in disgust.

    "Bon Appetit!"

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 Short Story - The Road Trip - Part 6

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this final installment, things are looking pretty grim for our good folks.  But, if you're new to the series, you'll want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     Jeb and the store clerk, Darlene, backed into the El Dorado General Store and slammed the front door behind them.  Jeb's wife, Myra, met them inside with her lever action .30-30 carbine in hand.
     "There's whole mess of them coming," Jeb announced.
     As Darlene locked the front door, the dead launched themselves against the store.  She recoiled as the horde scratched against the metal mesh grid of the door and the burglar bars of the windows.  With each onslaught, the bells hanging from the inner door handle jingled with every onslaught and the moans and clawing of the dead made everyone uneasy.
     "This is an old building folks," Darlene announced in a raspy voice that showed the influence of a lifetime of smoking.  "I hope it will hold up to this."
     "Can we fortify it?" Jeb asked thinking aloud.
     "We can move the ice cream cooler in front of the door," Darlene suggested.
     "O.K.," Myra agreed.  "Good idea."
     Jeb pushed mightily on the cooler and it barely budged.  But, when Myra and Darlene added their muscle, the big cooler slowly moved into place blocking the front door.
     "That there was some girl power," Jeb observed.

     Darlene flexed her bicep victoriously and Myra suggested that Jeb start working out.  Jeb just nodded and reloaded his revolver painstakingly ejecting each spent shell until it was empty and then replacing each shell with another cartridge.
     The moment of levity passed quickly as the first piece of wooden siding on the front of the old store ripped from the building and fell with a clatter.  Additional boards followed in rapid succession.  Then a dead man's arm reached through the wall and started to wave around.  Jeb calmly walked over, grabbed the arm, looked through the small hole in the wall, and gazed into the dark bloodshot eyes of a zombie on the outside. 


      "You stay right there fella," he admonished the dead man.
      Then he cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger to shoot that dead man right between the eyes.  It was a simple act, but inside the store, the roar of the big magnum was deafening.  Everyone jumped and every conversation was conducted at a yell.
       "Does this place have a back door?" Myra asked.
       "Yes ma'am," Darlene answered.  "And, my Dodge is parked out back!"
        More of the dead were clawing through the front walls of the store and Jeb shot two more.
       "Ladies," he announced as he replaced the spent cartridges.  "It's time for us to leave!"
       Myra grabbed her little cooler of ammunition and sandwiches and the trio made it through the junk food packed aisles of the store and back into the windowless store room.  They reached the  back door just as the dead started to break through the front walls and pour into the front of the establishment.  Flustered, Darlene was trying to find the key to unlock the back door alarm.  But, there were a lot of keys on her key ring.
       "You get the car unlocked Darlene, you take the ones on the right Myra, and I'll take the ones on the left," Jeb yelled.
        When zombies started to squeeze into storeroom, Darlene finally stopped fussing with the store keys and just pushed open the door.  After the gunshots, the siren blast of the exit alarm didn't even phase them.  The group just bounded out and dashed for a ten-year-old Dodge Journey SUV behind the store.  As they moved, Jeb and Myra fired at the nearest zombies.  They each felled one.  As they were older folks trying to run and Myra was still carrying a small lunch cooler, the rest of their shots had little effect.
     Jeb jumped into the front passenger seat, Myra dove in back, and Darlene ran around the front of her boxy SUV.  A zombie reached for her as she climbed into the driver's seat.  Darlene slammed the door on his bloody hand three times before getting it closed.  She started the Dodge and the engine roared to life with her panicked foot on the accelerator.

2010 Dodge Journey - photo by SsmIntrigue / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

        Seconds later they were bouncing down the dirt road that led from the back of the store up to the Omega Road.  The monstrous horde dutifully started to trail behind them.  Jeb said take a right, let's get my truck, and then we'll head to our place.  With the dead strung out across the fields, dirt road, and underbrush behind the store, Darlene just floored it, whipped up onto the Omega Road, and around the block to the ruined store front.  Jeb jumped out and ran for his classic Chevy.  A dead man in a farmer's overalls rounded the building and shuffled for Jeb at a surprising fast place.  Jeb pulled the hammer back, aimed for the head shot and squeezed the trigger.  Click.  Empty.  Jeb's heart sank as he realized he had already fired six shots in the previous mayhem.  
    A race for the truck ensued.  Fortunately a living retired farmer was just a bit faster than a dead farmer.  Jeb scrambled into truck and got it started just as the dead man grabbed his door.  Jeb popped the clutch with plenty of panic-stricken revs, and squeeled out of the parking lot with his back tires spun kicking up sand and gravel in the parking lot.  The zombie held on but lost his grip as Jeb spun the truck around to head south.  The dead farmer rolled across the pavement of the two lane highway and came to rest against a chain-link fence.  With Myra and Darlene in the lead, the survivors raced back down 41 in both vehicles.  
     Jeb and Myra's trip home was much faster than any of them had thought possible.  As soon as they got inside their home, the couple ever so faintly heard their phone ringing inside.  Jeb dashed in and picked up the receiver.  
       "Hello," he yelled.  "Hello!"
       It was Jeb and Myra's daughter Betty.
       "Daddy," Betty said frantically.  "We're trapped up here just outside of Atlanta!"

[Thanks for reading! If you're interested in reading more of my stories or my novel Zombie Complex, I invite you to visit my Amazon Author page here on Amazon.]

Photo credit:  Ruger Super Blackhawk photo adapted from photo by Everett Walker / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0) 

Zombie Short Story - The Road Trip - Part 5

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this installment, there's fixing to be a brouhaha in a place called El Dorado.  But, if you're new to the series, you'll want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     Standing in the doorway of the El Dorado General Store, Jeb looked in the eyes of the zombie he called Flapjack. The dead man looked right back, moaned, and started shuffling towards the big farmer and the store.  In response, Jeb drew his big single-action revolver with his right hand in one smooth fluid motion.  As he brought it to bear, he cocked the hammer back with his thumb.  He turned slightly, brought his left hand up for extra support on the wooden grips of the big iron, formed a perfect isosceles triangle with his stance, caught a brief glimpse of the front sight, and squeezed the trigger.  The whole world exploded with the blast of  the .357 Magnum.  So did Flapjack's head.

Ruger Black Hawk photo by Mika Järvinen from Finland / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

     Ordinarily Myra wasn't the kind of woman who could be told what to do or where to be.  She was planning to dash by Jeb and get her rifle from the truck.  But, when that big magnum went off, she appeared to levitate about four inches of the ground, did a pirouette worthy of the Atlanta ballet, and ran right back into the store.
     It was a good thing because Jeb had to turn back to his right and deal with dead homeless lady.  If you think life comes at you fast, Jeb would tell you that death can come at you pretty damn quick.  The homeless lady had about four feet to go when the big Black Hawk spoke its gospel once again.  Jeb hoped she'd find a home with Jesus.
     Next a zombie clambered up on the hood of truck, Jeb wasn't having that so he got a quick shot off that hit the zombie in the chest and sent him tumbling backwards to the other side of the vehicle.  Zombies came around the front and back of the truck and from around the two gas pump island further out in the parking lot.  Six gun math was starting to look grim for Jeb as a dozen zombies were converging on the store.
     He was surprised to see Myra dart past him and jumped into the front of the truck.  As he dispatched the closest zombies on his left and right, she ran back into the store with her rifle and the lunch cooler.  As Jeb backed towards the store, he was surprised by a couple of shotgun blasts nearly right over his shoulder.  The store clerk, Darlene, was standing in the doorway with a double-barreled coach gun.
     "You don't expect me to sit out here in the middle of nowhere alone do you?" she asked the temporarily deafened old farmer.  
      Together they retreated back into the store as the dead gathered for a bigger fight.

Coach Gun - Short double-barreled Shotgun - photo by Marcus Burns / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)

[Thanks for reading.  For the exciting conclusion of our story, read Part 6!]
    

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 4

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this installment, Jeb and Myra think they may be able to trade some vegetables for merchandise.  But, they meet some customers who might have other ideas.  Of course, if you're new to the series, you might want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     Leaving the dead man dead in the road behind them, Jeb and Myra continued north on highway 41.  The cab of the old truck was silent and somber save for the clicking of Chevy's six-cylinder engine and the rustling of the wind in the windows.  After a few minutes, the couple began to see more houses, mobile homes,  small industrial buildings, a church, and a general store.  According to legend, El Dorado, is some kind of lost city of gold down in South America.  But, in the southern part of America, it's just an unincorporated rural community in Georgia.  If there was gold in our El Dorado, it's been gone for a long time.  For most visitors, it's a place for desperate folks to get off the highway, use the restroom,  gas up, and grab some sort of snack.

     Jeb also knew El Dorado was a place plenty of hard working folks called home.  He saw the aging El Dorado General Store on his left and pulled across the road into their sand and gravel parking lot.
     
     "Lotto, Food, Beer, and Wine," Jeb announced.  "I wonder if they'll want to trade for some fresh vegetables."
     "I wonder if they'll shoot you dead for walking into a convenience store with a gun?"  Myra replied smartly.
     "I think I'll be alright," Jeb said.  "They know me here."
     "I don't see any of those monsters so I better leave the rifle here in the truck."
     "Well, let's go in and see how they're doing."
     As Jeb opened the heavy steel and glass door, a string of jingle bells did their thing to announce his presence.  Jeb just poked his head in, and looked around.
      "How y'all doing?" he asked in a rather booming voice.
      A skinny older lady with salt and pepper hair and a million wrinkles peeked from around the register.  A long southern conversation ensued.  Her name was Darlene and it turned out that she once went to the same church as Jeb and Myra.  While they talked about zombies, they also covered every other possible topic.  It turned out that Darlene had a son in rehab for drug addiction.  Jeb and Myra would pray for his recovery.  Another of her sons was selling tractors down in Valdosta.  Her daughter was away at Agriculture school, but decided to join the Army and is over in Germany.  Her grandchildren were supposed to come for a few weeks in the summer.  Myra hoped they could come to vacation bible school.  They must have talked on and on for an hour.
     In ordinary circumstances, such a conversation would drive big city folks crazy.  But, in these times of crisis, the conversation merely provided time for lots and lots of big city zombies to walk right into the tiny Georgia settlement known as El Dorado.  In fact, when Jeb walked out to get the bushel of butter beans that he sold after all that conversation, he found he had plenty of company in the parking lot.  The state fair portalet and death smell alone would knocked most men over.
     To his left and about thirty feet away was the ghostly pale shell of a used car salesman from Warner-Robins.  Well groomed and athletic in life, his appearance in death was marred by deep cut across his face that exposed his skeletal jaw and left his cheek flapping across his car dealer polo shirt.  To his right, a very dead homeless woman in an overcoat was wandering around the periphery of the gas station lot.  Jeb could see the silhouettes of at least a dozen other zombies partially obscured by this truck.
      As Myra edged out the door behind him, Jeb motioned her back and said, "You better go inside."
      He unsnapped the holster top strap that secured his Ruger Blackhawk .357 Magnum.  It was an old school single-action revolver.  Whatever was going to happen next was going to happen just the way John Wayne would have done it.  Jeb decided Flapjack would be target number one.

[Thanks for reading!  Read on to see if Jeb can flip a flapjack!  Check out The Road Trip - Part 5]

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 3

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this installment, Jeb is in quite a pickle.  But, if you're new to the series, you might want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     "Oh Lord," Jeb prayed aloud.  "Let me start this truck!"
     The old farmer pumped the gas twice, pulled the oversized steering-column-mounted shift lever back and up into first gear, depressed the clutch, and turned the key.  As the old straight-six turned over, he heard the dead man's hand slap the side of the truck.  As the engine roared to life, a gnarled claw-like hand reached in through the open window. 

1953 Chevy 3100 Pickup Truck

     This time Jeb had the presence of mind to ease the clutch up nice and slow while pressing on the gas.  The '53 Chevy truck accelerated away leaving the the zombie behind.
     "That was close," Jeb turned and said to wife.  "Myra!?"
     Myra's side of the bench was empty and the door was slightly ajar.  He was shocked.  Then he looked in the rear-view mirror in time to see his wife of forty years confronting the dead man eyeball-to-eyeball.
     As for Myra, from a distance of about fifteen feet she looked directly into the eyes of the dead man and the dead man looked right back at her for a moment.  It seemed like an eternity.  Myra wondered if she saw any hint of humanity in the dead man.  But, the dead man just moaned and took a step towards her.  It was his last step.
     Myra had her .30-30 carbine at the ready, brought it to her shoulder, focused only for a moment on the front sight, and squeezed the trigger.  In a bloody instant the dead man dropped to the ground.  Myra turned away from the ghastly sight and backed off the road.  When she looked up, the old Chevy 3100 was between her and the body.
     "Honey, are you okay?" Jeb asked.
      Myra was shaking and pale.  Jeb's voice was muffled to her as adrenaline raced through her body.
      "Myra baby," he asked again. "Are you going to be okay?"
      Jeb sat for a moment and said, "I was wondering where you went?"
     Myra took a deep breath, opened the door, and unsteadily guided the Marlin back into the gun rack.  Grabbing Jeb's outstretched hand, she climbed back into the truck.


     "I wasn't sure you'd get it into gear," Myra said. "I figured I better keep him from hitching a ride."
     "That three-on-a-tree manual is gonna be the death of me!"
     "The death of me too!"
     "Do you think we should stop and bury him?" Myra asked as they started back down the road.
     "No.  It's too dangerous," Jeb replied.  "There might be more like him out there."
     "Then let's say a prayer for that poor man's soul."
     Jeb pulled the truck over into the median and the couple bowed their heads. Jeb said a few somber words that were barely audible over the engine.  When their prayer was over, they got back on the two lane road that was Highway 41.
     "I think we'll definitely be making a pit stop in El Dorado," he said.
     "Yes," Myra replied. "I think we're both going to have to tinkle."
   
[Thanks for reading this zombie story.  You can continue on to read the next installment here:  The Road Trip (Part 4)]

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 2

[This is the second part of my serialized series of short stories.  To start at the beginning of this series, read "The Road Trip-Part 1."]

    With a full load of vegetables and canned preserves, Jeb and Myra pulled out of their drive and started their journey to the north in their old Chevy pickup truck. 

   "How should we go?" Jeb asked.

   "If we take the highway," Myra replied.  "We'll get their faster."

   "If we take 41," Jeb said.  "We'll have more options if something happens and we can stop in some of the little general stores on the way up."
   "Then 41 is definitely the way to go."
   Driving gently, Jeb piloted the '53 Chevy across the nearby interstate overpass and hung a left to head north on Highway 41.  In this part of Georgia, it was merely a well-maintained and striped two-lane road.  Soon the truck was clicking along at a steady fifty miles per hour through rural Georgia on its trek to market.  Farm fields, an occasional house, and small stands of pines broke the monotony. It wouldn't be a long trip and it was a familiar route, but Myra sat mesmerized looking at the arrow straight road and the endless ribbon of railroad tracks to their right.

US Highway 41 in South Georgia (courtesy of Google Maps)

After a few minutes, Jeb started squinting and looking far down the blacktop.  A little ways ahead, a bearded man in an open blue denim shirt and jeans stood in the middle of the road.
    "Is that...what is that guy doing in the road?" he asked as he started to slow the truck.
    "I don't know," Myra replied.  "Do you think he needs help?"
    "I reckon we'll see what he wants," said as he pushed in the clutch and brought the truck to a stop alongside the man who stood alone in the opposite traffic lane.
     "Hey fella," Jeb hollered in a friendly but booming voice. "Do ya need any help?"
     The man turned revealing a two gaping chest wounds and a bloodly torn up ear.  A streak of dried reddish-brown blood soaked his denim work shirt, the tee shirt he wore underneath, and his pants all the way to the ground.  Jeb recoiled and practically jumped to the middle of the bench seat.  Even the old truck jumped as the Jeb inadvertently popped the clutch.  In its top gear, third, the old truck lurched ahead about 30-feet and completely stalled.
     As Jeb regained his seat, he could hear the dead man moan and see him growing larger in the rear view mirror.  His revolver was pinned awkwardly to his hip by the lap belt his kids had lovingly had installed.  His only choice was to start the truck.

<It looks like Jeb better get it gear or he's gonna be drooling and shuffling.  Read on in the next installment - Part 3!>

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 1

     Jeb was sweating a bit as he loaded a box of preserves into his old Chevy truck.  Bushel baskets and wooden boxes filled with fresh cucumbers, pole beans, butter beans, onions, and even peaches made for a complete load.  It had been a lot for an old man to plant and a lot for him to harvest, but as he pushed the box of preserves across the bed of the truck he was proud.

A 1953 Chevrolet 3100 Pickup

     "Not bad for a retired farmer," he thought to himself.  But his thought was interrupted when the side door to the garage door jerked open and his wife stormed in.
     "Jebediah Ruben Simmons, you stubborn old mule," Myra Simmons said indignantly. "You need to listen to me!"
     "Woman," the old farmer replied. "I hear you."
     "You don't need to go into town.  You can stay right here on this farm."
     "Myra, if I don't go into town, people in town don't get to eat."
     "If you believe the news, you know the people in town are doing a pretty good job of eating each other."
     "You know that's just the worst video they can find.  There's good people in town, there's families,  there's refugees, and they need food."
     "Jeb," his wife said pointing at the classic Mustang sitting next to his truck.  "You know exactly what kind of people have come down here from Atlanta."
     "Darling, you know I can deal with any trouble that comes my way."
     "I don't know that and you don't know that.  You're too damn old for this stuff."
     "I'm going," Jeb replied.  "My grandfather told stories of using corncobs for toilet paper and I'm not fixing to start down that path.  We need stuff too."
     "It's too dangerous!"
     "It's not too dangerous," Jeb answered. "I'm only going up to Tifton!"
     "Good, then I'm coming with you!" Myra retorted before storming out.  Speechless, the old farmer knew he had been outmaneuvered.
     "Damn it," Jeb muttered as he pulled on his Bulldog cap.
     Next, he strapped on his revolver, hopped in his truck, took a deep breath, and hit the garage door opener.  The '53 Chevy started right up and he eased her slowly out of the garage.  Jeb remembered when his kids had "stolen" his old truck, fixed it up a bit, and had it painted.  The deep eggplant color still looked good.  It still had the original 216-cubic-inch straight six, but that was all Jeb needed.  The truck rejuvenation had been the best birthday gift ever and it meant a lot.  He hoped his daughter Betty and her kids were alright out there.
     As Myra came out looking as beautiful as ever.  She had a small cooler in one hand and carried her .30-30 Marlin in the other.  She opened the passenger door, slid the rifle into the gun rack, and slid up onto the bench seat.
     "What's for lunch," Jeb asked.
     "Two sandwiches, potato salad, two Coca-Colas, and two boxes of ammunition."
     "That sounds good to me."

[To hit the road with Jeb and Myra, read the next installment "The Road Trip - Part 2." If you'd like to read a previous Chronicle of Jeb, check out my short story "Something You Oughta Know."]

Zombie Flash Fiction: Forever Walking

Sleepless.  Tired.  Wired.  Hungry. Parched.  We pressed onward. Just climb the ridge. Just follow the road.  Walking west forever. My shoes were almost worn out.  I hadn’t showered.  I didn’t care.  I didn’t even want to remember eating.  My thoughts were a jumble of memories of the world that used to be.  The news reports of the spreading virus were a fading blur.  Ahead was the army. Soldiers.  Relief.  Shock!  Why shoot at us?

Photo by Rodrigo Fernández / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

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.

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 - Black Friday Z

River kicked back in his tent.  On this Black Friday, he occupied the third spot from the door.  He would be the third person through the door at Big Box Electronics.  The security guard had already given him a certificate that guaranteed he would get 75% off the price of the newest PlayBox gaming system.  It would be sweet.  All he had to do was make it through the night.  He felt the cold hard sidewalk through the floor of the tent.  A shiver went through River's whole body.

Photo by Paul Budd [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Beating the cold was just a matter of mind over matter.  He had a whole thermos of his mom's hot chocolate.  At 16, River didn't need his mom to make him hot chocolate.  But, tonight, he was really glad that she did.  His mom and stepdad, Phil, were being really cool about Black Friday.  He just snugged down as far as possible in his cold weather sleeping bag and pulled the zipper all the way up.  Then he gingerly extended his arms out so he could rest his arms on the pillow.  He was in his fighting position.  Tablet on.  Game on.  Bluetooth synched.  He unwrapped a chocolate energy bar and placed it within easy reach.  Then River carefully placed his noise cancelling headphones on.  Every ear was encapsulated and warm.  He rotated the microphone down into position and dove into the game.  His whole squad was online and ready to rock.

The battle was intense.  He heard screams throughout the night.  The explosions were so real and so vivid that River thought he could feel the concussion of each grenade detonation.  The hours rolled by and the kills accumulated.  River and his crew were kicking ass.  They were unstoppable.  Then, he caught the flashing of his smart watch in the periphery of his vision.  It was 4:50 a.m.  It was almost go time.  He quickly said his "goodbyes," shut down the game, and stowed his tablet.

According to plan, his mom would be there to secure his tent shortly after the store opened.  He would be through the door, dash back to video games, get his PlayBox, and then he would pick up some accessories on the way out.  His gift cards were charged and he was ready to go.  As he pulled off his headphones, he could hear movement outside.  The crowd was rattling the steel grate that protected the BBE front door.

"That's bullcrap," River muttered under his breath.  "I'm number three!  That PlayBox is mine."

He slithered out of his thick sleeping back and maneuvered to get his jeans.  He tugged on them and met resistance.  Someone outside was standing on the tent and his pants.  River was angry.  Dad had paid a lot for this tent.

"Hey jerkwad," he yelled.  "Get off of my tent!"

He snatched his pants and pulled them on.  He heard the tent fabric ripping.  He was mad as hell now.  But, he stifled the emotion.  His mom and dad had told him that he didn't know anything about the people he was camping with.  Some of them were poor and desperate they had said.  Don't piss them off and don't show them any of your gear they had reminded him over and over.

"Hey Bro.  It's cool.  We're chill," he said as he unzipped the tent.

He hopped out to see that the whole front of the store was mobbed.  His mom and dad had been right.  There were a lot of poor people.  Many of them had torn parkas and coats.  Of course, there wasn't a police officer or security guard in sight.  Still, he was number three and he was going to get his PlayBox.  He had a certificate.  His spot in line was guaranteed.

River heard a menacing snarl behind him.  He shouldered his pack full of gear and whirled.  It was the jerk who stomped on his tent.

"Hey man," River said.  "It was pretty uncool to . . ."

River stopped talking as the man on the tent looked up at him.  The man's eyes were black as coal.  The black-eyed man charged at River and pinned him up against the hard brick wall of the store.  The man's hands grabbed solidly onto his jacket.  There was no life in the man's eyes and he snarled savagely as he leaned in for a bite.

"No," River yelled. "Get off of me you freak!"

River blocked upward with both arms to knock his assailants hands off of his neck momentarily and ducked under his assailant.  The man grabbed River's hood and pulled him backward.  The teen responded by smacking his assailant across the face with the bag of electronics.  His assailant paused, but was unphased.  He had no reaction at all to pain.  River kicked the man in the nuts and it didn't even phase him.  It didn't phase him at all.  River grabbed his assailant's arms, swung him around, and threw him to the ground. 

The crowd turned and looked at River for a moment.  River realized that none of them were concerned with the discounts that they would receive on big screen televisions.  They all shared the same dead black eyes of his assailant.  They also all started to move in his direction.  River turned and ran as fast as he could away from the store.  As he neared the edge of the parking lot, he saw his mom and stepfather driving towards him.

He had never been happier to see their metallic blue Chrysler Town & Country Mini Van in his life.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays Zombie Fans!

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