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!"

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 - The Dead Mall Crowd

The National Guard wasn't mobilized.  They were at home doing their regular day jobs.  The police were overwhelmed; either running home to protect their families, or stationed around government buildings.  That left me.  With a handful of my fellow security guards, I had to protect over 100 stores and over 800,000 square feet of retail space at one of the finest malls in Atlanta.  I also had a golf cart, pepper spray, and a walkie-talkie.

Photo by Donald Trung Quoc Don (Chữ Hán: 徵國單) - Wikimedia Commons - © CC BY-SA 4.0 International.
(Want to use this image?)Original publication 📤: --Donald Trung 『徵國單』 (No Fake News 💬)
(WikiProject Numismatics 💴) (Articles 📚) 17:35, 25 March 2020 (UTC) / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

Of course, we had heard about zombies on the news.  But, the situation was portrayed as handled.  Since isolated zombies were rumored to be around, I had a firearm stashed in my truck.  But, I wasn't allowed to carry one in the course of my duties.  Besides, I could just press a button on my walkie-talkie and summon police help.  Right.  Sure.

Due to frightening news reports of zombies around the city, the mall closed at 6 p.m.  and the shopkeepers and workers left soon after the closure.  As I let small groups of worker out of the locked doors, I sensed their fear and worry.  One older shopkeeper even gave me a big hug on the way out.  She told me to take good care of myself and I assured her I would.  With everyone gone and the steel gates down over the glass entry doors, I felt we would be perfectly safe.  Most of us guards would be all  alone on the inside and the zombies would all be outside.  Of course, my friend, Pete, was driving the roving guard vehicle around the parking lot.

Around 9 p.m. I took the cart out for rounds on the main floor.  I simply drove the cart up to each entrance and tapped my baton to a sensor near the door that recorded my visit.  Through the front door, I could see a commotion and a crowd up on the main drag, but they were obscured by hedges, signs, and bus stop shelters.  I wasn't sure what was going on outside.  I was just glad to be inside.  Still, I had a nagging feeling.

On the way to the front door, I thought I heard voices.  Perhaps murmurings or whispers?  But, when I stopped the cart, the mall was eerily silent.  As I made my way back from the front door, I heard the unmistakable sound of tennis shoes coming to a quick stop.  I knew we weren't alone.  

I radioed control and sped over to the service corridor that led to the restrooms.  As I hopped off the cart and started down the service corridor, control radioed back to let me know that a few dozen vehicles had just entered the parking lots from different directions. Just then, a hoodied figure burst from the restroom area and ran towards the emergency exit.

"Hey!" I yelled.  "Stop right there."

Of course, the running suspect didn't stop.  Instead, he burst right through the emergency exit.  The alarm bell rang loudly and I continued to jog down the long hallway in hopes that I could secure the door.  But, more than a dozen male subjects came running through the open door and right towards me.  I should be able to describe each of them in great detail.  But, the lead figure pointed a huge Desert Eagle .44 Magnum right at me and that dominated every corner of my memory.  I turned, ran right back to my cart, and chirped the tires getting out of there.  I zoomed right by all the high end jewelry, handbag, and watch stores.  

"We have armed intruders!" I hollered into the radio.  "We're going to need the police!"

I stopped around the corner of the main mall corridor, caught my breath, and peeked back at the high end stores.  Mobs were smashing windows with sledge hammers and chisels.  Store alarms were wailing, bells were ringing, and lights were flashing.  I saw people running into the stores and later emerging with pillow cases and bags filled with Gucci, Fendi, and all other sorts of high end merchandise.

My radio cackled with bad news.  Control reported that the police estimated it would be two hours before they could respond.  The tinkle of broken glass above me, let me know that shop windows on the second level were breaking.   Moments later Control reported that additional intruders had come in through another entrance and were attacking the big cell phone and electronics stores.  Looters were calling more looters.  The promise of unlimited Apple and Android devices was irresistable.  Pete radioed in and said more and more cars were coming to the mall.  

"Get back to the office," Control commanded.  "We'll shelter in place."

I looked back at the looting one more time and then came the gunshots and screams; the endless blood curdling screams.  People were emerging from the emergency exit corridors covered in blood and there was practically a stampede coming my way.  I saw the dead among them, grabbing looters, and biting into them deeply.  It still makes me shudder. 

"Help! Help!" a lady screamed with arms full of high-end handbags.

I just shook my head and floored it.  I had to dodge a few shoppers, but I  made it down the side corridor to the mall security office.  Our boss, Bernice, opened the door for me.

"It's time for us to leave," she told me and the other two guards on duty.  A glance at the monitors revealed that truth.  Panicked people were running everywhere and a large crowd of the recently dead was shuffling along behind them at a surprisingly fast pace.

"We're going to run and pile into the patrol vehicle," she said calmly.  "Then Pete is going to take us to our cars and then everyone do their best to be safe, stay out of trouble, and go home."

I took a look out the tiny window of our exit door and saw that Pete was waiting for us in the little SUV that patrolled the parking lots.  We gathered out things, huddled by our door to the parking lot, and made a run for it.  I haven't been back.  It's a dead mall now.

Ford Escape Security Guard Vehicle - photo by Bull-Doser / Public domain

Postcard Fiction: Stay Inside

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

"They're still out there."

"We can't stay."

"They'll kill you."

"I'll be careful."

"They eat careful people."

Zombie 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 Flash Fiction: Inside The Z Suite

     "So what's our vision?"
     Silence.
     "O.K., Janet, what's our vision?"
     "Well, our vision is to have a flourishing human world with advancing technology and no zombies."
     "Brilliant.  That's very well put."
     "So what's our mission?"
     Silence.
     "Anyone?  How about you Bob?"
     "Sir," Bob said.  "Our mission is to be a self-sufficient human stronghold that sustains itself through agriculture and foraging and that eliminates all zombies in our area of control."
     "Excellent.  I think that is an excellent Mission Statement.  Good job guys.  Good session.  Next time, let's conceptualize our enemy. We'll define zombies."
    Bob looked around the conference room.  He made eye contact with Janet and saw her raise an eyebrow.  He took a deep breath.
    "Sir," Bob said.  "What about weapons, ammunition, food, seeds, and irrigation?"
    "Yes.  Yes.  I guess you'll have to get your people moving on those sorts of minor details and report back to us next week."
    "Any other questions?"
    Silence.
    "Great.  Let's talk about the golf outing!"

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."