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: No Refuge

The house is quiet now.  I stand in the hallway coming back from the bedrooms.  The walls are covered with family photos from happier days.  A frame with a half dozen photos grabs my attention.  Camping in the mountains.  The time we rode the ferry.  High school graduation.  The canoe trip.  I pull it off the wall, rip off the cardboard back, and take a photo of me, my mom, my dad, and my brother standing in front of a long forgotten restaurant.  The old photo fits in my fanny pack behind the extra boxes of ammunition.  I make my way back to the remnants of the front door.  My eye catches a flash of purple, yellow, and black, as a skink scrambles under the deacon's bench in the front foyer.  It doesn't have to worry.  The cat is long gone. 

I step out and glance at the tattered flag hanging limply from the flag pole in the overgrown front yard.  Little lizards dash for cover as they see me.  They find hiding places everywhere.  But, not me.  The old family home isn't the refuge it once was.  There is no refuge.  There is no stopping.  The neighbors from down the street are dead but still nosy.  They see me and start to shuffle my way.  It's time to go.

Zombie Dribble: To Make Sure

Someone or something is moving on the other side of the fence.  With the sun setting and gloomy skies, I can't tell if it is one of the living or the dead.  If they return, I can use my rifle to make sure.  I just hate to waste a bullet. 

A Savage 110 Snipers Rifle - photo by FrankWilliams, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

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 Gift

I didn't know what to get grandpa for Christmas this year.  But, now I know.  I'm still really nervous.  I have to calm down.  This is the worst gift ever.  But, he needs it.  He's been in the house for months with grandma.  He just wanders around the house.  I can see him from the loft in the barn.  I can see him through the second bedroom window.  

When I close my eyes, I remember working out in the garden with him.  I remember building that greenhouse out back.  I remember all the Christmases and grandma's turkey dinners.  There are so special many memories that I want to keep.  I have to give him this gift.

Breathe in.  Breathe out. Breath in.  Breath out.  There he is.  Breathe in.  Pause.  Squeeze. BAM!  It's done.  Grandpa has finally gotten the gift of death.  

We couldn't let him wander the house with his body rotting and his intestines hanging out.  But, the tears won't stop.  Merry Christmas.

 Crosshairs graphic by Delapouite, Lorc and Sbed., CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

 

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: As Seen on TV

 

"There's nothing to eat!"

"Go collect some bugs."

"We can't eat bugs!"

"Yes.  We can."

"No way!"

"I saw it on TV."

"Your shows suck!"

 

Photo by fir0002, GFDL 1.2 <http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html>, via Wikimedia Commons 

 

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

 

 

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 Postcard Fiction: Another wet wipe!

"Before they went dead, the news said they have to bite you to infect."

"But, he drooled on me."

"No bite though?"

"No.  Just hand me another wet wipe."

"We're all out."

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

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

Zombie Postcard Fiction: Meanwhile In Florida

"Bubba, you ain't going to believe this."
"What?"
"Headquarters wants us to tag the zombies?"
"Why?"
"So biologists can see where they go!"
"Screw that..."

Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission Law Enforcement truck and ATV.
Photo by Carol Lyn Parrish / Public domain

Zombie Flash Fiction: Rally Z

     The tyres spun kicking up a shower of brown Scandinavian mud and dirt.  We were stuck.  Navigation was Peter's job.  Driving was my job.  I failed at my job, spun us out in a sharp turn, and now my door was jammed up against a roadside embankment.  Now Peter's job was to get us unstuck and back on the rally course fast.

     "I need to get some stuff under the tyres to get us some traction," Peter yelled.
     "How buggered are we?" I asked.
     "We aren't buggered until our fans reach us," he replied gesturing over his shoulder.

Ford Escort RS1600 photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

     Looking across Peter's empty seat and up hill at the long straight away, I could see that a whole mob of spectators had just crested the hill behind us and was trudging our way.   Ordinarily, rally fans were a big help to a racing team that was stuck in a muddy ditch.  But, these rally fans were something different.  They were dead--dead and still walking our way.

    "500 meters," I yelled.  "They are 500 meters away."
    "Don't worry," Peter replied.  "We'll get out of here."

     As Peter gathered gravel, sticks, and other traction, I wondered how I had gotten into such a jam.  The thought of rally racing in Sweden had long thrilled my soul.  When Peter joined the London office, turned out to be from Stockholm, and was into vintage cars, I thought I had found an excellent new mate.  I had no idea that it would lead both of us to this ditch.

   "Can we go?"
     "Not yet!"
     "200 meters.  They are getting closer."

  The dream started when my father left me his old Ford Escort Mark 1 with directions to take her racing.  I had done some laps on tracks in the London suburbs, but those were tame affairs that sometimes seemed like parades.  Everyone was gingerly guiding their aging saloons around the course and then retiring for talk of tyres over tea.  I wanted to push the RS1600 to her limit.  That's what my father would have wanted.  Well, I pushed her and chose a poor time to reach the limit.


  Where the hell was Peter?  The dead were about 100 meters away and they were closing fast.  I nervously watched the horde.  Soon my navigator emerged from a stand of birch with more twigs and underbrush.

    "They are close mate!" I yelled.  "We've got to go!"

    I thought back to the rallies in England and Scotland that we ran in the spring.  They were good training and Peter turned out to be a excellent co-pilot.  We took the ferry from Immingham to Gothenburg and made our way to a rally in southern Sweden.  It was awesome until the spectators turned strange and we ended up in this ditch.  Peter carefully laid out the sticks, twigs, and rocks to provide a bit of traction.

    "Try it now," Peter yelled.  "Go slow."

    I fought the urge to pop the clutch and unleash the lively 1.6 liter twin cam that idled under the bonnet.  Easy.  Easy.  The rear tyres gained traction on a hastily laid bed of sticks, logs, and gravel.  Peter was pushing hard, too.  The Escort slowly regained the harder dirt road surface.  Peter disappeared from my rear view mirror.  I slammed on the brakes.  

Ford Escort Mark 1 RS1600  back on the road - photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

    "Peter!  Peter!" I yelled.
    "Hej, hu mår du?" a muddy figure replied from the passenger window.
    "Get in!  Get in!" I said seeing the dead approaching within arms reach.
     Peter climbed in and shook his head.
    "You are going the wrong way," he said.
    A dead spectator slapped his hands on our bonnet and started to climb up on the car.
     "Go over that troll," Peter ordered.
     I released the clutch and slammed into the dead man.  The little Ford flung him off the road.  I pointed up back up the hill, popped the clutch, and deliberately spun the little racer around in the road, smacking into the dead that surrounded us, and pointing back onto our originally intended course.
     "Get us out of here," I said.
      "Can you handle straight?" came the reply.
      "Yes," I said.
      "Then go straight," he said.  "And there's an EASY left over the next hill."

 -------

Leaving the scene - Adapted from photo by estoril / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

Readers in the United Kingdom are invited to visit my United Kingdom author home page.  Australian readers can find my works with this Australian Amazon search.

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 Dribble: Remembering the Dead

As I sit looking at our graves, I remember when Memorial Day used to be for soldiers, airmen, sailors, and marines.   Now, it is for everyone.  It's for the dead who are buried, the dead we have killed, and the dead who still roam.  We dug the graves.  We remember.

Zombie Complex rising from a grave?

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 Drabble: The Woman is Strong

     "I don't think I can deal with this," Randy said shaking his head.

     "I know," Mike replied.  "The prospect of being disemboweled makes me shudder."

     "We can't go out there," Randy continued.  "We might die."

     "The dead are so," Mike paused wiping his tears, "grotesque."

     "I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm hungry," Mike continued.  "I'm so thirsty."

     "I'm parched too."

     A slender figure in black emerged from the shadows.  It was Sandra.  She had a shotgun, she racked the slide, and she opened the door.

    "Where are you going?" Randy asked.

    "I’m hungry and I can't wait for you girls forever."

     

Zombie Dribble: Same Story Different Day.

“What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know.  What do you want to eat?”

“You want McDonald’s?”

“No.”

“How about Wendy’s?”

“No.”

“How about Popeye’s?”

“No.”

“How about Steak-n-Shake?”

“Okay.”

“Drive thru?”

“I’m not getting out of this truck.”

“They look dead.”

“Okay.”

“Well hand me my tomahawk woman!”

Steak-n-Shake - photo by Ed! at English Q52 / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)