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 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 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: 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 Drabble Flash Fiction: The Apocalypse Deal

"If you feed me every Saturday, I'll provide you with a steady stream of ammunition and supplies.  Then, at harvest, I take half your crop."

"That's an interesting offer," the gardener said looking up from his tomatoes.

The smug man in the polo shirt and khakis seemed satisfied.  He'd get a meal today.  He relaxed and stole a glance at his gold Rolex.


"I have an alternative deal for you," the gardener offered.  "You see that compost pile over there?"

"Yes," the businessman replied.  "I certainly do."

"If you spread it across this field," the gardener said.  "You eat today."

Photo by southernfoodwaysalliance] / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

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: 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 Flash Fiction: The Beautiful and the Dead

     "Run.  Run," Gina said opening the shop door. "Get on in here girl!"
     "Oh, I'm so glad you're open," Tanya said slamming the door of her Lexus.  She trotted nervously in from the parking lot with her revolver in one hand and a small totebag in the other.
     "We ladies need our hair fixed up," Gina said knowingly.
     "You got that right,"  Tanya said nodding her head.  "My do needs to be done!"
      "How are you and the family?" Gina asked.

Photo by Goldmund100 / CC BY-SA
(https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)

      "Good, good," Tanya replied adding in a low voice. "You know my husband and my boy managed to break into the drugstore down the road."
      "Oh they did," Gina said.  "How'd they manage that?"
       "Through the roof with a chainsaw," Tanya said proudly.  "Once they were in, they had the whole place to themselves."
       "Ooooh, but girl, didn't the noise of that saw bring them in from miles around?"



       "Hell yeah," Tanya exclaimed.  "The hubs and little Johnny barely got back to the truck.  Johnny almost got bit, but he's real good with a knife now."
       "Oh that's good.  Useful skill now."
       "So how's your mama doing with all this?"
       "Oh she's real worried about  her sugars and running out of her medications," Gina said.  "And it's not like she can go to the doctor now."
       "You said the doctors got her on Metformin right?"
        "Oh yeah, she takes Metformin and she was taking Gly, Glybur-something, but we don't have enough food for her to be messing with that anymore."
        "I thought you said she was on Metformin so I got you some," Tanya said with a smile.  "That totebag is for you."
        "Oh thank you honey," Gina exclaimed giving Tanya a big smile. "And look you got us some canned food too."
        "I'll hook you up," Tanya said proudly.  "But, I'm kind of mad at my hubs.  He was in that store for an hour and he didn't bring me any makeup, lotion, or anything."
        "Not even a lipstick?"
        "They didn't even get soap."
         "Men," Gina said shaking her head.  "They got no sense of priorities."
         "They were in a whole drugstore full of makeup and aisles of product."
          "You and me should go," Gina said.  "When the dead walk, I can make do with drugstore product."
           "We could go through the store with a more refined eye.  I know I've got a list."
           "Alright,  we've got a ladder and a van in back.  We'll go in a little bit."
           "We'll have fun!"
           "First though," Gina said getting back to business, "what are we going to do with this hair?"
           "Well, these bangs are getting on my last damn nerve . . ."

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 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."]

Flash Fiction: Thirst.

"Do you think the water is still good?"
"Well, babe, it still comes out of the faucet."
"But, are there zombies floating around in the water at the treatment facility?"
"Heck, are people even working at the treatment facility?"
"Maybe we should boil it?"
"Definitely!"
"Will that take care of zombie parts floating around in the water?"
"I don't know, babe."
"Can we use bleach to purify our water?"
"Yes."
"How much bleach do we use?
"I don't know."
"Why didn't you learn this stuff before zombies were a thing?"
"I don't know."

Photo by National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH) from USA [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Click here for more Flash Fiction on this blog.

Answers about water in an emergency:

Grid Shutdown:  How Long Will The Water Last?
Top 5 Easiest DIY Water Filters You Can Make At Home
Emergency Disinfection of Drinking Water

Zombie Flash Fiction - Rhonda's Ride

     Rhonda loved her new car.  It had everything she ever wanted in a car:  leather seats, a kickin' stereo, a back up camera, phone connectivity, internet radio, and all kinds of safety features.  The car could practically drive itself.  It was smart!  But, today, Rhonda was getting a little worried about the news.  S*&t was getting real!  People got some freaky ass disease and were running around biting people.  Today, Rhonda just wanted to drive straight home.  Of course, she had to go through the old Cumberland Village to get there.  Bumper-to-Bumper:  as always!

Photo By Niels de Wit from Lunteren, The Netherlands [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

      Last week, the sorry ass DJ's on the car radio were laughing it up.
     "There's no such thing as zombies!" they said.
     "Watch out for Frankenstein," they laughed.
 
      They were saying something different today.  Their asses were on the radio beggin' for someone to please bring them some food.
     "Oh, I have food," Rhonda yelled at the radio.  "I have food for my children!"
     "I just have to get it home," she muttered to herself.

     Rhonda looked to her right and some dude was biting an old lady in the neck.  She looked to her left, at the oncoming traffic, just in time to see a redneck dude plow his pickup right into the back of a stopped car--kaabam!  Airbag deployment and everything.  Everybody was looking at the carnage surrounding them.  Everybody was in shock.  But, Rhonda didn't have time for that kind of mess.  She had to get the groceries home and lock up tight.  The kids weren't going anywhere!

     The noise of the collision seemed to bring all the crazy biter bastards out.  They were everywhere.  The car in front of her hit the gas and opened up a gap in the traffic.  But, the biters just walked right into the road and filled the gap in.  There were dozens of them.  Rhonda had to get through zombies or no zombies.  She saw a spot on the sidewalk and punched the accelerator.  If the biters wouldn't get out of the way, she would just run their asses down.

     Suddenly, a big red light lit up on her dashboard and the car came to a halt just six inches from a couple of the monstrous pedestrians.  She punched the gas and car wouldn't move.  She slammed it into reverse, the backup camera came on revealing more dead pedestrians.  The car lurched backwards and came to a half after moving all of two feet.  The red light on the dash warned her again.  The car revved and went no where.  The car would not be used as a weapon.  It would not run down pedestrians.

     "Oh no," Rhonda cried.  "This ride is too damn smart!"