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: A Few Short Blocks

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

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






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Prepping: Are You Ready?

Today is August 1st.  If you live in the Southeastern United States or another hurricane or typhoon prone region, this is a good day to assess whether you are ready for hurricanes.  The summer heat is at its peak and ocean water temperatures are rising. This is a good time to make sure you are ready for a hurricane.

• Do you have hurricane essentials for an evacuation?
• Do you know where you would stay in case you need to evacuate?
• Do you have hotel reservation sites bookmarked?
• Do you know of a good cheap off-grid motel?
• Do you have a printed list of all your contacts, their cell phone numbers, and e-mail addresses? 
• Do you have a map book?
• Do you have a couple of weeks worth of water and food in case you have to live without power and water for an extended period of time?
• Do you have your important papers in a waterproof container and ready to come with you in case of an evacuation? 

I highly recommend the Ready.gov website for great basic information about emergency preparedness.  The Centers for Disease Control also have rich resources for hurricane preparedness available at their website.  I like to say that if you are ready for zombies you are ready for anything.  But, there are plenty of special considerations for hurricanes.  Make sure your family is ready. 

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 Haiku: The Blinds

Blinds closed for summer
A shield against heat and horde
my stomach growling

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.