International Writers Magazine:USA 2012
Raving Zombie Killers
my God were these two dudes crazy. Two rednecks from southern Alabama
who carried nothing but a pair of shotguns and a double bladed axe
and a sword. Neither one of them remembered exactly how they had
met, but they had just run smack dab into each other in the middle
of a horde of the undead.
It was the apocalypse,
and all hell had broken loose on earth. For many years people had disregarded
the predictions and lead complacent lives, but Bob Thomas hadn't. No
way. No how. He had been preparing from the beginning for what he knew
would be the catastrophe of the future. He'd seen all the signs and
heeded all the warnings. Zombies were coming. The Mayan temple along
with the Egyption pyramids were going to pour fourth a dreaded plague
that would change the populace into raving zombies. It was something
in the air, and Bob had for some reason or another been dumb enough
to wear himself a mask. Now he was stuck on the planet earth as one
of the last living human beings... and that just wasn't right.
"Damn it!" he swore. "Damn it all to hell!" he blasted
the hell out of a zombie that was looking at him funny and then rode
around dodging and weaving. "These mother fuckers are gonna kill
Not in a million years would anyone would have actually predicted or
understood that it really was the end. Everyone was attached by the
eyeballs to their computer screens and televisions. They were vegetables
already. Zombies. Of course they all turn back into humans or something
if they really wanted to. At least that's what Bob Thomas thought. But
somehow he felt that things weren't going to change. Something in his
heart quivered and shook and he felt all sick and cold all over and
sweated. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead.
"Brains... I want to eat you!"
Bob Thomas was the one who was groaning. How could they even keep talking
with all of their flesh rotting off of their moving cadavers? It was
too horrible to be true, and that was the scary part. No one was human
anymore and no one could even give a guy a buck, and in fact, all of
the cards were melting under the hot sun in the daytime and moldering
like rusted hulks of grease and globs of steel in the night. Zombies
teemed from every corner of the city and hustled through the streats
searching for food and corpses to nibble on as if it were their time
to shine and the party of the undead was one happening and groovy shuffle.
No one was safe, and upstairs and downstairs Bob Thomas somehow knew
that there were people somewhere stockpiling food and fighting these
misfits off with shotguns and bows and arrows, crossbows or whatever
they could get their hands on.
And the killer was, they had done it to themselves. Humanity had in
one way or another killed off all of its ancestors and buried them six
feet deep thinking that they'd always stay down there underground, rotting
and festering and moldering away and eventually disintigrating. But
they didn't. Somehow or another they had remained preserved like mummies
under the earth awaiting their revenge upon the living. And all the
while the living had partied as if it were the end of the world, they
had been clawing their way up out of those boxes and banging them open,
digging with hands and teeth and whatever else they had to escape from
their early graves.
Everyone knew why there were earthquakes. God was angry. But nobody
could tell why the dead had risen that fateful day. June 23rd, 2012...
and it had been just like the movies. What the hell? This was no Hollywood
Dean was just an ordinary man. He was a lover and he'd found himself
in bed with a hooker who'd shot too much cocaine and bought the big
one. What he didn't know was that soon enough she was going to give
him one hell of a killer kiss.
"Oooaaargh..." she had moaned, rising from the bedsheets while
Dean had been showering off in the bathroom. He hadn't even known until
a cold, dead, and peeling hand had clamped itself over the top of the
shower door and her corpse began pounding on the front. He could even
see her bleeding teeth through the doorpane and he quivered.
"Oh shit!" he swore, jumping. Luckily he'd lain his pistol
where there was supposed to be a bar of soap hanging on the soaprack
and he pumped sixteen holes of lead in her zombie face. It wasn't right.
No. It was horrible. He probably should've let himself be eaten. She
was gorgeous after all and they could've made a lovely couple. But I'll
be damned if Dean Gibson hadn't been riveted head to spine to toes with
fear and if he hadn't pulled that trigger he could've been dead... or
undead... or something. That just ain't right.
She was just on the point of rising again when Dean slipped out the
door of the apartment and was shocked to find that almost all of the
tenants were walking, talking, dead people.
"Oh my God..." was the only phrase that could escape him.
They were insane. This was insane. He was insane! This was not exactly
Planet of the Apes, or something. He was toast.
Hobbling down the stairway he almost tripped and fell when he saw his
own mother clawing around the laundry room moaning and howling for her
long lost son.
"Hey Ma!" he said with a yell. But as she turned he knew it
was too late. She was gone... toast... kablooie. It was over.
Without a doubt there was no turning back now. He'd have to finally
move out now that he was thirty five and everyone was... undead? That
was the killer. He'd been looking for an excuse to hit the road for
a long time but he had been trying to get a job and take care of his
mom and pop in their old age... but now? Oh the horror. Oh the humanity.
How could that have happened to his dear old mom and dad? Was it something
they ate? Was it something they smoked? Was it a bad trip on his part?
He didn't even want to go to sleep or wake up from this mess. He felt
that if he closed his eyes it would be burgers for him. They were gonna
tear him to pieces like a flame broiled hamburger or something. Jesus
With only a single clip and a Beretta .45 magnum, he was good to go,
and then again he was dead meat. He was living meat! He was a living,
walking, talking burger to all these undead freaks of nature. Was that
politically correct? Could he call them undead freaks of nature? Somehow
or another he had visions of a zombie president and even zombie-run
prisons where everyone would toss his salad for being in the wrong place
at the wrong time yet again. How they'd been able to lock him up against
his Constitutional Rights still puzzled him. Hadn't we come to America
to get away from all of this bullcrap? And now he was stuck in the same
mess and he wondered exactly what the penitentiaries were like. Good
God man, to be trapped behind bars with one of these puppies... now
that must be hell. Because even if you plugged one of them straight
in the eyeball they'd come back in a second. You knocked them down and
they were back up. That was the killer. The human race was going to
be extinct in no time.
© David Tavernier June 2008
David is working
on a novel about the World of Jorb
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