Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Pale (a story for my friends at the Zombie Survival Club)

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Strongbow

324 posts

Nomad

Posted December 24, '10 6:47am UTC

"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."
Revelation 6:8

Soft tapping on the window beside me. My eyes snap open, a sharp intake of breath as panic instantly grips me, wrapping around my chest like a cold vice. My heart hammers loudly, I lay frozen. Quickly waking from the recesses of my troubled sleep, my mind assesses the danger, seeking the source of my fear.
Rain...soft rain tilted just so, pattering on the pane like eager fingers. The vice slowly melts, the hammering in my chest slows, allowing me to breathe once again, --to recognise my surroundings as familiar.
My hand steals slowly off of the mattress pad that I'm lying on, wheelframe long ago discarded for silence, and rests on the familiar grip of my pistol. Wrapping my fingers around it, I pull it to me and hold it to my chest, its coolness comforting me. My eyes adjust to the darkness, identifying the props of the ceiling fan above me. I think for a moment on how long it's remained motionless, stilled since the power died...since everything died.
With a soft sigh, I pull myself upright, my pistol still cradled against me, then falling into my lap as I slowly run my hands over my face. I feel the bags under my eyes, the wrinkles in the corners of my mouth and forehead. It feels old, my skin rough and caked with a fine layer of dinge and old sweat. So much for my youthful twenties, I think to myself with a tight-lipped smile. Water is such a precious commodity these days, the buckets on the roof providing barely any relief from thirst, let alone bodily odors. Not that there's really any need to bathe.
I stand now, gripping my pistol, quietly moving in the gloom, across the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom. Laying the pistol carefully in the sink, I slide a plastic bucket under me, squatting with one hand propped on the bathtub ledge, relieving myself with practiced indignity. Finished, I hitch my jeans up and slide the bucket back behind the toilet.
Sitting on the bathtub ledge, I slide a hand down the inside of the tub, feeling for the water height. Just under half full. Enough for a few more weeks, with caution. Cupping my hand, I bring the water to my mouth, sipping, then run my hand over my face, releshing the cool moisture.
I look around me, at the darkness of the house. I wonder what time it might be, the clocks having stopped weeks ago. I shake my head at such thoughts. Time doesn't matter anymore. Light equals day, darkness equals night and both don't belong to me anymore. All I own now is my life, --survival my unwanted hobby, my forced occupation.
God, how did it come to this? I've forced my mind over that question over and over, the broken record of my brain turning the possibilities inside and out.
I think back to the days before the darkness, before they came. No one paid attention to the rumors, --isolated reports springing up in the tabloids, then later on the footnotes of internet news. A virus, some sort of flu named 'Goliath' of all things, that made its victims mad with fever, blood boiling in their heads, --a fist-sized lump finally building on the brain, cracking their skulls like eggshells. Another new flu, born halfway around the world? We dismissed it with a collective shrug and a jab of the remote.
American media...so very efficient at downplaying and minimizing international reports of people collapsing in the streets of Bangkok, convulsing in offices and homes in Baghdad, projectile vomiting blood and mucus in the churches, police stations and hospitals of Johannesburg. The CDC calmly oreassuring the public that the grainy, bootleg videos streaming out of Berlin, London and Tokyo showing shaky images of people clawing open their shirts, scratching deep red ruts in their chests as thick blood and dark globs spewed out of their mouths, noses and eyes were utter fabrications. YouTube videos going viral, then disappearing from the net. Blogs springing up casting theories and conspiracies, only to be shut down, labeled "Terroristic in nature". Vaccines needled into crying children in front of lines of anxious parents...and yet, we dismissed every dam*ned word of it. Why? The why is simple...arrogance.
We buried it because of what was said about Goliaths inevitable conclusion, the evolutionary peak of its infection on its victims. Not the reports of a horrific death, mind you, oh no. That part, in fact, was actually sensationalized, snatched and chewed up by media dogs and network on-the-scene reporters and regurgitated back to the American public in the form of sterilized "Comprehensive Reports." Photos of bloodstained gurneys, trucks piled high with trussed-up corpses, --("...What you are about to see you may find disturbing...&quot, the oily black smoke billowing from human bonfires. It wasn't until they attempted to capture video of the rest of the stories that the real censoring began. Journalists cut off in mid-sentence as the cameras swung toward shrieking bystanders, the gunshots of police and soldiers, the twitching within the piles of the dead. We were assured that increasingly frequent reports of American Goliath flu victims staggering to their unsteady feet, slack-jawed and shuddering, were fabrications of internet-addicted fearmongers and terrorists. I remember watching the Secretary of Defense chuckle and shake his head during a press conference at the very notion that corpses were rising up and turning on the living, biting and consuming their flesh. We, in our armchairs, the AC blowing in our faces and lights on in every room, ate our microwave popcorn and sighed in relief. Everything would be alright, we were assured. The military and local law enforcement were handling the situation. We were in control, they said, and we swallowed that pill without even asking for a glass of water.
I get up from the bathtubs edge, the numbness in my bum slowly receeding as i reclaim my pistol and softly make my way out of the bedroom and through the dark halls of my home.
Rooms seem enormous in the gloom, devoid of the furniture that now lies piled up in front of the doors and windows. I step into the living room, the grimy carpeting masking my steps as I head to a window, the sprinkle of the rain outside patting small blots on its surface. I tenatively pull back the thin curtains and peer through the boards, nailed securely to the windowframe, into the night. The street is dark, barely visible without moonlight, the carnage of my neighborhood hidden gratefully from my view.
Just then, I hitch my breath. A form slowly shambles into my view out of the blanket of light rain, just barely within the limits of my vision. At first, I see only a human frame outlined, shoulders slumped as if in defeat. As it moves into better view, I see its head jutting forward, then twitching sharply from left to right, as if bieng pulled, neck bones popping outward from the effort. It moves closer into my vision on stiff legs, the occasional twitch causing it to stagger, then regain balance as it walks. I can now see the clothes, drenched through with rain and dryrot, bleached from the sun. A t-shirt, torn and ragged, completely coated in the front with the caked, dark blood of its first demise. Sweat bottoms ripped and sagging, stained also from the blood and feces it expelled in the final convulsive moments of its human life. Its arms twitch, hands clenching and unclenching at its sides as it moves a bit closer into my view. My mind begins to race, anxiety welling up as I watch its jerky approach. I know that though its eyes, white and bulging impossibly out of their sockets, cannot see me, its hearing is excellent even in the white noise of rainfall. I see the slack jaws, the chin hidden under dried blood, the strings of sinew and rotting flesh caught in-between broken, jagged teeth. I see the bulging forehead, incredibly large, jutting over its now hidden eyebrows like a grapefruit, the skin split open, showing the white glint of skull. It stops walking, close to the window now. It stands, mottled grey-skinned body jerking occasionally as if shocked, the jaw now slowly working up and down, the head and limbs twitching. I imagine that I can hear its soft moans and hisses, the burps and farts of escaping gas from the rotted meat in its bloated belly and intestines. Slowly, it turns and finally lurches slowly away, back into the darkness.
This is what they didn't want us to see. This is what we were in "control" of. We believed...we had no reason not to. We believed until their lies came crashing down around us, the naked festering truth crashing through the paper walls of our lives, shattering the security pipedream we had talked ourselves into. We believed, even through the gunshots and explosions merely blocks away. We believed in spite of the screams of our neighbors and the startled wailing of car alarms. We believed that the snow on the tv, then total loss of power was temporary. I actually even still believed as Rex was barking madly outside and my husband walked into the room with his pistol, usually locked up in the closet. It wasn't until after I helped him move the furniture in front of the doors and I looked out the window I'm at now that truth reared its head and took Mrs. Tentlach on my front lawn. I saw her get dragged down, her screams intensifying as they tore into her belly, ripping out purple loops of innards, tearing into her face, neck, legs, --blood fountaining from ravaged arteries. I watched as they feasted...watched as my world changed before my eyes with gnashing teeth and clawed hands.
I move from the window, wiping away a tear with my sleeve. I steal into the kitchen, sitting carefully on the floor in the midst of discarded cans and wrappers. I peer into some of the cans, probing them with my fingers, knowing that their contents have long since gone. I sigh, mentally forcing my hunger away. Lately, its been much harder to stave it off. John had all of the plans, he was my final scrap of belief. He knew to fill the tub and sink with water. He knew to put the buckets on the roof. He knew to re-enforce the windows and doors. He rationed the food, pulled guard as I slept. He knew he was growing weak, keeping me strong. He also knew how to leave, with a single gunshot to his temple on the roof. He didn't take me, though. He should've taken me...
Now I wander the house, eating a little, sleeping a little and watching them a lot. I see the reanimated corpses of neighbors turned long ago, wandering the neighborhood. I see the decayed corpse of Rex, still tied to a tree in the backyard, but I try not to look at him long, --it makes me drool. I watch the water slowly receeding from the tub, the buckets gathering so very little. I see John...his remains in the kitchen where I gathered him in desperation, keeping me fed a bit longer, when I can stomach it. I see the pistol in my hand, taunting me, showing me the way out.

I see the world. It is pale.

[i]"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."\r\n                                      Revelation 6:8[/i]\r\n\r\n\r\n    Soft tapping on the window beside me. My eyes snap open, a sharp intake of breath as panic instantly grips me, wrapping around my chest like a cold vice. My heart hammers loudly, I lay frozen. Quickly waking from the recesses of my troubled sleep, my mind assesses the danger, seeking the source of my fear.\r\n    Rain...soft rain tilted just so, pattering on the pane like eager fingers. The vice slowly melts, the hammering in my chest slows, allowing me to breathe once again, --to recognise my surroundings as familiar.\r\n    My hand steals slowly off of the mattress pad that I'm lying on, wheelframe long ago discarded for silence, and rests on the familiar grip of my pistol. Wrapping my fingers around it, I pull it to me and hold it to my chest, its coolness comforting me. My eyes adjust to the darkness, identifying the props of the ceiling fan above me. I think for a moment on how long it's remained motionless, stilled since the power died...since everything died.\r\n    With a soft sigh, I pull myself upright, my pistol still cradled against me, then falling into my lap as I slowly run my hands over my face. I feel the bags under my eyes, the wrinkles in the corners of my mouth and forehead. It feels old, my skin rough and caked with a fine layer of dinge and old sweat. So much for my youthful twenties, I think to myself with a tight-lipped smile. Water is such a precious commodity these days, the buckets on the roof providing barely any relief from thirst, let alone bodily odors. Not that there's really any need to bathe.\r\n    I stand now, gripping my pistol, quietly moving in the gloom, across the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom. Laying the pistol carefully in the sink, I slide a plastic bucket under me, squatting with one hand propped on the bathtub ledge, relieving myself with practiced indignity. Finished, I hitch my jeans up and slide the bucket back behind the toilet. \r\n    Sitting on the bathtub ledge, I slide a hand down the inside of the tub, feeling for the water height. Just under half full. Enough for a few more weeks, with caution. Cupping my hand, I bring the water to my mouth, sipping, then run my hand over my face, releshing the cool moisture.\r\n    I look around me, at the darkness of the house. I wonder what time it might be, the clocks having stopped weeks ago. I shake my head at such thoughts. Time doesn't matter anymore. Light equals day, darkness equals night and both don't belong to me anymore. All I own now is my life, --survival my unwanted hobby, my forced occupation.\r\n    God, how did it come to this? I've forced my mind over that question over and over, the broken record of my brain turning the possibilities inside and out.\r\n    I think back to the days before the darkness, before [b]they[/b] came. No one paid attention to the rumors, --isolated reports springing up in the tabloids, then later on the footnotes of internet news. A virus, some sort of flu named 'Goliath' of all things, that made its victims mad with fever, blood boiling in their heads, --a fist-sized lump finally building on the brain, cracking their skulls like eggshells. Another new flu, born halfway around the world? We dismissed it with a collective shrug and a jab of the remote.\r\n   American media...so very efficient at downplaying and minimizing international reports of people collapsing in the streets of Bangkok, convulsing in offices and homes in Baghdad, projectile vomiting blood and mucus in the churches, police stations and hospitals of Johannesburg. The CDC calmly oreassuring the public that the grainy, bootleg videos streaming out of Berlin, London and Tokyo showing shaky images of people clawing open their shirts, scratching deep red ruts in their chests as thick blood and dark globs spewed out of their mouths, noses and eyes were utter fabrications. YouTube videos going viral, then disappearing from the net. Blogs springing up casting theories and conspiracies, only to be shut down, labeled "Terroristic in nature". Vaccines needled into crying children in front of lines of anxious parents...and yet, we dismissed every dam*ned word of it. Why? The why is simple...arrogance.\r\n    We buried it because of what was said about Goliaths inevitable conclusion, the evolutionary peak of its infection on its victims. Not the reports of a horrific death, mind you, oh no. That part, in fact, was actually sensationalized, snatched and chewed up by media dogs and network on-the-scene reporters and regurgitated back to the American public in the form of sterilized "Comprehensive Reports." Photos of bloodstained gurneys, trucks piled high with trussed-up corpses, --("...What you are about to see you may find disturbing..."), the oily black smoke billowing from human bonfires. It wasn't until they attempted to capture video of the rest of the stories that the real censoring began. Journalists cut off in mid-sentence as the cameras swung toward shrieking bystanders, the gunshots of police and soldiers, the twitching within the piles of the dead. We were assured that increasingly frequent reports of American Goliath flu victims staggering to their unsteady feet, slack-jawed and shuddering, were fabrications of internet-addicted fearmongers and terrorists. I remember watching the Secretary of Defense chuckle and shake his head during a press conference at the very notion that corpses were rising up and turning on the living, biting and consuming their flesh. We, in our armchairs, the AC blowing in our faces and lights on in every room, ate our microwave popcorn and sighed in relief. Everything would be alright, we were assured. The military and local law enforcement were handling the situation. We were in control, they said, and we swallowed that pill without even asking for a glass of water.\r\n    I get up from the bathtubs edge, the numbness in my bum slowly receeding as i reclaim my pistol and softly make my way out of the bedroom and through the dark halls of my home.\r\n    Rooms seem enormous in the gloom, devoid of the furniture that now lies piled up in front of the doors and windows. I step into the living room, the grimy carpeting masking my steps as I head to a window, the sprinkle of the rain outside patting small blots on its surface. I tenatively pull back the thin curtains and peer through the boards, nailed securely to the windowframe, into the night. The street is dark, barely visible without moonlight, the carnage of my neighborhood hidden gratefully from my view.\r\n    Just then, I hitch my breath. A form slowly shambles into my view out of the blanket of light rain, just barely within the limits of my vision. At first, I see only a human frame outlined, shoulders slumped as if in defeat. As it moves into better view, I see its head jutting forward, then twitching sharply from left to right, as if bieng pulled, neck bones popping outward from the effort. It moves closer into my vision on stiff legs, the occasional twitch causing it to stagger, then regain balance as it walks. I can now see the clothes, drenched through with rain and dryrot, bleached from the sun. A t-shirt, torn and ragged, completely coated in the front with the caked, dark blood of its first demise. Sweat bottoms ripped and sagging, stained also from the blood and feces it expelled in the final convulsive moments of its human life. Its arms twitch, hands clenching and unclenching at its sides as it moves a bit closer into my view. My mind begins to race, anxiety welling up as I watch its jerky approach. I know that though its eyes, white and bulging impossibly out of their sockets, cannot see me, its hearing is excellent even in the white noise of rainfall. I see the slack jaws, the chin hidden under dried blood, the strings of sinew and rotting flesh caught in-between broken, jagged teeth. I see the bulging forehead, incredibly large, jutting over its now hidden eyebrows like a grapefruit, the skin split open, showing the white glint of skull. It stops walking, close to the window now. It stands, mottled grey-skinned body jerking occasionally as if shocked, the jaw now slowly working up and down, the head and limbs twitching. I imagine that I can hear its soft moans and hisses, the burps and farts of escaping gas from the rotted meat in its bloated belly and intestines. Slowly, it turns and finally lurches slowly away, back into the darkness.\r\n    This is what they didn't want us to see. This is what we were in "control" of. We believed...we had no reason not to. We believed until their lies came crashing down around us, the naked festering truth crashing through the paper walls of our lives, shattering the security pipedream we had talked ourselves into. We believed, even through the gunshots and explosions merely blocks away. We believed in spite of the screams of our neighbors and the startled wailing of car alarms. We believed that the snow on the tv, then total loss of power was temporary. I actually even still believed as Rex was barking madly outside and my husband walked into the room with his pistol, usually locked up in the closet. It wasn't until after I helped him move the furniture in front of the doors and I looked out the window I'm at now that truth reared its head and took Mrs. Tentlach on my front lawn. I saw her get dragged down, her screams intensifying as they tore into her belly, ripping out purple loops of innards, tearing into her face, neck, legs, --blood fountaining from ravaged arteries. I watched as they feasted...watched as my world changed before my eyes with gnashing teeth and clawed hands.\r\n    I move from the window, wiping away a tear with my sleeve. I steal into the kitchen, sitting carefully on the floor in the midst of discarded cans and wrappers. I peer into some of the cans, probing them with my fingers, knowing that their contents have long since gone. I sigh, mentally forcing my hunger away. Lately, its been much harder to stave it off. John had all of the plans, he was my final scrap of belief. He knew to fill the tub and sink with water. He knew to put the buckets on the roof. He knew to re-enforce the windows and doors. He rationed the food, pulled guard as I slept. He knew he was growing weak, keeping me strong. He also knew how to leave, with a single gunshot to his temple on the roof. He didn't take me, though. He should've taken me...\r\n    Now I wander the house, eating a little, sleeping a little and watching them a lot. I see the reanimated corpses of neighbors turned long ago, wandering the neighborhood. I see the decayed corpse of Rex, still tied to a tree in the backyard, but I try not to look at him long, --it makes me drool. I watch the water slowly receeding from the tub, the buckets gathering so very little. I see John...his remains in the kitchen where I gathered him in desperation, keeping me fed a bit longer, when I can stomach it. I see the pistol in my hand, taunting me, showing me the way out.\r\n\r\nI see the world. It is pale.

16 Replies

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thoadthetoad

5,642 posts

Peasant

Posted December 24, '10 10:41pm UTC

Deja Vu.

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valkery

1,255 posts

Nomad

Posted December 25, '10 3:18am UTC

That was very good. It really made me think about the Zombie appocolypse in a new way. One quick question, how did she survive in the same house for so long with all of her neighbors nearby? How long did she survive for that matter?

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Strongbow

324 posts

Nomad

Posted December 25, '10 4:04am UTC

valkery,
Thank you for the compliment on the story.
It was my intention to give a different spin on the zombie survivor.

As for your questions, I can answer them a bit.

How she survived was simply a bit of quick thinking by John, her husband. When the dead were swarming on her neighborhood, rather than try and escape, they barricaded themselves in instead. This gave them a measure of initial safety, I believe. With the undeads attention on others, they were able to fortify the house and lay low through the initial panic.
The other way they survived was silence. Creeping through the house, speaking only in whispers, they were able to basically keep from getting noticed.

The down side, of course, as you may have guessed in the read, was that by walling the undead out, they also walled themselves in. The food and water already in the house became their only source of sustainance and though they managed to ration it, at the time of the story the rations were basically gone.

The second question....two ways to look at it.
If youre referring to how long she had already survived at the storys beginning, I would have to say that I thought of this question myself, as I was writing it. I asked a survival friend of mine how long someone could possibly live on a weeks worth of groceries. He told me, in effect, that if one person were to ration carefully, with plenty of water, a weeks worth of canned and dry stuff could be spread out to a month, perhaps more.

If your question was how long she survived after the story ends, I'd have to say it is really more of a subjective thing. I left it open for the reader to put themselves in that situation and fill in the blanks.

Thank you for the questions. I'm pleased that you enjoyed the read. I have several chapters of another zombie story already in the works. Ill post chapter I very soon

valkery,\r\nThank you for the compliment on the story. \r\nIt was my intention to give a different spin on the zombie survivor. \r\n\r\nAs for your questions, I can answer them a bit.\r\n\r\nHow she survived was simply a bit of quick thinking by John, her husband. When the dead were swarming on her neighborhood, rather than try and escape, they barricaded themselves in instead. This gave them a measure of initial safety, I believe. With the undeads attention on others, they were able to fortify the house and lay low through the initial panic. \r\nThe other way they survived was silence. Creeping through the house, speaking only in whispers, they were able to basically keep from getting noticed. \r\n\r\nThe down side, of course, as you may have guessed in the read, was that by walling the undead out, they also walled themselves in. The food and water already in the house became their only source of sustainance and though they managed to ration it, at the time of the story the rations were basically gone. \r\n\r\nThe second question....two ways to look at it.\r\nIf youre referring to how long she had already survived at the storys beginning, I would have to say that I thought of this question myself, as I was writing it. I asked a survival friend of mine how long someone could possibly live on a weeks worth of groceries. He told me, in effect, that if one person were to ration carefully, with plenty of water, a weeks worth of canned and dry stuff could be spread out to a month, perhaps more.\r\n\r\nIf your question was how long she survived [b]after[/b] the story ends, I'd have to say it is really more of a subjective thing. I left it open for the reader to put themselves in that situation and fill in the blanks. \r\n\r\nThank you for the questions. I'm pleased that you enjoyed the read. I have several chapters of another zombie story already in the works. Ill post chapter I very soon :)

offline

Strongbow

324 posts

Nomad

Posted December 25, '10 4:31am UTC

chapter 1

"Hey Clare...you think Lady Gaga's a zombie?"
"Huh?" Clare lifts her gaze from the dusty window where she's been sitting.
"What the h*ll are you talking about, Skater?"
"Lady Gaga..." he repeats, holding up a smudged cd showing the pop singer in a sultry pose,"...she's a zombie, right?"
Clare sighs, then shrugs. "Probably...maybe..." She wipes a strand of dirty blonde hair from her face. "I don't know..."
Clare stares at the cd in Skaters hand -Lady Gaga frozen forever in a guess-what-I'm-thinking way-. Los Angeles was one of the first cities to fall to the undead during the initial panic that swept the U.S. The military quickly overwhelmed by the surge of over three million undead, drawn by the meaty smell of those trying to flee the city. The news reports of the carnage, the footage of shambling hordes of reanimated corpses surging through the streets seeking anything living, shredding with clawed hands and broken teeth.
She remembers her own frantic flight from L.A., sneaking with hitched breath by piles of undead feeding on their victims, trying to ignore the sounds of tearing flesh and gurgled moans. Hopping over uncountable pools of blood and eviscerated bodies, making her way out of town in a slow, but frantic game of cat and mouse.
Most of all, she remembers her terror, raw and loud, which even months later still simmers within her under a thin layer of control. She had no idea if her family in Kansas City was ok. No one to turn to, nowhere to go but out. It was enough to drive her crazy, and nearly did.
She swallows hard, forcing her emotions back. A single tear wells up and tracks down her smudged cheek and she looks away, wiping it away with her sleeve.
Skater stares after her for a moment, then rolls his eyes. Humph, just what was her problem, anyway? Since the moment he'd run into her, hiding in the 7-11 near his house , shed always been a bit elusive. Yeah, the world was an utter sh*tpot now, but crying about it didn't do any good.
H*ell, he considered himself luckier than most. His dad had been one of those paranoid conspiracy junkies, worried about world takeover by commies or aliens, whatever. Crazy as a loon, but that craziness had payed off for Skater in the way of survival training. Since he could remember, dad had been preaching survival to him and his older brother, Jacob, constantly.
Skater had been lying on his bed, watching news coverage of the fighting downtown, when Jacob came running into the room, dressed in his urban fatigues and holding a shotgun. Apparently, dad had decided that the military was doing a better job of adding to the zombie numbers rather than subtracting from them. He and some of the neighborhood Delta Couch Force were going off to give the enlisteds a hand. Skater had heard instructions on the news from the military that 'civilians were absolutely NOT permitted to lend hands, feet, guns or anything to the fight.' Dad however, like so many others that day with a gun and an itch to use it, had decided better of it.
His truck loaded with supplies, guns and half-drunk men hellbent on turning back the undead tide themselves, dad had paused long enough to slap Skater on the back and hand him a rifle, two boxes of ammo and an open-band walkie-talkie.
"Watch the news, Skate," as he touseled his sons hair," and take care of your mom till we get back."
'Dad, don't do it! You need to be here! For once, don't be so dam*ned crazy!' He had wanted to shout to his father, to all of them. His eyes scanned the faces of those around him and he realized that it wouldn't do a tur*ds bit of good.
"Yes, sir...," he had nearly choked.
Dad flashed him a grin and with a quick hug for mom, jumped into the back of the truck with Jacob and they headed off down the street, whooping and hollering, horns blaring.
It was the last time he ever saw his father and brother.
The battleline had been overrun within two hours of his dads enthusiastic charge. Fighting had gone from defense to all out retreat, with the undead surge pouring out of downtown and into the suburbs.
Skater had watched the news, as ordered, until the power went out in his neighborhood and sporadic gunfire and explosions could be heard rattling outside, bullets and shrapnel tinging off the sides of the house. His mom had told him to leave, -ordered him- to make his way away from the fighting. She would meet him at the 7-11 some miles down the road.
He had never had the chance to ask her why she had made him leave without her, but she had nearly pushed him out the door, throwing his backpack at him. Screaming at him to get out, her makeup smeared with tears of rage and anguish.
His backpack slung around his shoulders, he had made his way down the street on his bike, dodging abandoned cars and the occasional corpse. Though he didn't see any zoms that day, he did get shot at at least twice while pedalling through one neighborhood, one bullet zinging by his head close enough to feel it whizz by. When he finally arrived at the 7-11, he could see dark smoke pluming upward in the direction he had come from.
Skater had hidden his bike and stepped through the broken storefront window into the darkened store, carefully listening for anything zombieish. The place had been ransacked, but was thankfully empty of people, living or dead. That is, until he ventured into the back room.
It was in the back office that he found Clare. A bit taller than him, a little older maybe, dirty blonde hair and athletic body in torn jeans and a 'bite me' t-shirt, which he had found hilariously ironic.
She had joined with him without question and they had been inseperable since. She was normally cheery and pretty smart, but sometimes she would go off into her own thoughts, which required him to tap her or call her name to get her out of.
She's obviously in one of them now, he thinks wryly.
Tossing the cd back into the bin, Skater looks at Clare, still gazing out of the store window. He clears his throat loudly.
"Hey Clare, I'm about done here."
She turns from the window and looks at him.
"Mmm...ok."
She looks at his backpack, stuffed with cds, and laughs.
"You get enough, you think?"
"No," Skater says with a grin, " but it'll have to do."
"I don't even know what I was thinking, letting you talk me into going in here. We're supposed to be getting supplies for the group, not shopping for music."
"Yeah, I know, but as long as the batteries in my cd player hold out, I need tunes." He hoists the backpack over one shoulder, picking up his rifle and slinging it over the other.
"It's not like we have anything left to pillage." Skater shakes his head.
Lately, scouting groups had been coming back with more casualties and less supplies. Coach, their self-proclaimed leader, continued to send parties deeper into town to find whatever they could, despite rising protests from party leaders that the town was purged of anything and everything useful.
Clare sighs and adjusts her gunbelt before walking toward the shop door. She turns to look at Skater, reading the expression on his face.
"Look, I don't like it either, Skate. I know that Coach is becoming more unreasonable." She shakes her head in frustration. "But what can we do? We can't just...we can't just leave..." She bites her lip. "We owe him."
"We owe the people that heard us that day, Clare." Slamming his fist down on the bin, causing cds to clatter to the floor.
He points a finger at her. "We don't owe that fat son-of-a-bi*ch nothin!"
"Skater, he was the one that sent out the groups. If he hadn't, they would've found two more corpses, or two fresh zoms wandering around with the rest of them."
"We were doing alright!"
"We were surrounded, Skate!" Now she was raising her voice. "We hadn't eaten in two days! We had no food, barely any ammo and one stupid canteen of stale water!"
She walks over to Skater and leans into him. "Do you call that alright?" she asks quietly.
He looks down tight-lipped, his fingers messing with the cd racks, his mind racing back.
They had been pursued through the L.A. suberbs, staying barely ahead of the undead, who would give chase for awhile, then stop. Running by day, barricading wherever they could by night had left them tired and unable to effectively resupply. Every skirmish, even with a single zom, was a major risk.
Zoms had a way of staying mostly in one place when not in eat mode and made little noise, unless alerted. Make some noise however, or allow a zom to sense you and start moaning, nearly always sent several more shambling your way. When that happened, your day went from bad to down-the-tubes bad in a quick way. They were slow, but could potentially follow you for miles, never tiring, their inscensent moans alerting more of their wretched kind that fresh meat was nearby.
They had traveled this way nearly nonstop since their run-in at the 7-11. Sneaking on foot, or dashing through ruined streets, Skater pedalling the bike and she riding the handlebars. They would travel, then barricade, foraging in houses for anything edible. They would pull shifts, one awake with Skaters rifle, the other sleeping uneasily nearby
For weeks they traveled this way, no plan ever really spoken between them, just simply the desire to head east, out of the city of the dead.
That is, of course, until everything changed.

...to be continued

chapter 1\r\n\r\n  "Hey Clare...you think Lady Gaga's a zombie?"\r\n  "Huh?" Clare lifts her gaze from the dusty window where she's been sitting.\r\n  "What the h*ll are you talking about, Skater?"\r\n  "Lady Gaga..." he repeats, holding up a smudged cd showing the pop singer in a sultry pose,"...she's a zombie, right?"\r\n  Clare sighs, then shrugs. "Probably...maybe..." She wipes a strand of dirty blonde hair from her face. "I don't know..."\r\n  Clare stares at the cd in Skaters hand -Lady Gaga frozen forever in a guess-what-I'm-thinking way-. Los Angeles was one of the first cities to fall to the undead during the initial panic that swept the U.S. The military quickly overwhelmed by the surge of over three million undead, drawn by the meaty smell of those trying to flee the city. The news reports of the carnage, the footage of shambling hordes of reanimated corpses surging through the streets seeking anything living, shredding with clawed hands and broken teeth.\r\n  She remembers her own frantic flight from L.A., sneaking with hitched breath by piles of undead feeding on their victims, trying to ignore the sounds of tearing flesh and gurgled moans. Hopping over uncountable pools of blood and eviscerated bodies, making her way out of town in a slow, but frantic game of cat and mouse.\r\n  Most of all, she remembers her terror, raw and loud, which even months later still simmers within her under a thin layer of control. She had no idea if her family in Kansas City was ok. No one to turn to, nowhere to go but out. It was enough to drive her crazy, and nearly did.\r\n  She swallows hard, forcing her emotions back. A single tear wells up and tracks down her smudged cheek and she looks away, wiping it away with her sleeve.\r\n  Skater stares after her for a moment, then rolls his eyes. Humph, just what was her problem, anyway? Since the moment he'd run into her, hiding in the 7-11 near his house , shed always been a bit elusive. Yeah, the world was an utter sh*tpot now, but crying about it didn't do any good.\r\n  H*ell, he considered himself luckier than most. His dad had been one of those paranoid conspiracy junkies, worried about world takeover by commies or aliens, whatever. Crazy as a loon, but that craziness had payed off for Skater in the way of survival training. Since he could remember, dad had been preaching survival to him and his older brother, Jacob, constantly.\r\n  Skater had been lying on his bed, watching news coverage of the fighting downtown, when Jacob came running into the room, dressed in his urban fatigues and holding a shotgun. Apparently, dad had decided that the military was doing a better job of adding to the zombie numbers rather than subtracting from them. He and some of the neighborhood Delta Couch Force were going off to give the enlisteds a hand. Skater had heard instructions on the news from the military that 'civilians were absolutely NOT permitted to lend hands, feet, guns or anything to the fight.' Dad however, like so many others that day with a gun and an itch to use it, had decided better of it.\r\n  His truck loaded with supplies, guns and half-drunk men hellbent on turning back the undead tide themselves, dad had paused long enough to slap Skater on the back and hand him a rifle, two boxes of ammo and an open-band walkie-talkie.\r\n  "Watch the news, Skate," as he touseled his sons hair," and take care of your mom till we get back."\r\n  'Dad, don't do it! You need to be here! For once, don't be so dam*ned crazy!' He had wanted to shout to his father, to all of them. His eyes scanned the faces of those around him and he realized that it wouldn't do a tur*ds bit of good.\r\n  "Yes, sir...," he had nearly choked.\r\n  Dad flashed him a grin and with a quick hug for mom, jumped into the back of the truck with Jacob and they headed off down the street, whooping and hollering, horns blaring.\r\n  It was the last time he ever saw his father and brother.\r\n  The battleline had been overrun within two hours of his dads enthusiastic charge. Fighting had gone from defense to all out retreat, with the undead surge pouring out of downtown and into the suburbs.\r\n  Skater had watched the news, as ordered, until the power went out in his neighborhood and sporadic gunfire and explosions could be heard rattling outside, bullets and shrapnel tinging off the sides of the house. His mom had told him to leave, -ordered him- to make his way away from the fighting. She would meet him at the 7-11 some miles down the road.\r\n  He had never had the chance to ask her why she had made him leave without her, but she had nearly pushed him out the door, throwing his backpack at him. Screaming at him to get out, her makeup smeared with tears of rage and anguish.\r\n  His backpack slung around his shoulders, he had made his way down the street on his bike, dodging abandoned cars and the occasional corpse. Though he didn't see any zoms that day, he did get shot at at least twice while pedalling through one neighborhood, one bullet zinging by his head close enough to feel it whizz by. When he finally arrived at the 7-11, he could see dark smoke pluming upward in the direction he had come from.\r\n  Skater had hidden his bike and stepped through the broken storefront window into the darkened store, carefully listening for anything zombieish. The place had been ransacked, but was thankfully empty of people, living or dead. That is, until he ventured into the back room.\r\n  It was in the back office that he found Clare. A bit taller than him, a little older maybe, dirty blonde hair and athletic body in torn jeans and a 'bite me' t-shirt, which he had found hilariously ironic.\r\n  She had joined with him without question and they had been inseperable since. She was normally cheery and pretty smart, but sometimes she would go off into her own thoughts, which required him to tap her or call her name to get her out of.\r\n  She's obviously in one of them now, he thinks wryly.\r\n  Tossing the cd back into the bin, Skater looks at Clare, still gazing out of the store window. He clears his throat loudly.\r\n  "Hey Clare, I'm about done here."\r\n  She turns from the window and looks at him.\r\n  "Mmm...ok."\r\n  She looks at his backpack, stuffed with cds, and laughs.\r\n  "You get enough, you think?"\r\n  "No," Skater says with a grin, " but it'll have to do."\r\n  "I don't even know what I was thinking, letting you talk me into going in here. We're supposed to be getting supplies for the group, not shopping for music."\r\n  "Yeah, I know, but as long as the batteries in my cd player hold out, I need tunes." He hoists the backpack over one shoulder, picking up his rifle and slinging it over the other.\r\n  "It's not like we have anything left to pillage." Skater shakes his head.\r\n  Lately, scouting groups had been coming back with more casualties and less supplies. Coach, their self-proclaimed leader, continued to send parties deeper into town to find whatever they could, despite rising protests from party leaders that the town was purged of anything and everything useful.\r\n  Clare sighs and adjusts her gunbelt before walking toward the shop door. She turns to look at Skater, reading the expression on his face.\r\n  "Look, I don't like it either, Skate. I know that Coach is becoming more unreasonable." She shakes her head in frustration. "But what can we do? We can't just...we can't just leave..." She bites her lip. "We owe him."\r\n  "We owe the people that heard us that day, Clare." Slamming his fist down on the bin, causing cds to clatter to the floor.\r\n  He points a finger at her. "We don't owe that fat son-of-a-bi*ch nothin!"\r\n  "Skater, he was the one that sent out the groups. If he hadn't, they would've found two more corpses, or two fresh zoms wandering around with the rest of them."\r\n  "We were doing alright!"\r\n  "We were surrounded, Skate!" Now she was raising her voice. "We hadn't eaten in two days! We had no food, barely any ammo and one stupid canteen of stale water!"\r\n  She walks over to Skater and leans into him. "Do you call that alright?" she asks quietly.\r\n  He looks down tight-lipped, his fingers messing with the cd racks, his mind racing back.\r\n  They had been pursued through the L.A. suberbs, staying barely ahead of the undead, who would give chase for awhile, then stop. Running by day, barricading wherever they could by night had left them tired and unable to effectively resupply. Every skirmish, even with a single zom, was a major risk.\r\n  Zoms had a way of staying mostly in one place when not in eat mode and made little noise, unless alerted. Make some noise however, or allow a zom to sense you and start moaning, nearly always sent several more shambling your way. When that happened, your day went from bad to down-the-tubes bad in a quick way. They were slow, but could potentially follow you for miles, never tiring, their inscensent moans alerting more of their wretched kind that fresh meat was nearby.\r\n  They had traveled this way nearly nonstop since their run-in at the 7-11. Sneaking on foot, or dashing through ruined streets, Skater pedalling the bike and she riding the handlebars. They would travel, then barricade, foraging in houses for anything edible. They would pull shifts, one awake with Skaters rifle, the other sleeping uneasily nearby\r\n  For weeks they traveled this way, no plan ever really spoken between them, just simply the desire to head east, out of the city of the dead.\r\n  That is, of course, until everything changed.\r\n\r\n...to be continued

offline

skater_kid_who_pwns

4,375 posts

Blacksmith

Posted December 25, '10 5:01am UTC

This.

Very glad to see you posted down here after all! I love your way of writting, always have.

I am very curious to see the end of this story. Zombie things only end in death, or a definate safe zone. So I look forward to that.

P.S Who's that sexy skater kid in there?

offline

Hypermnestra

26,390 posts

Nomad

Posted December 25, '10 5:27am UTC

Excellently done, even though I haven't been to the ZSC for a while(I should do that).
And the second I heard how they dealt with the scenario; walling themselves in, running out of rations...cannibalism immediately jumped to my mind. I know, right? I'm sick and twisted.
But the question is valid. In an apocalypse, when humanity is struggling just to survive, who are the real monsters? 0,o

offline

Muse2223

372 posts

Nomad

Posted December 26, '10 4:01am UTC

For the LOVE OF GOD, if I may, stop using so many ellipsis.

offline

Strongbow

324 posts

Nomad

Posted December 26, '10 10:49pm UTC

Muse,
Thank you for your commentary on my stories. I'm going to assume that you liked what you read.

As...for...your...comment...about...ellipses...I...have...no...idea...what...you're...talking...about...

offline

Strongbow

324 posts

Nomad

Posted December 27, '10 1:50am UTC

Chapter 2

Sundown had forced them to reluctantly seek refuge in a neighborhood they would normally have avoided. Most of the cars in this cul-de-sac were still parked in driveways. Suitcases, garbage bags and duffles littered the street and yards, thrown in vehicles or tossed to the ground, their contents spilling out in now rotted piles.
Amidst the mess, the undead walked. Many of them could have been former residents, wearing ragged bathrobes, pajamas, blood-covered nighties and sweats, -some wearing boxers or naked. Clare saw several undead children, of various ages, wandering among the adults, something she hated more than anything. She tried not to look too long at the small slacked jaws and bloodied clothing.
This neighborhood had been caught unaware, these people overrun as they prepared for bed, perhaps. Skater thought of his own block, his mother screaming at him to leave, the look of utter anguish on her face. Was she now like these people, stumbling about with her own blood drenching her clothing, ragged bite wounds oozing where the dead had taken her? He thought of his father, that stupid Rambo wanna-be, who dragged his brother to certain death with him and left his family defenseless. He hoped that dad had realized his error, perhaps as Jacobs dying screams mingled with his own, as his flesh was torn off of him. Skater prayed that he did.
He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away, just as Clare signalled for the beginning of their sneak into the ruined cul-de-sac.
They hid behind a four car pile-up near the end of the block, which had unfortunately left little room for other cars to navigate around. Skater pointed to their next hiding spot: a white minivan which had swerved to avoid the roadblock and had instead smashed into a corner house. They crouched behind it for a bit, trying not to think about the gore-smeared interior and grass around the wide open drivers side door.
The third house seemed to show some promise. No car was parked in the driveway and the front door was closed, unlike many other houses nearby. Clare motioned to go around to the side of the house, hidden mostly by bushes from the street. Skater nodded, moving as quietly as he could, bike on his back, till they reached the relative safety of the house.
Clare checked the windows, hoping that she didn't have to break one to get in. A small one near the ground slid open easily. She gave thumbs up to Skater, who returned it and set his bike against the wall. Then, quietly, they slipped inside.
They were inside a small laundry room, it turned out. Clare switched on a small red-tinted flashlight and, after listening for any movement further inside and hearing none, they carefully made their way through through the kitchen and into the living room. The light played over an all too common scenario: overturned furniture, broken glass on the floor, dried blood smeared on the walls and under the dust on the floor. A blood-stained .38 revolver with three shots left in the cylinder lay in a corner. Clare picked it up and put it in Skaters backpack.
She scanned the walls, looking for any pictures. She trained the red beam on a dusty family portrait. A man, woman and little girl smiled back at them. A small dog sat in the girls lap, panting face resembling a grin. Skater held up three fingers and Clare nodded, gripping the bat in her left hand a bit tighter as they searched for the former residents.
In a small bedroom, they found the ravaged, half eaten body of the little girl, lying face down on the pink carpeting, a doll still clutched in one tiny, mummified fist. Thankfully, Clare noted, the girl had not survived her attack and never reanimated.
It had always puzzled both of them how some people came back after bieng eaten and some didn't. Those who actually came back after bieng torn to shreds, -leftovers, as Skater called them- suffered in their second lives as...well...handicapped. Stripped of flesh, their faces a mess of shredded muscle and skin, chest cavities usually ripped open and hollow, limbs that gleamed with pockets of exposed bone, -they usually had trouble walking or using their limbs, if they even posessed them. Clare almost felt sorry for them...almost.
They continued on, checking the bathroom, a guest room and closets, (she hated checking closets,) but all showed no signs of activity. They ended up back in the kitchen, blood coating the lower cabinets and trash compacter, then led in streaks to the basement. Someone had definately died, reanimated and ended up in the basement.
Carefully, they made their way down the steep steps, Clares light moving slowly around the room. The blood led to a corner where, under an overturned basket of clothing, they found the girls mother, or what was left of her.
She had obviously not meant to end up down there, but had fallen down the steps. Her legs were at horribly odd angles, bone jutting from her left leg in several places. Worse for her, the fall had broken her neck, which made muffled popping noises as she tried to advance on the pair, moaning softly into her chest. She dragged herself along, her clothing ripping as she pulled herself forward on palms and forearms, stripped nearly of flesh by the rough basement floor.
Skater stepped forward, using a booted foot to pin the undead woman to the ground by her neck. She struggled weakly as he slung his rifle and took Clares bat, holding it up in strike pose.
"Dam*n leftovers...," he said, slamming the bat down onto the top of her head. Her struggles ended immediately as foul-smelling pinkish goo oozed out of the large dent in her head. They silently switched weapons and Clare wiped the bat with a t-shirt from the floor, placing it over the womans head when she finished.
Back upstairs, satisfied that the ground floor was clear, they decided to look for supplies before checking the upstairs part of the house. Clare took Skaters backpack and quietly started going through the cupboard, taking any cans she could find and stuffing them in the pack, as Skater inspected the backyard through a dirty window.
She had nearly finished her search when she felt Skater tap her on the shoulder, pointing outside, a finger agains t his lips. She looked out the window and sighed in exasperation. He had found dad.
He, well it, was standing motionless in the overgrown grass by an empty swimming pool. An open, sun-bleached blue robe hung in tatters over its wasted shoulders, completely covered in front by black dried blood. A distended, blueish-green belly sagged around its waist, powder blue boxers barely visible beneath. A cloud of flies buzzed angrily around its head, -a jagged bite mark still visible on its neck, festered meat hung from the wound that had undoubtedly turned it. Its mouth hung open, one eye fused shut by the dried gore covering its face, the other staring blankly at the fence bordering the property. Weeds had grown around it, tendrils of green vine wrapped around its mottled grey legs. It had obviously been standing there a long time.
"We have to take him," Skater whispered into Clares ear.
She shook her head. "Too dangerous. It's outside."
Skater nodded that he understood, then pointed at the patio door, at the glass on the floor near it. It had been shattered outward, open to the backyard.
"We can't risk it. We have to take him"
She sighed, then after a moment, nodded grimly. "Please be careful," she whispered, handing him her bat.
He flashed her a smile, then slipped quietly through the patio door and into the backyard.
Clare moved to the window, watching intently as he slowly crept up on the still unmoving undead. He paused about eight feet from his target, adjusting the grip on the bat. The zom had to be killed in one hit, he knew, or its moans could start a chain reaction that would attract every undead in the block.
Skater took a deep breath and gripped the bat tight, focused on the fly-swarmed head, still canted slightly upward and unmoving. Then, he rushed forward, bat over his head, to deliver the crushing blow that would kill it for good...
...and tripped.
Clare watched in horror as Skaters feet flew out from under him and he pitched hands-first into the back of the zom. A coil of garden hose, hidden by the tall grass surrounding the undead man, had caught him up. They both tumbled to the ground, Skater ending up on top of the undead, who let out a loud moan and growl, its leathery arms and legs flailing under him.
Skater let out a cry of disgust as his left hand punched through the undeads back ribcage as he fell to the ground with a sickening crunch of bone. He glanced at it, seeing sour brownish liquid, but no cuts. It was his luck that the zoms robe, which was still puckered in the hollow left by Skaters hand, had protected him from jagged rib-breaks and guaranteed infection. He rolled off the still howling zombie, clambered to his knees and crawled quickly after the bat, which had tumbled away during his fall.
Having righted itself on shaky legs, gore now soaking the back of its robe, the undead stumbled forward, moaning loudly One arm outstretched, the other broken during the fall and hanging uselessly, it moved with unsteady lurches toward Skater, who had just snatched up the bat and was turning on is knees to face it. Too close to get to his feet, he held the bat out in front of him with both hands as the zom fell on him, jaws open wide,as the fetid reek of rotten meat coming from its open mouth nearly gagged him.
Skater pushed the bat against its throat, hearing the thick, muffled pops of its larynx collapsing, the zombies moans turned to gurgled growls as it pushed back, aiming for his throat. Dark ooze began welling under its milky eyes, black bile dripping in long, thick strings from its rotted maw and slowly, it pushed the bat back toward Skater, his muscles shaking from exhaustion.
'Too many weeks of running, eating canned food,' he thought. 'I can't hold on much longer.'
"Run...Clare!" He hoped that she heard him and was on the bike, peddling her legs off, away...The zombie lunged, redoubling its efforts, broken teeth near Skaters cheek. He closed his eyes, bracing for the bite.
He heard a loud chunk. With a low, gurgled sigh, the zombie went slack and collapsed on top of him. Skater looked up and saw Clare standing over them breathing heavily, her eyes wide open, a large kitchen knife protruded from the back of the zoms skull, buried nearly to the hilt.
Skater rolled the corpse off of him and examined his self for wounds. No cuts, but he made a face at the lumpy brown liquid that stained his shirt and jacket. He shook his head in disbelief.
"Holy Sh*t, Clare! That stupid hose..."
She yanked him to his feet, staring in horror beyond him. He was confused for a moment, then he heard the moans, -lots of them- coming from all around the yard beyond the wooden fence. His eyes widened as he remembered the noise his fight with the zom had probably caused.
Hands scrabbled and scratched, stretching over the now swaying fence, already cracking in some places from the undead straining against it.
"We have to get out of here, NOW!"
Skater grabbed Clares hand and they ran across the yard and through the broken patio door, as the fence slanted dangerously inward.
The house echoed with the sounds of dead fists beating against the door, window and walls, getting louder as more undead joined in. Skater dragged a large sofa from the family room and into the kitchen, creating a makeshift barrier in front of the broken patio door, as Clare headed for the laundry room.
She returned a second later. She had seen legs and feet outside of the window they had entered in, too many to try and fight through.
Outside, the fence folded inward and the dead surged into the yard. The first row of them fell on top of the now horizontal fence and were trampled immediately by those behind, causing a momentary pile-up of crunching bones and slippery gore. Some of them who managed to crawl over the writhing pile or around it staggered toward the house, pitching into the pool, breaking limbs and skulls with a sickening pops.
Still they came, slowly filling the backyard and surrounding the house in front, their moans rising with every minute.
Inside, the house trembled slightly. Pictures fell from the walls with a tinkle of broken glass.
"What do we do?!" Clare yelled into Skaters ear above the moans. A window shattered in the living room. The din became louder.
"Upstairs!"
He grabbed the backpack and they ran up the dusty stairs and into the first room they saw, the master bedroom. The decayed corpse of the small dog stained the center of a large bed, its shriveled tongue jutting out between white teeth, bones poking out of tufts of ragged fur. 'Family accounted for!' Clare thought wildly.
Skater ran up to a large vanity and began moving it, spilling various makeup items and knicknacks onto the floor. A large jewelry box toppled, its lid breaking off and its contents spilled out, -a tinny lulliby started playing from inside the box. Clare grabbed the other end and together they dragged it to the top of the stairs, angling it to block off the stairway as best they could. Below them, another window shattered.
They ran back into the bedroom and slammed the door, locking it, then bracing it with the bed.
Clare sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Skater rushed to a window and peered outside, the rifle gripped tightly in his hand.
"They'll be here soon," she said finally.
"I know. They're already in the house," Skater said matter-of-factly, still staring out of the window. The house had gone very dark, the sky a bruised purple on the horizon.
Clare sighed. "We are officially and properly screwed, Skate." She put her head in her hands, hair falling over her face.
He pointed out the window. "There's a ledge here. We can crawl out and make our way to the top of the roof. Then we...
"Then we what, Skate?! Become another pair of corpses turning to jerky on the top of a house? God, we've SEEN that too many times!"
Another loud crash from downstairs made her gasp. She looked toward the door in fear, then down at her feet again.
Skater quickly walked over to her, set down the rifle and dropped to one knee, grabbing her by the arms.
"Get ahold of yourself, for Chrissakes!" He shook her firmly. She swats his hands away, eyes still looking down.
"I'm done getting ahold of myself! I'm done with all of this! We are out of options, Skate!" She sobbed, dropping her hands in her lap.
Skater looked at her, his lips tight with anger. He snatched the rifle, then stood up over her.
"I refuse to give up, on EITHER of us!"
He pointed the rifle at her, the barrel less than two inches from her bowed head.
"I would rather shoot your a*ss here and now than have them take you...make you one of them." He pulled the hammer back with a loud click.
She slowly looked up, the barrel now between her eyes.
"You would do that?"
"Yes." The barrel did'nt waver. "I would hate myself forever, but..but I would. He paused.
"I hope you'd do the same for me, were it ever to come to that."
She looked past the barrel, over the cocked hammer, into his eyes.
"I would," she whispered.
"Good." He lowered the rifle and grabbed his backpack from the floor. "But, it's not that time yet, Clare."
He crossed the room to the window, opening it wide, the sounds of the undead below mingling with the muffled moans on the stairs, -the rotten fists beating on the vanity.
He stepped halfway out of the window, then held out his hand to her, his eyes imploring in the dim light.
After a moment, she stood, claimed her bat and walked over to him. She took his hand, giving him a smile.
"Let's go, Skate."
They stepped out of the window together, into the night.

...to be continued

[b]Chapter 2[/b]\r\n\r\n\r\n    Sundown had forced them to reluctantly seek refuge in a neighborhood they would normally have avoided. Most of the cars in this cul-de-sac were still parked in driveways. Suitcases, garbage bags and duffles littered the street and yards, thrown in vehicles or tossed to the ground, their contents spilling out in now rotted piles.\r\n    Amidst the mess, the undead walked. Many of them could have been former residents, wearing ragged bathrobes, pajamas, blood-covered nighties and sweats, -some wearing boxers or naked. Clare saw several undead children, of various ages, wandering among the adults, something she hated more than anything. She tried not to look too long at the small slacked jaws and bloodied clothing.\r\n    This neighborhood had been caught unaware, these people overrun as they prepared for bed, perhaps. Skater thought of his own block, his mother screaming at him to leave, the look of utter anguish on her face. Was she now like these people, stumbling about with her own blood drenching her clothing, ragged bite wounds oozing where the dead had taken her? He thought of his father, that stupid Rambo wanna-be, who dragged his brother to certain death with him and left his family defenseless. He hoped that dad had realized his error, perhaps as Jacobs dying screams mingled with his own, as his flesh was torn off of him. Skater prayed that he did.\r\n    He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away, just as Clare signalled for the beginning of their sneak into the ruined cul-de-sac.   \r\n    They hid behind a four car pile-up near the end of the block, which had unfortunately left little room for other cars to navigate around. Skater pointed to their next hiding spot: a white minivan which had swerved to avoid the roadblock and had instead smashed into a corner house. They crouched behind it for a bit, trying not to think about the gore-smeared interior and grass around the wide open drivers side door.\r\n    The third house seemed to show some promise. No car was parked in the driveway and the front door was closed, unlike many other houses nearby. Clare motioned to go around to the side of the house, hidden mostly by bushes from the street. Skater nodded, moving as quietly as he could, bike on his back, till they reached the relative safety of the house.\r\n    Clare checked the windows, hoping that she didn't have to break one to get in. A small one near the ground slid open easily. She gave thumbs up to Skater, who returned it and set his bike against the wall. Then, quietly, they slipped inside.\r\n    They were inside a small laundry room, it turned out. Clare switched on a small red-tinted flashlight and, after listening for any movement further inside and hearing none, they carefully made their way through through the kitchen and into the living room. The light played over an all too common scenario: overturned furniture, broken glass on the floor, dried blood smeared on the walls and under the dust on the floor. A blood-stained .38 revolver with three shots left in the cylinder lay in a corner. Clare picked it up and put it in Skaters backpack.\r\n    She scanned the walls, looking for any pictures. She trained the red beam on a dusty family portrait. A man, woman and little girl smiled back at them. A small dog sat in the girls lap, panting face resembling a grin. Skater held up three fingers and Clare nodded, gripping the bat in her left hand a bit tighter as they searched for the former residents.\r\n    In a small bedroom, they found the ravaged, half eaten body of the little girl, lying face down on the pink carpeting, a doll still clutched in one tiny, mummified fist. Thankfully, Clare noted, the girl had not survived her attack and never reanimated.\r\n    It had always puzzled both of them how some people came back after bieng eaten and some didn't. Those who actually came back after bieng torn to shreds, -leftovers, as Skater called them- suffered in their second lives as...well...handicapped. Stripped of flesh, their faces a mess of shredded muscle and skin, chest cavities usually ripped open and hollow, limbs that gleamed with pockets of exposed bone, -they usually had trouble walking or using their limbs, if they even posessed them. Clare almost felt sorry for them...almost.\r\n    They continued on, checking the bathroom, a guest room and closets, (she hated checking closets,) but all showed no signs of activity. They ended up back in the kitchen, blood coating the lower cabinets and trash compacter, then led in streaks to the basement. Someone had definately died, reanimated and ended up in the basement. \r\n    Carefully, they made their way down the steep steps, Clares light moving slowly around the room. The blood led to a corner where, under an overturned basket of clothing, they found the girls mother, or what was left of her.\r\n    She had obviously not meant to end up down there, but had fallen down the steps. Her legs were at horribly odd angles, bone jutting from her left leg in several places. Worse for her, the fall had broken her neck, which made muffled popping noises as she tried to advance on the pair, moaning softly into her chest. She dragged herself along, her clothing ripping as she pulled herself forward on palms and forearms, stripped nearly of flesh by the rough basement floor.\r\n    Skater stepped forward, using a booted foot to pin the undead woman to the ground by her neck. She struggled weakly as he slung his rifle and took Clares bat, holding it up in strike pose.\r\n    "Dam*n leftovers...," he said, slamming the bat down onto the top of her head. Her struggles ended immediately as foul-smelling pinkish goo oozed out of the large dent in her head. They silently switched weapons and Clare wiped the bat with a t-shirt from the floor, placing it over the womans head when she finished. \r\n    Back upstairs, satisfied that the ground floor was clear, they decided to look for supplies before checking the upstairs part of the house. Clare took Skaters backpack and quietly started going through the cupboard, taking any cans she could find and stuffing them in the pack, as Skater inspected the backyard through a dirty window.\r\n    She had nearly finished her search when she felt Skater tap her on the shoulder, pointing outside, a finger agains t his lips. She looked out the window and sighed in exasperation. He had found dad.\r\n    He, well [b]it[/b], was standing motionless in the overgrown grass by an empty swimming pool. An open, sun-bleached blue robe hung in tatters over its wasted shoulders, completely covered in front by black dried blood. A distended, blueish-green belly sagged around its waist, powder blue boxers barely visible beneath. A cloud of flies buzzed angrily around its head, -a jagged bite mark still visible on its neck, festered meat hung from the wound that had undoubtedly turned it. Its mouth hung open, one eye fused shut by the dried gore covering its face, the other staring blankly at the fence bordering the property. Weeds had grown around it, tendrils of green vine wrapped around its mottled grey legs. It had obviously been standing there a long time.\r\n    "We have to take him," Skater whispered into Clares ear.\r\n    She shook her head. "Too dangerous. It's outside."\r\n    Skater nodded that he understood, then pointed at the patio door, at the glass on the floor near it. It had been shattered outward, open to the backyard.\r\n    "We can't risk it. We have to take him"\r\n    She sighed, then after a moment, nodded grimly. "Please be careful," she whispered, handing him her bat.\r\n    He flashed her a smile, then slipped quietly through the patio door and into the backyard.\r\n    Clare moved to the window, watching intently as he slowly crept up on the still unmoving undead. He paused about eight feet from his target, adjusting the grip on the bat. The zom had to be killed in one hit, he knew, or its moans could start a chain reaction that would attract every undead in the block.\r\n    Skater took a deep breath and gripped the bat tight, focused on the fly-swarmed head, still canted slightly upward and unmoving. Then, he rushed forward, bat over his head, to deliver the crushing blow that would kill it for good...\r\n    ...and tripped.\r\n    Clare watched in horror as Skaters feet flew out from under him and he pitched hands-first into the back of the zom. A coil of garden hose, hidden by the tall grass surrounding the undead man, had caught him up. They both tumbled to the ground, Skater ending up on top of the undead, who let out a loud moan and growl, its leathery arms and legs flailing under him.\r\n    Skater let out a cry of disgust as his left hand punched through the undeads back ribcage as he fell to the ground with a sickening crunch of bone. He glanced at it, seeing sour brownish liquid, but no cuts. It was his luck that the zoms robe, which was still puckered in the hollow left by Skaters hand, had protected him from jagged rib-breaks and guaranteed infection. He rolled off the still howling zombie, clambered to his knees and crawled quickly after the bat, which had tumbled away during his fall.\r\n    Having righted itself on shaky legs, gore now soaking the back of its robe, the undead stumbled forward, moaning loudly One arm outstretched, the other broken during the fall and hanging uselessly, it moved with unsteady lurches toward Skater, who had just snatched up the bat and was turning on is knees to face it. Too close to get to his feet, he held the bat out in front of him with both hands as the zom fell on him, jaws open wide,as the fetid reek of rotten meat coming from its open mouth nearly gagged him.\r\n    Skater pushed the bat against its throat, hearing the thick, muffled pops of its larynx collapsing, the zombies moans turned to gurgled growls as it pushed back, aiming for his throat. Dark ooze began welling under its milky eyes, black bile dripping in long, thick strings from its rotted maw and slowly, it pushed the bat back toward Skater, his muscles shaking from exhaustion. \r\n    'Too many weeks of running, eating canned food,' he thought. 'I can't hold on much longer.'\r\n    "Run...Clare!" He hoped that she heard him and was on the bike, peddling her legs off, away...The zombie lunged, redoubling its efforts, broken teeth near Skaters cheek. He closed his eyes, bracing for the bite.\r\n    He heard a loud [i]chunk[/i]. With a low, gurgled sigh, the zombie went slack and collapsed on top of him. Skater looked up and saw Clare standing over them breathing heavily, her eyes wide open, a large kitchen knife protruded from the back of the zoms skull, buried nearly to the hilt.\r\n    Skater rolled the corpse off of him and examined his self for wounds. No cuts, but he made a face at the lumpy brown liquid that stained his shirt and jacket. He shook his head in disbelief.\r\n    "Holy Sh*t, Clare! That stupid hose..."\r\n    She yanked him to his feet, staring in horror beyond him. He was confused for a moment, then he heard the moans, -lots of them- coming from all around the yard beyond the wooden fence. His eyes widened as he remembered the noise his fight with the zom had probably caused.\r\n    Hands scrabbled and scratched, stretching over the now swaying fence, already cracking in some places from the undead straining against it.\r\n    "We have to get out of here, NOW!"\r\n    Skater grabbed Clares hand and they ran across the yard and through the broken patio door, as the fence slanted dangerously inward.\r\n    The house echoed with the sounds of dead fists beating against the door, window and walls, getting louder as more undead joined in. Skater dragged a large sofa from the family room and into the kitchen, creating a makeshift barrier in front of the broken patio door, as Clare headed for the laundry room.\r\n    She returned a second later. She had seen legs and feet outside of the window they had entered in, too many to try and fight through.\r\n    Outside, the fence folded inward and the dead surged into the yard. The first row of them fell on top of the now horizontal fence and were trampled immediately by those behind, causing a momentary pile-up of crunching bones and slippery gore. Some of them who managed to crawl over the writhing pile or around it staggered toward the house, pitching into the pool, breaking limbs and skulls with a sickening pops. \r\n    Still they came, slowly filling the backyard and surrounding the house in front, their moans rising with every minute.\r\n    Inside, the house trembled slightly. Pictures fell from the walls with a tinkle of broken glass.\r\n    "What do we do?!" Clare yelled into Skaters ear above the moans. A window shattered in the living room. The din became louder.\r\n    "Upstairs!"\r\n    He grabbed the backpack and they ran up the dusty stairs and into the first room they saw, the master bedroom. The decayed corpse of the small dog stained the center of a large bed, its shriveled tongue jutting out between white teeth, bones poking out of tufts of ragged fur. 'Family accounted for!' Clare thought wildly. \r\n    Skater ran up to a large vanity and began moving it, spilling various makeup items and knicknacks onto the floor. A large jewelry box toppled, its lid breaking off and its contents spilled out, -a tinny lulliby started playing from inside the box. Clare grabbed the other end and together they dragged it to the top of the stairs, angling it to block off the stairway as best they could. Below them, another window shattered. \r\n    They ran back into the bedroom and slammed the door, locking it, then bracing it with the bed.\r\n    Clare sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Skater rushed to a window and peered outside, the rifle gripped tightly in his hand.\r\n    "They'll be here soon," she said finally.\r\n    "I know. They're already in the house," Skater said matter-of-factly, still staring out of the window. The house had gone very dark, the sky a bruised purple on the horizon.\r\n    Clare sighed. "We are officially and properly screwed, Skate." She put her head in her hands, hair falling over her face.\r\n    He pointed out the window. "There's a ledge here. We can crawl out and make our way to the top of the roof. Then we...\r\n    "Then we [b]what[/b], Skate?! Become another pair of corpses turning to jerky on the top of a house? God, we've SEEN that too many times!"\r\n    Another loud crash from downstairs made her gasp. She looked toward the door in fear, then down at her feet again.\r\n    Skater quickly walked over to her, set down the rifle and dropped to one knee, grabbing her by the arms.\r\n    "Get ahold of yourself, for Chrissakes!" He shook her firmly. She swats his hands away, eyes still looking down.\r\n    "I'm done getting ahold of myself! I'm done with all of this! We are out of options, Skate!" She sobbed, dropping her hands in her lap.\r\n    Skater looked at her, his lips tight with anger. He snatched the rifle, then stood up over her.\r\n    "I refuse to give up, on EITHER of us!"\r\n    He pointed the rifle at her, the barrel less than two inches from her bowed head.\r\n    "I would rather shoot your a*ss here and now than have them take you...make you one of [b]them[/b]." He pulled the hammer back with a loud click.\r\n    She slowly looked up, the barrel now between her eyes.\r\n    "You would do that?"\r\n    "Yes." The barrel did'nt waver. "I would hate myself forever, but..but I would. He paused.\r\n    "I hope you'd do the same for me, were it ever to come to that."\r\n    She looked past the barrel, over the cocked hammer, into his eyes.\r\n    "I would," she whispered.\r\n    "Good." He lowered the rifle and grabbed his backpack from the floor. "But, it's not that time yet, Clare."\r\n    He crossed the room to the window, opening it wide, the sounds of the undead below mingling with the muffled moans on the stairs, -the rotten fists beating on the vanity.\r\n    He stepped halfway out of the window, then held out his hand to her, his eyes imploring in the dim light.\r\n    After a moment, she stood, claimed her bat and walked over to him. She took his hand, giving him a smile.\r\n    "Let's go, Skate."\r\n    They stepped out of the window together, into the night.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n...to be continued

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Efan

3,086 posts

Nomad

Posted December 27, '10 5:53am UTC

I have thoughrouly enjoyed all of the above stories
But the very first one was the more intriuging because it was grittier, and seemed different to the usual zombie story rubbish you find in cheap book stores. heck, i'd buy it
So please write more to the first one. Pleeeaaasseee?

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Muse2223

372 posts

Nomad

Posted December 27, '10 7:52pm UTC

Muse,
Thank you for your commentary on my stories. I'm going to assume that you liked what you read.

As...for...your...comment...about...ellipses...I...have...no...idea...what...you're...talking...about...

No problem. I really liked the prologue(?), but Chapter 1, not so much, probably due to the dialogue, though.

offline

Strongbow

324 posts

Nomad

Posted December 28, '10 3:28am UTC

First of all, I'd like to thank you all for your wonderful words. I'm glad that you're enjoying the stories so far.

Just to clarify, however, the first story was separate from the other chaptered pieces that came after.

Ive been writing the second one as a longer, more "standard" tale. If you're finding it a bit melodramatic, I do apologise, but it's where my mind is at the moment. Enjoy it, however. It has its moments

However, I do get ideas for smaller, darker pieces and will write them out as I get them formulated into print.

Until then, please do enjoy the chapters as they come and thank you again for reading them.

Strongbow

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skater_kid_who_pwns

4,375 posts

Blacksmith

Posted December 29, '10 5:59am UTC

I dont even no what that means

Dude, I don't know what anything means. Google can help you though.

offline

Strongbow

324 posts

Nomad

Posted December 31, '10 6:35pm UTC

I have another short nearly ready for post.

I should have it up tonight. Enjoy it!

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