Free Blog Directory Zombie Stories - A Zombie Story a Week

Zombies Vs Bikers - The Wind Riders - Part Three



The doors squealed loudly on hinges that had not been oiled in months, adding to the cacophony of noise like a madhouse opera – the squealing was the soprano, the engines the symphony and the zombies’ moaning – the choir backing them up.
It was literally ‘music’ to JFK’s ears and he raised his hands like a conductor directing a grand orchestra to an orgasmic crescendo, jerking them left and right before finally letting his hands fall to his baby, gripping her in both hands, revving her and whooping up a storm with the rest of the gang.

   It was their trademark, the howling, growling rumble like an approaching storm as they descended upon the towns both in their empire and of the other smaller biker gangs. Their legend, when there were still folks to whisper it, spoke of the chaos to befall any town unfortunate enough to hear the howling of the Wind Riders.
It could be a typical sweat-inducing Texas day with the sun staring down on you in a cloudless sky but you’d hear the old folk sitting in the shadows, sheltering on the deck of the porch say, “There’s a storm coming – just listen, you can hear it.”

   And those that didn’t know any better, those poor souls who thought they ‘ran’ and ‘owned’ the town would say, “Just listen to those old fools, hollering on again. Broken records are all they are.”

   Then they heard it, the call of the Wind Riders rolling in like some phantom storm, bringing in a tornado invisible to the naked eye, shaking the ground and standing the hairs on the back of your neck up.

   “I told you so,” the old folk would cackle as the storm front rolled in, shaking the high street, a long line of blinding hot metal, shades and black leather. The Wind Riders were in town and you’d damn well better just let them be.

   Those days were long gone. Now, the only audience they had were the stinkers and the critters taking over the ruins of man. The Wind Rider’s legacy was as good as dead, carried only by the wind and those who still rode it.

   Perhaps if he lived long enough he could rebuild the gang but what would be the point, anyway.
The townsfolk holding open the doors on either side need not have feared for their lives because the fifteen bikers roared through the opening eagerly, weapons raised and ready to strike.

   The zombies or stinkers as the gang referred to them as, fell in heaps, the dead blood in their veins still retaining enough liquidity to fly in all directions. Helmets over heads, visors down, gloves fitted, jackets zipped tight, the blood rained upon them like plum-tomatoes – chopped plum tomatoes. JFK was out in front, Wind and Uncle either side, the three most savage fighters of the fifteen, clearing the way whilst the rest plowed the edges of the opening.

   A particularly large zombie, a fat, wobbly mass of flesh that quivered as one like those apple-bottoms you see in hip-hop videos lurched before JFK, his front wheel zipping over the flesh uselessly, reached for him between the tall handle-bars. Without even thinking, JFK sheathed the machete and reached for the sawn-off shotgun in the holster at his saddle. The zombie had obviously been a monster-eater – probably still was – and a machete seemed severely inadequate. He slapped its reaching hands away, looked into its cloudy orbs and pulled the trigger. 400 pounds or not, without a head to move the mass it was simply a mountain – one that could easily be traversed with a little Harley Davidson momentum.
With the fall of the grossly overweight zombie, JFK saw that they were almost through the crowd and accelerated through the opening. Wind and the rest followed hollering in delight.
The main-street was not too clogged with cars here and they made good time as they raced through the center of town. Most of the dead, rusting husks would be out on the highway and as much as JFK would rather not have, he realized it was the quickest route to their destination.

   All around them, shambling forms appeared at the edges of the streets, attracted by the purr of their combined Harleys. It was a sound that filled JFK with great joy, the utter harmonic resonance of their monstrous engines and the crisp look of their fresh new leather that enclosed their bodies despite the temperature being in the late twenties. Before the outbreak, the gang had been in okay condition. Once the outbreak and the subsequent fall of man ensued, the Wind Riders were finally given the chance to live up to their name – at least the few remaining survivors were. The biker store in town – Biker’s Delight – had duly been treated as such and yielded the necessary equipment and clothing worthy of a tough yet decimated biker-gang.

   The Harleys had been filched from other dead or dead-walking bikers and local dealers to complete the majestic, thundering army that roared through the streets of Bridlington.
The first stop on the way would be a gas station. The plan was to fill up their tanks, fill up their gas cans neatly fitted into their newly acquired saddlebags, pilfer anything else of use and head along the highway to Arkansas. Once there, if all went well they could drive on through with no interruptions and head for the Jack Daniels distillery in Tennessee – a request filed by most of the gang. They could stock up on some hardcore liquor there, get supplies and head to the Black Mountains just a couple hours from there.

   The plan was simple. Carrying it out, JFK knew, would be infinitely more challenging.
As JFK had suspected; the highway both in and out of Bridlington - though less severely so coming in - was crammed thickly with cars and the going was slow. They crawled through the mass of dead machines, engines blurting, attracting a following both to the rear and from up ahead in the sea of metal. It did not bother the group too much though as the zombies were unable to mass, and so were easy to take care of.
They found a gas station after an hour of weaving in and out of the not always abandoned cars and lined their bikes up, ready to fill, a steady stream of ghouls lumbering at them from all directions.

   “Let’s make this quick, people. These fuckers are persistent.” JFK leaped off his bike and summoned two of the others to follow him, heading for the main building whilst Wind arranged the filling of the bikes and tanks.

   Leanne the lesbian and Dog followed him into the foreboding interior of the gas station. It was dark and too damn quiet for his liking and JFK began to get that feeling you get when you are watching a horror movie and you know something is coming. Walking up to the cash registers, he peered over the counter top expecting to see an ugly, blood covered face staring up at him but there was no one.

   “Stay together. None of that splitting up bullshit you get in the movies – you hear me?” JFK whispered over his shoulder, and the other two nodded. Leanne the lesbian flexed her dagger-like nails and savagely chewed at her gum like it was her enemy and she was seeking to destroy it, a scowl on her manly face. Dog, his face rarely ever showing emotion, looked as though water would freeze should it be placed upon his flesh, he was that cool.
Waiting by the single closed door to the back of the store, presumably the stores and office, JFK motioned for the other two to check the aisles and they did – clear. The silence within the building suggested something was wrong though, silence always seemed to do that, JFK thought as he pushed the door to the back open.

   When he saw what waited in the blood soaked corridor ahead, he understood why.
Because the monsters/killers loved scaring the shit out of their prey – that was why silence was always worrying!

   The three scarlet forms in the hallway turned to him with a hiss, mouths gaping hungrily, and began to totter towards him, their hands slapping at the walls. JFK felt his balls shrink into him at the sudden sight as he quickly retreated backwards, his foot jarring against a conveniently placed box.

   On his ass, staring up at the approaching figures, his machete still in its sheath, he realized how stupidly confident he had been.
A pair of hands grabbed him, pulling him away from the descending zombies and he felt himself shoved aside.

   “I’ll take care of these fucks, JFK. You just sit tight.” It was Leanne the lesbian, and her words were punctuated with the snip snap of her favored weapon – a pair of garden shears, the blades as long as his arm and as sharp as his wit – at least according to him.
The bloated, purple mottled figures, all men in stained, torn uniforms reached the doorway and JFK could not help but think how much they resembled prunes.

   “You’ve got a spot of pruning to take care of there, Leanne,” he said, the words leaving his mouth like kids from school at the end of the day.

   “Did you just say that?” Dog said, from the doorway leading outside, a look of disgust etched into his normally stone-wall features.

   JFK stood, pulling out his machete and raised a hand imploringly, “Oh come on, Simon. At least I try!”

   The pruning began in earnest and within seconds, all three zombies had thudded to the ground, headless. “That’s why these babies beat a machete any day,” Leanne said, holding up her shears proudly, the edges a dark red with thick congealed blood.
She turned and disappeared into the corridor.

   “Wait up, don’t go in there alone, man,” JFK called out but she ignored him and opened a door somewhere in the darkness of the narrow space.
No one moved. Dog and JFK waited, that moment of silence descending once more as they awaited the result of her foolhardy action.


   Two things happened then, simultaneously. The gas station door flew open and Smoke appeared in the doorway, a grim look upon his face, and in the corridor they heard raised voices. 

To be continued...

Alright folks. Sorry for ending it on a cliffhanger. I ran out of time. 

Going to be a bit busy this week, so the next installment might take a little longer. 

Stay tuned though. I'll see you in a week!

Stay safe! :)

Rich

Zombies Vs Bikers - The Wind Riders - Part Two




He stepped over JFK, who quickly scrabbled to his feet and ran to safety, an animal re-released into the wild. JFK ignored him.
“Hey, you take requests?” JFK called out to the band as they brought their latest piece to a close.

   The lead singer looked at him hopefully, turned to share his delight with his band who shrugged as one, before turning back to JFK.
“Sure, man. What’d you have in mind?”

   JFK approached the stage. He stopped before them and cupped his chin for a moment, a finger stroking the tangled black mass of his beard before he nodded softly and made a satisfied grunt.
“Yeah, I got it now. How about…you…put those weapons away and come down from there before someone gets hurt?”

   All eyes in the room were now fixated upon JFK, as they waited for the punch line or the punch, knowing either was surely imminent. Rider’s Row was essentially JFK’s prime haunt, along with his gang who had once numbered in the hundreds. That number was now closer to fifteen but nonetheless, JFK was well known to the denizens of Rider’s Row.
The young man’s eyes flitted from his buddies and back to JFK before he laughed nervously; just a pitiful exhalation of air, lacking any real conviction. “Weapons?”

   With a straight face, JFK continued. “Those things in your hands – those instruments,” he said motioning to the guitars and drumsticks still clutched in their trembling hands. “In the hands of a musician, those things spread love, bring whole nations together and save lives by the thousands – in your hands…they’re weapons of mass destruction – instruments of death!”

   It was the cue for the entire barroom to burst into laughter but JFK did not laugh. He had meant every word. Those boys on stage, barely twenty-years old, had only served to remind him just how fucked the world really was now that humanity had been whittled down to its bones.

   The boys hurriedly left the instruments where they stood and quickly hopped down off the stage, making sure to stay as far away from the glowering JFK. Hopping up onto the stage, JFK turned to the full barroom, his eyes immediately seeking out Wind. She was sat with Simon and the others over by the pool tables, watching him intently and he blew her a kiss before calling for silence. The barroom fell silent within seconds, the laughter fading out as one as though someone had pressed mute.

   “I’m gonna make this short, as it’s already noon and time is precious. That last ride we’ve been talking about since this shit started – it happens today.”
The room burst into life as the potency of his words sparked neurons into action. What was left of his biker gang seemed to take the news well, except for one or two. Those making the most noise were the townsfolk. JFK waited patiently for the news to sink in, watching as a whispering competition broke out amongst the scattered tables. No doubt, the townsfolk would be pissed to find they were losing their deadliest weapons and probably their only means of surviving.
JFK and the gang had been hard before the apocalypse. Now, they were adamantine, indestructible killing machines well versed in the use of everyday appliances, tools and anything from toothpicks to torn off limbs – as weapons.
The townsfolk would be left with their Rambo-wannabes out manning the barriers, dozens of cars and trucks blocking every road to their several streets – their stronghold. With the streets blockaded and zombies clamoring to get to the fresh meat inside, summoned earlier by the trigger-happy morons manning the makeshift wall – the only way out was through the slaughterhouse. It was ironic that they should leave that way – fresh meat delivered into the hands of the waiting ghouls – there must have been hundreds of them stinking out the place and more approached each day.

   Zombies liked guns – they were glorified dinner bells.

   Whilst the townspeople of Bridlington discussed the implications amongst themselves, those bikers that did have a problem with the sudden announcement let their feelings known.

   “We can’t leave – not yet anyway.”

   “Yeah, there’s nothing out there anyway – just ghouls and wasteland. Where we gonna go?”

   “I’m with them. Leavin now would be a mistake.” JFK ignored the first two comments but when Uncle spoke up he looked down at the old man, sitting on his own in the corner cradling a glass of bourbon.

   “But there’s nothing here for us, Uncle. This place is dead. What have we got? Several streets in a town full of dead people who in a few days are gonna come crashing through those barricades once they pack together. Then we’re fucked.”
There were not many in the group that JFK would argue with but Uncle was one of them. Under normal circumstances, he didn’t argue – leaders didn’t argue, they “took care of business”. That was how much Uncle meant to him – to the group. He was a voice of reason – a thinking man who shed the light of knowledge and experience on those na├»ve and foolhardy members of the gang.
Of course, he was a pervert and liked nothing better than ogling a woman, and if possible, copping a feel but seeing as he was missing an eye, all his front teeth, had a scar from his left eye to his jaw and was on the wrong side of sixty that tended to be quite an illegal feel.
Before the zombie-shit had hit the fan and showered the world with progress halting, foul-smelling cretins that wanted to eat you, JFK had been about to kick Uncle out of the gang. Now, however, things were different. Probably had something to do with the fact that the old pervert had saved Wind from being eviscerated.
There was also something else, a surprising detail.
During the savage fighting of the first two or three days, Uncle had fought just as murderously as the others, taking off heads, gouging eyes and stomping brain into mush – but through it all, he had retained an air of dignity, even of decency. When Smokes had attempted to break into the last remaining supermarket yet to be looted, in order to steal and horde the food, it had been Uncle who had talked him out of it. Crazy world…

   “And you believe it’ll be better out there? A world overrun with those dead things, not to mention the other crazy fuckers like us who’d just as soon as murder us than see us invade their space. No, JFK. We’re better off here, at least we got walls and allies,” Uncle said, nodding to the townsfolk huddled around the center tables, watching the exchange with hopeful expressions.

   JFK nodded thoughtfully, his eyes flitting to the other two doubtful gang members. Minus the three of them, there would be twelve in all. Twelve bikers to travel over a thousand miles on roads that could be clogged fender to fender and bumper to bumper with cars – it would have to do.
“I’m not asking anyone to go with me. I thought we were a gang – The Wind Riders – remember?” JFK said, pulling his last ace from the pack.

   Uncle snorted, and pointed back and forth from him to Wind, his wrist flapping a little too loosely, suggesting he had drunk a little too much to ride with them anyway.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, JFK, but ain’t you the only one riding Wind here?”

   To his surprise, Wind laughed out loud and slapped her leg, hard. “He sure is, Uncle. Ain’t no way your ugly ass is riding this gust!”
JFK ignored them, tired of the meeting already. He began to descend from the stage.

   “Hey, wait a minute, there. You can’t just leave us…who’s going to protect us?”
JFK did not bother to even look at who had spoken. He was going. That was that. No more debating. No more excuses. He was tired of babying the townsfolk. It was time they fought their own battles.
The time had come for the strong to survive and the weakest to fall – it was nature’s selection policy and JFK thankfully was one of the former.

   “I’m packing up my shit and leaving at one pm sharp. There’s a place in the North Carolina Mountains where they have power, clean water, farms and an infrastructure that does not depend on the rest of the world to function. I’m going. Stay here and live in the dark ages if you want to, but I’m gone.”
JFK knew he could rely on at least Wind and Simon joining him, but the others all being fairly new were a mystery.

   Taking Wind by the hand, his eyes met Simon’s who nodded. “I’m with you, dog.”

                                                          *****

 Falcon Photography via Flickr

   They straddled their trusty steeds before the large double doors, rusty steel about to be opened upon a rotting world but despite that fact, they were in high spirits.
The planning was over. The decision had been made. The group would leave Bridlington, and ride through Arkansas and Tennessee until they reached North Carolina where their destination lay in wait. It would not be easy, that much was clear. Millions of stinkers lay between Bridlington and North Carolina. Hundreds and thousands of cars stranded and abandoned on the main highways would impede them further. JFK looked to his left; Wind was watching him from atop her Harley, her dark Native American eyes urging him on. He looked to his right; Uncle sat watching Wind watching him, his one good eye tracing her body like a pencil on a map, plotting a course, noting the landmarks and rest stops – pervert.

   Outside, the moans of the dead were a constant drone, stuttering in and out as if those dead husks were breathing, taking turns to breathe whilst others took over the responsibility of instilling terror into the living. The gang, all fifteen of them, much to JFK’s relief were far from afraid as they waited to be released. The only thing on each of their minds was the last ride – a ride that would see them back to civilization as it had been before the sudden collapse of humanity. For JFK, the world had already been zombified long before the apocalypse began. Now the walking, noisy hordes were simply slightly more brain-dead and a little uglier. Nothing else had changed.
They were still killing each other. Zombies or not, the Wind Riders were about to ride again and it was they who would do the slaying.

   “Engines, please, let’s drown out these motherfuckers and show em how it’s done!” JFK shouted over the monotonous din. No sooner had the words left his mouth, spittle-flecked and full of excitement than the monstrous roar of fifteen cruisers filled the air, shaming the hundreds of zombies pressing against the steel barrier before them.
JFK pulled his machete free of its sheaf at his belt, enjoying the weight of it in his hand. It felt familiar and trustworthy as though a bond had been formed between them – man and his tool working in perfect harmony.
 He smiled, his body trembling with anticipation and the adrenalin surging through him. It was time to live. To hell with Bridlington and its rations and awful head-splitting music, JFK was going where the power was, where the music was.
He leaned over and locked lips with Wind to a series of hoots and hollers, before pulling away. The only thing missing was the testicle-tightening strains of “Born to be Wild,” as they headed on down the highway into the dead world.

   “Open sesame. Let’s ride like Wind!” As the words left his lips, he glanced at Wind and flashed a smile which she returned, her eyes locked on his holding his stare, the love between them obvious to all.

He would not say the words though – not with the boys watching. 

To be continued...

Next installment of the Wind Riders will arrive on Tuesday, 25th May 2016. 

Until then, let me leave you with a question to ponder:

If you were barricaded inside your home from the beginning of the apocalypse, and so had never had to face one of the shambling, mindless, flesh-eating ex-humans wandering the streets outside your home--how long do you think you would last out there when it came time to locate and pilfer more supplies? 

Be honest. 

Rich

Zombies Vs Bikers - The Wind Riders - Part One




The noise was atrociously offensive and steadily beginning to grate on JFK’s nerves. Just for the hell of it, he decided to rate the earsplitting racket that was causing the patrons of the bar to shrink into themselves, squeezing into the darkest corners of their psyche where bad things happened. It was probably somewhere between the shrieking of two cats pre-fight and a rusty pick-up door cruelly being pulled open - slowly.
   It was that bad.
   Knocking back the rest of his bourbon, he took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and made his decision. Yep, they were doomed alright. If this was all that was left of man-kind’s once overflowing musical talent-pool then they had two options - or three if he counted the unpleasantness of the thoughts clearly emanating from the deadpan faces around him.
Killing them, although extremely desirable at that moment in time, was not an option. As unbelievably, unquestionably and unequivocally bad they were, the four clowns on stage were now part of a threatened species – much to their luck.

    No, the options were clear, both for those in the bar struggling to contain their barbaric nature and for the rest of the survivors within the ruined landscape. Either someone - hopefully already possessing some degree of technical expertise - began to figure out how to kick-start the dead nuclear power plants around them, or they migrated en-masse to somewhere that relied solely on eco-power.

   Batteries were at a premium these days and the small amount he had managed to pilfer in the early days back before the rationing had begun in earnest was quickly dwindling. No matter how he sugar-coated it, no batteries meant no music, at least the kind that did not drive you to the point of wanting to pierce your own eardrums with the nearest object – sharp or not. Right on cue, the lead singer of the ‘Dusty Blues’ attempted to hold a note for more than a five seconds – an appropriate death-knell for JFK and life as he knew it.
That was it then. His decision was made. They would leave immediately. He had heard of a small community of tree-huggers somewhere in the Black Mountains of North Carolina living off the land. He was more interested in power - Solar and Hydro power. Where there was power there was technology and where technology still existed, there was music.
“It’s that look again, babe. I don’t like it when you do that – it means you’re planning something,” Wind said, resting her chin on his shoulder, eyes searching his as they stared off into a corner of the bar. “I hope you ain’t planning on leaving me ….” JFK sensed, rather than saw the all too familiar look in her eyes as she attempted to draw his attention. He sighed inwardly. It did not matter whether humanity was being overrun by flesh-eating zombies – Wind was as insecure as ever and once her insecure tendency was tweaked, things got nasty.

   He moved quickly to stunt the growth of her infamous temper before it ignited.
“Babe, I was considering leaving …” He felt the sting of her hand long before the next group of syllables left his mouth.

   “I fucking knew it; it’s that trailer-trash hoe, Serena, isn’t it?”
As much as Wind’s paranoia, which verged dangerously on the precipice overlooking schizophrenia, drove him ironically insane – he loved her. He put up with the shocked stares of his biker entourage time and again. Across the table, Richie regarded him, his eyes narrowed as if to say Well, aren’t you going to put that bitch in her place? JFK shook his head slowly, holding the beady eyes of the ex-accountant unblinking. Richie turned away, unsurprisingly.


   He then turned to Wind who was glaring at him, her eyes wide, darting backwards and forwards from Richie to him as if reading their minds.
“Before you so rudely laid hands on me,” he said, reaching up to place his palm upon the cheek Wind’s own palm had graced seconds earlier. “I was about to say I was taking you and the gang with me, but ….” He pointed to his cheek, shaking his head and just to add that little extra guilt-trip – closed his eyes and pursed his lips tightly.

   It worked exactly as he had planned – as it always did – and seconds later, a flood of kisses rained down on him, caressing the area where she had struck him.
“Aww baby, I’m sorry. I always do that don’t I?” Wind cupped his face, and looked into his eyes, a look of apology on her sweet face but not before casting a menacing glance at Richie as if to say I know what you meant – bitch.

   “Babe, I understand – after all, I’m one helluva catch aint i?” JFK said winking at her and pulling her in close where his lips found hers before she could protest.
“Go get Simon, would ya. He’s out front polishing Ruth.”

   Wind, always willing to please, got up and left the bar in search of his trusty lieutenant. If JFK was Wind’s rock, Simon was JFK’s mountain. Best friends since High school, there was no one else besides Wind to whom he would entrust his life – if it came down to that. The rest of the gang was either too new or just downright rotten and that included Richie. Still, he would rather have them than not, the bulk of his biker gang was either laid in the dust rotting or aimlessly wandering the streets somewhere with the rest of the ghouls.

   When the crack of the closing door broke through the din, JFK put his foot down. He would have put his size twelve boots square down on Richie’s neck but he had a feeling Richie was going to be useful. However, JFK was not averse to a little amputation – if need be - and as he stared at Richie who began to wilt like flower in the Saharan sun, he envisaged taking a pair of secateurs to his tongue.
 Richie though, despite his flaws, was a dab-hand with the two desk legs he carried tucked away, each comically in their own holster at his belt, the ends wrapped in thick duct tape. Where they were going, JFK needed all the violent ghoul-killing machines he could get – perhaps later a little trimming might come in useful?

   He decided right then to settle the score verbally.

   Leaning forward on the small round table, barely large enough to accommodate his elbows, he laid down the law. “I know what you were insinuating there, Richie, so let me clear things up for you.” He reached down and pulled open his waistcoat, leather of course, and smiled wickedly. Neatly slotted into their own resting places in perfectly straight rows and columns like wickedly pointed tombstones, were at least two dozen blades. Each one was polished into a silvery sheen so that when Richie saw them, he was essentially staring at dozens of himself in their unblemished surfaces.

   Richie seemed to melt into his chair then, his slight frame becoming one with it as he sought refuge where there was none. JFK fingered the knives, running his fingertips along the rows whilst Richie’s window-wide eyes tracked their movement. When JFK’s fingertips stopped and gripped the slim hilt of one of the deadly weapons, Richie wilted, his body subtly drooping to the right like a deflating hot-air balloon.
JFK enjoyed the way the cockiness had drained out of Richie much like bourbon from a biker bar when one of the big bands came to town – impressively fast.

   “You may be good with a chair-leg, but I’m the dog’s dinner with these babies.” JFK feigned a throw, snapping his hand towards Richie and the ex-accountant flinched so hard his chair went up on its two hind legs, tottered for a second, and then inevitably, gravity took over.

   Closing his waistcoat, a smile of satisfaction on his heavily bearded face, JFK looked around the bar at the others, his biker gang and other surviving townsfolk roaring with laughter at Richie’s panicked fall.

   No one tells me what to do; he thought as he poured himself another glass of bourbon and stood up, his 6 7” inch height bringing him almost level with the long dead ceiling fan above him.


   Richie was now below him, his body perpendicular to JFK’s so that if JFK wanted, he could land a vicious kick just for the hell of it – but he did not. The look on Richie’s young clean-cut face was more than enough to satiate his lust for revenge. Richie was laid on his back, legs slightly raised, knees bent and hands up just under his chin as if ready to assist him in curling into the fetal position. JFK smiled and shook his head, a wave of sympathy washing over him – once an accountant, always an accountant.

To be continued...

The Wind Riders will be back very shortly. Stay tuned for more of JFK and his zombie slaughtering hombres. 

See you on Sunday. :) 

Rich

It's been a long time hasn't it?

I'm back. After three years...

What can I say?

I went away, did some writing, polished my skills and even started to earn from my greatest passion.

But throughout the months and months, this blog was never far from my mind. In fact, the moaning of the thousands of zombies contained within these bloody pages grew so loud, I had no choice but to come back.

I once promised to write a zombie story a week. I failed miserably. HA! But what is life without a few thousand failures? They teach you about yourself, help you to know your limits, so you can push those limits as Rick and his hardened gang did in The Walking Dead.

So I'm back, back from the dead.

Let's see if I can't rustle up some more zombies from this rotting grey matter in my skull.

I'm not sure if any of the old readers are still around, but if you are, then please, let me know if you wanted me to continue The Curse of Green Haven, and I will do so.

Otherwise, I have some tastier, bloodier, and even more enjoyable stuff to come.

Shit! I can hear them coming.

Better go...

Rich
"If we hole up I want to be somewhere familiar, I want to know where the exits are, and I want to be allowed to smoke." - Ed, Shaun of the Dead (2004)

This is something I have wanted to do for a very long time - explore each possible situation from the eyes of the person experiencing it, in all it's gorified glory. I have already covered 10 frightening situations from an objective perspective, as an observer, here. However, my real aspiration, driven by my lust for all things zombie and my unrelenting hunger for zombie stories, is to write from the perspective of someone caught in such a situation, during the early days of the apocalypse.

This is it!

I hope that you, my readers and fellow zombie fanatics are as excited about this upcoming series of zombie stories as I am.

The Format

1. Each of these zombie stories will be approx 1000 words - short but satisfying (I hope!). 

2. There will be one character.

3. Third or First person. 

In the following situations and possibly more, as and when I am able to get the old grey cells functioning at optimal capacity. You can even suggest further situations down there in the comments section (would be much obliged!). 

Subway Train      Hospital          Stadium          Traffic Jam          Airport

Concert       Supermarket      Shopping Mall       Theme Park     Cinema 

Anyway, that's enough blabbing. The time has come for what you all came here for - the zombie story....

A Subway Train - Into the Depths

There was no warning, no portent of any sort. It just happened. One day, the world was safe and we were secure in our comforting routine existence, the next it was all gone, as if God had seen fit to wipe clean the slate upon which he had lovingly created us. Only, he didn't finish the job. Within a day the world fell apart, and myself, I had no way of knowing if it were just my small existence, my tiny insignificant part of the world that was afflicted.

I know now, though.

 When I finally stopped running and hiding as a rat seeks refuge from the exterminators that would systematically wipe it and its kind from existence, I eventually found the means to attempt communication - nothing, just dead air ominously loud in my ear. By the time I managed to break into an abandoned house on the outskirts of Richmond, hunger and thirst ravaged, there was no electricity and therefore no way of knowing whether the rest of the world had suffered the same fate.

It began last Monday morning during rush hour.

 My self and Peter – a colleague of mine were on our way to work as usual in the dim light of the early winter morning. I remember it clearly. The date was 17th December 2013 and as usual, UK was readying for another Christmas, meaning subways were more packed than usual, even at 07:30 in the morning.
Crammed into the middle carriage with Peter somewhere ahead of me amidst a sea of bodies, I was just drifting off, my head resting on my shoulder, when the noise began.

I remember it clearly because it seemed strange that so many people would utter it at precisely the same time. It was a hacking, almost snarling cough that erupted all around, thankfully, I was protected by a wall of bodies. At the time, I remember being thankful for being out of the firing line, all those germs flying through the air.


It soon became apparent that germs were the least of my worries.

The horror began as a series of frightened gasps and curses as if something worse than coughing was happening with one of the sick, but it was coming from all around, cursing, then pushing … then the screaming started.

The train was already in motion by that point and there was no escape.

Jostled one way and the other by the panicking crowd, I held on tightly to my position by the door, knowing I had to flee and struggling dangerously against the panic that was quickly spreading throughout the train.
The screams were horrific, never ending screams of fear and most frightening of all – pain, severe and terrible as somewhere, just feet from me lost in the bodies pushing against me, people were fighting savagely.

That’s what I thought at first. I thought people were fighting each other, as if a gang war had erupted in the train, but as I cowered against the door, my face pressed upon the glass as the force around me increased, I knew it was something much worse.

My body was aching with the force of the pushing behind me and more and more frequently hands would scrabble at my clothing, pulling me, but there was nowhere for me to be shoved to – thankfully. The savage animal-like snarls erupting all around were drawing nearer and more frenzied, and my body shook with fear with each liquid splash upon my face. I prayed the spots of liquid on my face weren’t blood, but when I peered at my reflection in the glass, the light illuminating my face against the blackness of the tunnel beyond, I saw that it was. The fresh warm blood there sent me into hysterics.

I’m not ashamed to admit it. I pissed myself right there as I waited for the doors to open.

Fully grown men were crying in my ear, their fear bubbling up and converting them back into little boys.

The doors finally did open and I was the first through them, though on either side of me, bodies surged past me, slamming into me and almost knocking me off my feet but I rode the crowd’s movement and was silently thankful for the cover provided me.

I still had no idea at that point what it was we were running from, but the relentless, insistent moaning and screaming not far behind, was enough to spur me on. I knew that whatever they were, they were killing. That was all I needed to know.

Up we ran, not waiting for the escalators on their slow ascent, passing gaping onlookers as we moved.
In the streets, I thought we were safe but as we emerged into the morning light, the grey skies overhead casting a grim sickly pallor over the scene, my hopes faded completely. The streets of Richmond were in chaos and I finally saw the source of the savage animal-like sounds.

Men and women, most in work clothes, now ripped and bloodied, hanging off them like useless rags, ran this way and that, their eyes wide and crazed as they sought out others, like us, unaffected.
I ran then, and didn’t stop until the incessant screaming; screeching cacophony of noise was way off in the distance behind me.

That was 4 days ago.

Alone now. I sit and wait, either for help to arrive, or …. I can’t even think the words. I saw what they did when they finally caught up with their victims, these crazed lunatics. Every turn I took as I ran brought me face to face with the scenes of butchery.

They don’t use weapons.

I haven’t bothered to board up this little cottage. I daren’t in case the noise attracts them.

I’m going to try to sleep now, I haven’t slept in 4 days and even the shadows are taunting me now.

Hopefully, I won’t wake up, but I doubt I’ll be that lucky.



 

Fiction Writer Blogs - BlogCatalog Blog Directory
Twitter Delicious Facebook Digg Stumbleupon Favorites More