Zombies - Ignition

Ignition

Mel talked as he drove and I listened as well as I could over the growing pain in my leg. As overwhelming as everything was, it was nice to have somebody explain the situation to me for once, instead of having to figure it out for myself.

"They say the virus hit sometime last night," he said, eyes fixed straight ahead, voice devoid of emotion. I got the feeling he was relaying the information purely for my sake, so I sat in grateful silence and listened. "All of the important sources are saying it's a freak of nature and nobody is responsible for it." He turned to me. "Of course, those are all the media sources that have ties in the government. Our smaller, more independent and trustworthy people said it was man made until they got shut up." His expression hardened and he returned his attention to the road before he continued, "But that doesn't matter now. We gathered together as many people as we could--the ones that were...safe..." Here, he trailed off, unable to continue perhaps because of emotion. I wasn't sure.

Buildings passed by, looking oddly ethereal. Golden bars of light reached past them almost horizontally now, casting long shadows across our path and onto the city as the Humvee's shadows flitted across uneven terrain beside us. Mel paid the scattered bodies no attention, but I stared in horrified fascination at the various death poses, some lying in dark stains of their own blood. How many people were dead, I
wondered, but forced my thoughts elsewhere. Thinking too much would just break down the damn I was so carefully holding up.

"You look like you've had better days," he finally said wryly.

"Can't think of a worse one," I muttered. Then, after a moment of recollection, "I had a normal life just this afternoon. I was eating a pizza..."

He smiled, but it carried no mirth; only sadness. "We all did, Jimmy. Goddammit, we all did."

"You seem to have expected all this, though," I ventured and reiterated, "I mean, you seem prepared."

He barked a laugh. "Prepared? No. Everyone has that fight-or-flight instinct, though. My group is just one of those who chose to take a stand instead of run. The only real difference between people like us is the amount of time it takes to make the decision. We--" he paused to gesture at himself, "--just made that decision quicker than most." He glanced at my leg. "Though not all. How does it feel?"

"Like hell on fire," I grumbled.

The Humvee jostled almost painlessly over a curb and pulled to a stop in the middle of a square, empty but for the dead bodies strewn about one side. The rest of the pavement had already been cleared, the bodies piled several feet high in one corner. A group of men in orange construction vests worked with the remainder.

"We're claiming this part of the city," Mel explained. "Judging by your leg wound and a few radio transmissions, we're not the only group of survivors." His face darkened. "Seems not every one of us shares the same sentiment, though." He continued in a lighter tone. "But, those are only rumours. Nothing to propogate just yet."

I nodded, but my mind was begin to cloud over with pain.

Mel noticed. "I can send for someone to take you inside. I'll wait out here until my men come back with your friend, though. I'm still not confident of everyone's abilities around here."

"But she'll be safe, right?" Sue me, but we'd been through quite a lot together in the last few hours.

"She's in as good a group of hands as I can manage right now, I can assure you. Who knows? In a couple months, the rescue teams I send out could consist of these same men. I'm holding bets until I can see my cards is all."

I nodded. "I'll wait with you if that's alright."

He grinned. "That's what I hoped." He reached into his coat with a creak of leather and produced a paper bag. "Normally, I don't encourage drinking to ease pain, but given what's happened today, I think this is a damn good time for a stiff drink." The paper bag pulled away to reveal a bottle of whiskey. "Hope you're not a germ freak." The cork squeaked free of the bottle and he sloshed back a sizable amount, then offered me the bottle.

I took it with less enthusiasm. Not that drinking myself out of my own mind was unappealing; I just felt that the time wasn't right. Something was nagging at me. I turned to Mel. "Who was that in the car down there?"

He scanned the square. "Down where?"

"The hillside. The person Lynette was helping. Who was that?"

He shrugged carelessly. "Fucked if I know. Probably just another casualty. Why?"

Now it was my turn to shrug. "Not sure..." I tried to brush away the nagging, but returned to it a moment later. After all, had there been someone alive in that car, wouldn't they have freed themselves somehow? And if not, what about the undead? I had yet to see how quickly they responded to fresh meat, but it seemed like a long time to leave it untouched. "She'll be back soon, right?"

"Should be back already," he enthused. "Nothing to worry about. Have a drink."

What was he hiding from? I took a small swallow and let the drink burn down my throat, warming my stomach. "The sun's setting."

He took the bottle back from me. "Give it another fifteen minutes. If they're not back by then, we'll go looking."

I nodded uneasily. The pain in my thigh had plateaued now, though it still hurt like hell. Spots were starting to dance at the edge of my vision and my limbs felt weak.

"You okay?" Mel asked, voice twinged with concern. I nodded weakly, but nausea was starting to twist my gut into pretzel shapes. The bottle sloshed back into my view. "It'll help dull the pain at least." Now he was just pitying me.

I waved it away. "Frankly, Mel, now is not the time. But I think I need to get to a doctor. I must have lost more blood than I thought." I fumbled with the door handle. My fingertips felt kind of numb. Things were starting to get a little blurry and my movement was sluggish. "Shit..."

And then I lost all motor function and fell against the dashboard while my eyes closed of their own accord. Sleep swept over me gently and I let it carry me away.

A Fuse Ill Lit

I woke up under white sheets in a white room with a woman dressed in white bending over me. She wore a white mask. I felt no pain. On the contrary, I felt right as rain. I giggled.

"He's awake."

Another masked face appeared beside the first. I could tell this one was a man because he had no breasts and his eyes were more manly somehow. "Sure took him awhile," he muttered, gruff voice confirming my perception.

"Doc..." my voice came out slurred, which struck me as funny, and I continued amid stifled laughter, "some things just can't be rushed, like steak. If you're gonna cook a steak, you have to cook it right. And I, sir, am no steak." My composure dissolved into fits of laughter that only intensified when he glanced at the woman, rolled his eyes and muttered an irritated oath before vanishing from my sight.

"Shh," said the woman. "You need your rest. You lost a lot of blood."

"Blood," I deadpanned when I could compose myself. "It's in you to give."

She shook her head, but I could see the smile in her eyes. "Just lie back. I'll be back to check on you later." She left.

That left me all by mysel in a room I saw as I twisted to take in my surroundings. I didn't know where they had found a room so white, but it was no hospital room. I could tell by the lack of medical equipment. "They are ill equpiped," I informed myself morosely. "Well, better that than illy quipped." I snorted a laugh.

Somebody knocked on the door and stepped inside a second later. It was Lynette.

"Lynnie!" I cried. "It's so good to see you again!"

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder hesitantly. Then she seemed to draw herself up resignedly and approached my side. "They told me you passed out in the truck, waiting for me."

"Lying in wait."

"Yeah. Well, thank you. You really should have been here instead, you know."

"I was just in the right time at the right place, baby."

She rolled her eyes. "How high did they make you, Jimmy?!" But she was smiling. "They did manage to confirm that you are immune to the virus, for which we can be grateful, I guess. Apparently, open wounds are much more vulnerable than the lungs."

"Always wear a condom," I snickered.

She stood. "Well, with that, I have to go. Mel said he'd be by to see you later." And then she, too, was gone. I lay there in the quiet muttering to myself every now and then. Maybe being drugged up wasn't such a good thing. But then I thought about how it must seem to everyone else and I giggled again. It was worth it.

Zombies - How To Kill Stuff and Annihilate Zombies

I was curled in a fetal of agony on the floor of a Humvee that loomed vertiginously off the ground, watching blood spurt from between fingers clenched in a death grip around my thigh. The shooting had stopped courteously, though something told me it had nothing to do with the intention of any kind of apology. They owed me a hell of a good one, though.

A clatter. Then, Lynette was leaping over the back of the driver's seat and stomping on the gas. The truck roared into action, churning its tires into black swaths of rubber on the asphalt with a hula motion and rocketing down the street like a Humvee being driven by a damsel in distress. With her knight in shining armour curled in agony on the floor beside her. I could almost taste the poetry.

The engine screamed. My blood spurted. Reinvigorated gunfire faded into the distance.

Then, without warning, we lurched to a halt, the truck's door opened and closed, then somebody was shooting again. I counted, twelve rounds, then a pause. Then twelve more shots, after which silence dominated. A fan ticked under the hood. Something howled.

Another shot.

More silence filled with ticking, but no more howling.

The door opened again and Lynette clambered inside with a paper bag in hand. Quickly, she dumped out the contents with a clink. Everything seemed to strangely quiet. There should be music playing or something. My blood was still forcing its way between my fingers. The pain in my thigh seemed to have spread to the rest of my body so that even my toes throbbed as they grew numb.

To grant Lynette a bit of charity, I did hear her pull the cork from the bottle, although I was too delirious to put two and two together even when she ordered me to remove my hands from the wound. But I caught on like flies to a dung heap when she tipped the bottle and set free a gout of amber-coloured liquid directly onto my profusely bleeding leg.

I don't faint often. And I find it ironic that alcohol was what did me in, but maybe the blood loss factored in there somewhere, as well. Whatever the case, I woke up a few minutes later to find my pant leg cut off and my thigh wrapped in clean white gauze. It throbbed with pain, but only slightly as if muffled somehow. I blinked and shook my head to clear it of the cottonballs that stuffed it.

"Oh thank God," Lynette breathed. "Here, drink some of this." She handed me a water bottle, which I took and sipped at obediently. After a moment, she spoke again. "I was worried you'd lost too much blood. How is the pain?"

We were still in the truck. I sat in the passenger seat now, reclined back as far as it would go, and Lynette sat, shoulders slumped, behind the steering wheel. The woman looked exhausted. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and her hair was a mess. I nodded thankfully. "Better."

She seemed to take this in with some amount of satisfaction. "I injected you with morphine while you were asleep. It should keep the pain at a manageable level for a while. The bullet just missed your femur, for which you should be glad, but it hit an artery. I've stitched you up as well as I can out here. I'm not sure when we can get you proper medical treatment, though."

She watched me ponder all this for a moment. Then, answered the question before I could ask it. "I'm a nurse." She fidgeted for a bit before coming to some silent conclusion. We admitted the first infected case last night. It only took a couple hours before the hospital was overrun. I...don't know what happened to everyone. I just left." She finished her confession with her head bowed, in shame I guessed. And who could blame her, on both counts? Her duties as a nurse would be to keep people healthy and ensure that no condition grew worse on her watch, so watching a sterile hospital environment deteriorate into a chaotic, brain-munching orgy, not to mention fleeing the scene in a desperate attempt to save her own life, would be the ultimate self betrayal. But to her credit, here she was, alive.

I started to speak, to try and comfort her somehow but shut my mouth and sat mutedly. Some wounds have to be dealt with in silence, or risk being aggravated with insensitivity. I pushed myself into a sitting position as carefully as I could and took in our surroundings. The Humvee was parked in a rarely used lot somewhere along the river. Autumn leaves blanketed the pitted asphalt and lush, green grass that surrounded it. We sat facing the river which glided past several hundred feet below at the bottom of a gentle slope that arced away from us until it plunged almost clifflike into the gray-brown depths. A single ribbon of road lined by black lampposts cut through the hillside ahead and below us.

Lynette gasped, catching and drawing my attention a bit further down the roadway below us where a troupe of zombies ambled nonchalantly in the direction of an overturned car halfway up the slope. I squinted, straining for a clearer view. Sure enough, an arm hung limply through a broken window in the crumpled fuselage. The zombies drew closer.

What if whoever was in that car was still alive? I frowned and watched for movement but saw none. Still, the zombies were advancing. I had to make a decision.

"Fuck me," I grumbled as I loaded my shotgun, then my handgun.

"Jimmy?"

I glanced at her with a blank expression on my face. "Whoever's in that car may still be alive," I explained simply. "I will go save them."

She blinked. "Your, um, leg?" But I was already opening my door and hurling myself onto the pavement.

It didn't hurt, but my leg felt funny. Like it wouldn't hold me up or something. It carried me as far as the grass before I sprawled facedown, again without pain. There was just a dull sort of numbness that spread through my body when I landed. Another door slammed behind me and Lynette was helping me to my feet, leading me back to the Humvee where I could lean against it. I shook my head to clear it as she snatched the shotgun from my hands and replaced it with an assault rifle.

"It's loaded," she snapped brusquely and slapped a few extra magazines onto the hood of the truck. "Just don't blow my head off." With that, she was tacking down the hillside, shotgun at her hip. I noticed how she gave the zombies a wide berth before closing in on them and opening fire, allowing both for me to get a clear shot and for the shooting to come from more than one direction.

It was a passing thought, though. I sighted through the small scope on top of the rifle and pulled the trigger. My first few shots went wide, but I soon got the hang of holding the crosshairs on my target until the bullet was fired. The group started out with eight leering undead, two of which I dropped before Lynette got within mulching range with her shotgun and began cutting the things down like a madwoman. I was only able to drop one more, this one right through the skull. It rained brain matter back onto the grass as it flopped onto its back reluctantly.

I watched as Lynette approached the wrecked car tentatively. She held her gun ready to fire, but seemed to lower her guard as she neared the wreckage. Then, with a cry, she hurried forward and knelt in its shadow, working hurriedly at something I couldn't see.

I was so focused on her, in fact, that I didn't notice the newcomers until a group of men was hurrying past me, presumably to assist her. One of them stayed back to lounge against the truck with me.

Strangely, he seemed almost as if he'd expected the zombies. That, or he just knew how to adapt really quickly. The newcomer was taller than me by a few inches and adorned in heavy jeans stuffed into big, black boots. He wore a simple black t-shirt with the words 'Anarchy or Bust' in white flanked by a thick, leather duster. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail over a smooth face with a pointed nose, accented only by a day of stubble. He held out a hand in greeting.

"Mel Henson," he spoke in a rich, deep voice. "You look like a natural."

I tucked the assault rifle under my other arm to take his hand. "Thanks. Jimmy." I don't give out my full name unless I absolutely have to. Mel nodded and returned his gaze to where the men were helping wrestle someone out of the car. I opened my mouth, hesitated, then asked the question. "How bad is it?"

He grimaced. "It's a clusterfuck. We're not sure how it hit, or why, but the whole city is cut off. There's no way of knowing of anyone else in the country--or world--has been hit." His expression darkened. "We do know that we've been quarantined, though."

"Quarantined?"

He grimaced again, apparently displeased by the thought of it. "They've blocked all the major roads. The smaller ones might offer some kind of escape, but you can only go so far before you run out of gas."

"I'm sure there's a way to get to at least one," I insisted. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."

He shrugged and reached into his pocket for a cigarette with a creak of leather. "Like I said, there's no telling how far this has spread." He lit it with a flick of a lighter and puffed once. "I'd rather take my chances where I know I've got supplies. Wouldn't you?" He drew deep and exhaled a stream of smoke.

I had nothing to say to that. If it was true, if a virus had really caused all this and had spread to the countryside, then we were truly better equipped to stay in the city. For the time being, at least. The pain in my leg was returning so I hauled myself onto the hood with a grunt and sat there, resigned for the time being to watch the work further down the hill in the light of a setting sun. Though, I did glance over my shoulder time and again to check for more undead. They gave me the willies.

"You need a doctor," Mel noted.

I nodded, but said nothing.

He finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, then drew himself up with that same creak of leather. "We should go, then. My men will take care of your friend and whoever's in the car. Can you walk?"

I shrugged. "Last time I tried, I nearly broke my nose."

He grunted in reply "We'll take your truck then. I look forward to finding out how you got one of these."

I forced a crooked smile. "Long story." I hobbled around to the passenger side and got in clumsily. My thigh was starting to throb with surprising vigour. I case one last glance at Mel as he started the truck. I had no reason to trust him, but nothing had presented itself to the contrary, and I had a feeling we both needed the companionship. After all, a disaster like this would no doubt bring people together, probably solve a lot of differences in light of higher necessity. I could at least be thankful for that.

Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In

This one's shorter than most. I figured I'd end it here, though, since it seemed appropriate. Watch for more next week.

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Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In

We drove. The river dragged its way through the city in a meandering, whimsical path that only allowed for bridges at the least opportune places. After about half an hour of U-turns and confusing, hilly streets, we found one that hadn't been completely destroyed. The sign, now hanging askew, claimed it was the High Level Bridge. It was named appropriately enough, a shaft of I-beams that spanned the area between two hills on either side of the river. At almost exactly halfway across, the pavement smoked at the edges of a crater, allowing just enough room for us to squeeze past. Below, the murky water crawled.

"What happened here?" Lynette's first words since the battle site.

"Damned if I know," I said blandly. I didn't want to know. Something had exploded and now the bridge was half gone! What was left to wonder?

"I don't see any bodies," she kept peering at the rearview mirror, watching the crater retreat.

There, I conceded, she had a point. I could still taste a bit of the vomit from the last time I'd seen bodies, though. The smell of it would linger in my nostrils for hours, too. The fewer bodies, the better.

"Might have just been an accident..." Now she was just musing, talking to keep the silence at bay. I gritted my teeth and focused on driving. There had been enough dying for one day--hell, for a lifetime!--and I'd be happy to blame it all on the undead. At least I could take my anger out on them. Later.

The bridge came to an end, the sky sprung into view again--sunny with a patch of clouds--and we crested a small rise in the road. Apartment buildings rose on the left side of the street here, and a few other roads converged in an awkward intersection I paid no heed to. The lack of traffic was creeping me out.

Ahead, the condos gave way to body shops, restaurants, furniture stores and whatever else mankind had seen fit to make money with. After the towering skyscrapers of downtown, I was thankful for a break in oppressive scenery. It's easier to see an enemy when you have a line of sight on it.

Lynette twisted in her seat to look at me. "Did it look to you like they tried to blow up this bridge, too? Dawson was no accident."

I thought back to where we had made our brief acquaintance with the mercenaries. It sure hadn't looked like a battle scene. Maybe they were trying to contain the undead to one side of the river. I wondered how long that would hold out.

"We're lucky we got across!" Now she was indignant. "Those bastards almost got us--hey!" She pointed at a figure disappearing behind a building. I squinted and slowed the truck.

"Looked alive..." I muttered. And it had. None of this reanimated dead person lurching business. That had been a kid seeing us and running, possibly to go find an adult. I pulled the vehicle to a halt.

"We're stopping? It might be nothing."

I held up a hand distractedly. "He's going to get someone. Watch."

The kid never came back, but the message had been delivered. A group of men, all of them armed with scowls and weapons, emerged from the alleyway. Then, they took aim and opened fire on us. Wildly, I thought about taking cover and shooting back, but I was too busy cowering and trying to find a place in the vehicle where their bullets couldn't get to me. Lynette had somehow wriggled into the back between the gun case and the wall, which left me the entire front of the truck where there was no cover. Glass exploded all over my back. More bullets pounded into the fuselage.

And then I was shot. My gaze was just passing by my leg and I saw the blood erupt from a mini crater in my thigh. I felt wind on my forehead and then I was screaming, rolling into the space between the seats and the dashboard. Nothing existed but pain and safety glass.

Zombies - High and Lonesome

A third entry into what I'm building into an ebook. I hope you enjoy, and leave comments. I am, it seems, susceptible to critique. And I'd love to hear what you think in whatever case.

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Gunfire erupted in a muffled clatter that came from up ahead. The convoy sprung into action, vehicles spreading into battle formation; tires squealed as trucks maneuvered into position and slid to a halt, spilling their payload of soldiers onto the ground in a chorus of booted feet on asphalt. More gunfire joined the ruckus as the men took up tactical positions wherever they could find cover.

"We have to help them!" I exclaimed urgently, fueled more by a need to do something--anything--other than sit still while the undead swarmed us from God knows where. Hastily, I fumbled for my seatbelt, fingers slipping on the catch in their hurry. A hand on my arm stopped me.

"Wait." Lynette's face mirrored her tone of perfectly calm determination. "Let's see how this plays out."

I met her gaze for a moment longer before panning to watch the still mostly motionless backs of the mercenaries ahead. They seemed to be handling things. My gut still clenched with anxiety though. "We could help," I offered.

She shook her head. "We'll just get ourselves killed. We wait."

I bristled at taking orders from her, but shoved the emotions aside. I had dealt with power complexes before and fighting it was not the wisest way to go. She had a point, anyway. I wasn't bad with a gun, but I was no trained merc. I settled back a little, easing both her tension and mine.

The radio screamed to life. "Jim! Get your ass out here! Bring the woman!"

I picked up the radio and paused to lick my lips before thumbing the comm. "What's that, Sarge?"

"That's General to you, soldier! Get in line!"

"Sorry, sir, you're breaking up. Can't hear ya." I redocked the handset.

"Goddammit, private, you are under my command, you hear me?" The radio feed broke up a little, then returned in a panicked scream that was much more animal than it was, well, words. It drew itself out into a thinned warble and gurgled from life.

I glanced up at the wall of trucks again. Most of the men had disappeared around the other side, followed closely by the rest. A grenade went off somewhere, throwing a sluice of shrapnel straight through the canvas of a transport. Wind tore at the wounded truck, and for some reason it felt eerie. The gunfire died down to an infrequent sputter. Somebody screamed.

My first thought was to glance at Lynette again to see what she thought about the situation, but she was already checking her gun as best as she knew how and working the latch to the door. I followed suit, grabbing my shotgun, a belt of ammunition and the closest handgun, which turned out to be something made of polymer. I fumbled for a few mags before tumbling from the vehicle in a sprawling heap. I staggered to my feet and collected my things sheepishly.

"Forgot it was so high," I muttered at Lynette's haughty look. She turned wordlessly and made for the barricade in an awkward crouch. I followed more smoothly. I, unlike her, was used to holding a gun. I'd even gone hunting a couple of times. Though, I made it a habit to hunt things that hadn't died already. Fewer complications that way.

Unwilling to go first, we both stepped out from behind cover at the same time. One of my knees gave out, then, and I settled into a sort of half crouch as the world swayed weirdly and a buzzing sound filled my ears. My stomach was doing flips somewhere, twisting and wrenching to get that pizza out. I swallowed heavily to keep it down and lowered my head to block out the sight but got a nice closeup of a pool of blood with little pieces in it.

"Oh shit," I groaned and vomited. I wiped my mouth and forced myself to stand up.

"You okay?" She actually sounded concerned.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Fine."

Bodies sprawled everywhere, most of them dead for the second time. Decayed, mutilated zombie bodies lay in every conceivable position, plus a couple extra, joined here and there by a mercenary, usually with a zombie or two attached to a limb or neck. The carnage stretched before us until the crest of the hill, and beneath it all spread a huge crimson stain. Zombie and human blood mixed into one gigantic stain. I thought hard about how the food still in my stomach wanted nothing better than to stay there.

Somebody moaned. I whirled.

Lynette pinpointed it first. "That came from inside that truck." I followed her.

I recognized the vehicle from its torn canvas, but it lost all form of familiarity when a pair of bloodied hands dove at me, followed by a body that was definitely missing a rib or two, as made evident by a lack of substance in the spleen area. I backpedaled as the undead met the apex of its flight just short of me and careened teethfirst into the asphalt. Before I knew it, I had dropped my handgun to the back of its skull and pulled the trigger. Twice. Crimson pounded into the ground, courtesy of a pair of .45 ACPs.

"Oh dear God," Lynette gasped. "That...you--oh shit! You killed that thing."

I straightened and glanced at her. "It was already dead."

She swallowed. "Right. Yeah, already dead..." She brought her knuckles to her lips, shaking.

Now it was my turn. "You alright?" She didn't respond. Uh, damn? I wasn't good with women. I moved to put a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, we need to get back to the truck.

She nodded without a word and followed me. I even held the door for her and helped her climb in. The Humvee really was way too high off the ground.

I pulled the Humvee around the barricade and drove, cringing, over the wreckage that marked the first fight of what I forebodingly felt would be many. My entire world had just fallen apart and the only thing I was still sure of was that we absolutely had to get out of the city as soon as was possible. Maybe it could still be safe elsewhere.

The Problem With Gun Control

This past Friday, an unsuspecting man was slammed against a wall at gunpoint and had his belongings searched for what was supposed to be a firearm. 29-year-old Jeremy Bell was reported to have been sitting at his desk behind a closed door in downtown Toronto's teehan+lax, a user-experience design firm, with a handgun earlier that day, as reported to the police by a keen-eyed neighbour in a nearby building. What the report neglected to indicate, most likely by fault of the whistle-blower, was that the gun was made of Lego.

This is just sad. In a country where the possession of an easily disguised firearm is in almost all cases a felony, the handgun has become somewhat of a taboo item reserved for cops and Briggs drivers. And the sight of such a weapon in any place other than on the hip of a well-uniformed, straight-shouldered suit sets off the alarms quicker than a druggie with a butterfly knife.

We should be insulted. How stupid does a person have to become to criminalize the weapon instead of the weapon-wielder. Oh, the guy holding the toy Lego gun gets a mouthfull of drywall, sure, but for what? A failure to keep the deadly weapon stashed properly inside his jacket?

Now, it's understandable, possibly even acceptable, that a dignified human being, however paranoid, should be reluctant to accept his fellow man as the culprit and assign the blame, instead, purely to whichever object obviously caused the damage. But then, it's also understandable that the man who loses his wife, kids and job in a single day would drink himself into a stupor and drive into oncoming traffic. What we easily forget is that understandable does not mean tolerable, and that no system is smart enough to do our common sense-related thinking for us.

We have brains, people! Bringing a Lego gun-lookalike to show your friends is as much a crime as eating too much cake at the monthly work birthday party. Bringing a real gun to work to blow your coworkers' brains out, on the other hand, equates roughly to that of soiling the cake before anyone eats it. The difference, it can be hoped, is obviously that of intent. The end result may be similar--comparable, at least--there definitely was a gun at work, or there definitely was not enough cake for everybody, but the outcome, and the planning beforehand, were galaxies apart.

The point here is that our lazy thinking is putting us out of shape. We can as much fault a man for bringing a bunch of Lego to work as we can a video game for a teenager hanging himself. Although, it seems we've started doing that, too. Let's open our eyes and get with the program, shall we?

Rattown - Part 1 (or, Three's Company)

Every so often, I get so frustrated with my writing that I throw out whatever I'm working on and start something entirely new in a genre I either never touch or simply hate, and see what I can build from there. I like to believe this makes me a better writer; in truth, it might just make me look like I'm trying to be a better writer. Either way, somebody can learn from this, I'm sure. And for what it's worth, I hope you enjoy the next bit. I focused on dialogue more than anything because, let's face it, I could use some practice.

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Three's Company

In 1987, the Ratwater city council held its Christmas ball in the manorhouse of one George El Tuckett. The famously rich man had become so through a litany of daring and careless investments. He'd spent as much time as a defendant in court as he had the aggressor, although he never lost, either way. Something was off about the man, but he was, as mayor Rosswell put it, "so damned chivalrous, it doesn't matter." And he was quite right.

As the orchestra picked up a slow waltz and the men and woman on the dance floor began their graceful stepping to the tune, bathed from above in the warm glow of candlelight, refracted a hundred times over by the crystal chandeliers in which they nested. All around then, reflected perfectly by the polished wood floor, sat round tables draped in ebony silk covered in a grandose representation of food in the form of a platter tower where each course had its own tier. People sat around these tables, happily chatting and eating, heedless of the cold outside despite the majestic windows that fronted each end of the ballroom, flanked by gigantic conifers heavy laden with the snow that fell in near sheets.

Along a far wall beneath one of the windows there was a bar that ran from one wall to the next in a giant, swathing curve. Behind it, dressed in brilliant white livery were six bartenders ready at beck and call. Seated at this bar sat a man and a woman, he in a three-piece suit that looked as if it had been cut and tailored that very day and she in a gown of deep indigo cut to show a flattering amount of cleavage without insulting her dignity. White lace cloaked her arms from fingertip to mid-upper arm where bronzed skin showed up to the shoulder. She wore her auburn hair loose in waves that spilled halfway down her partially naked back.

"Tell me, Richard," she sang, "what brings you here? I thought you were specifically banned from this event."

"Yes," he conceded with a dip of his head. "Yet here I am, drawn inevitably by your beauty and this," he indicated the room with an all-encompassing gesture, "event."

He spoke the truth. She was indeed beautiful. Hazel eyes sparkled beneath heavy lashes in a face that was both exotic and homely. Her lips, wide apart in laughter, shone ruby and her fair skin was soft in the careful light. She brought a drink to her lips with dignity and returned the glass, wide bowl on narrow stem, to the glistening marble bartop.

"Besides," continued Richard. "What was I to do two nights shy of Christmas Eve without you to tease with my ever irritating presence?" He, too, lifted a glass to his lips with a clink of scotch-drowned ice against crystal and replaced it beside her cocktail with a grimace of satisfaction. "I am, however, surprised to not see your boyfriend here, Mizz Tuckett."

"Oh, Richard, he's not my boyfriend! You know that." She took another sip, face stark with affront. "And don't call me that. My name is Olyvia."

"Well, Olyvia," he ventured. "God knows the man would like to be. Thinks he is, even, I dare say." Another sip of scotch.

"That's ridiculous." But she clearly didn't think so. Her cheeks burned a complimentary rose and her gaze dropped to the black marble.

"You don't like him, do you?"

"Richard!"

Quickly, he backpedaled. "I'm sorry! I just don't trust him is all."

"He can be very nice when he likes to."

"Which is never. For God's sake, Olyvia, end it with him. There are plenty of men who'd die to shake your hand." This was true, and it made her blush all over again, but she didn't reply.

At last she spoke, eyes still averted. "There was never anything to begin with, Richard. He simply wants to believe there was."

This was accepted in silence but for the rattling of ice. The band began to play some fast-paced rendition of another Christmas carol much to the delight of various couples around them who quickly vanished to the dance floor. Richard turned to watch but a shadow soon passed over his face and he spoke.

"Ah. There he is."

Sure enough, Olyvia's unwelcome, overprotective companion was now striding toward them, heedless of those dancing around him. He looked to have come inside recently and had yet to remove his coat. He stopped before them, the smell of crisp leather and cold snow wafting from him slightly. His eyebrows were knit together in a fierce scowl outdone only by the tightness of his fists at his sides.

"Olyvia."

"Will."

"Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Richard." A beaming smile.

"Hi."

"Richard."

"Bill."

"That's Will to you."

"Will." Then, "Have a drink, Will."

"No, thanks, we're just leaving."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "You're here with somebody?"

"Come, Olyvia."

"She's not yours to beck, Will."

"She sure is. Aren't you, Olyvia?"

"Well, I..."

"Yes, I know you are. See?"

"Actually, I'm afraid I don't, Will. 'Fraid I don't at all."

Will fidgeted, obviously not expecting any resistance. "Well, who the hell are you then?"

The eyebrow raised again. "It's not nice to swear in front of the lady, Will."

"C'mon, Olyvia."

"Will, I--"

The first word came out in a bark, hastily replaced by a hushed tone after, "Just! Look, let's just go, back to my place. Then we can talk all this over. I have a Christmas present for you, Olyv."

"She's not with you, Will."

"Stay out of this, you!"

"I'll stay out of whatever I damn well please--sorry, Olyvia--and the lady isn't here with you, so back off."

"What, she's with you?" Will scoffed.

"Ah, no, not as such, but--"

"Hah! See? C'mon, Olyv."

"And she's not a prize to be won, you chauvinistic--"

"I'd like to stay with Richard, Will."

His next words came out in a shout. "It didn't have to come to this!" And he reached within his long, leather jacket and withdrew a handgun which he levelled between the eyes of Richard. "Everybody get down on the floor!"

Zombie - Uncle Sam's Nephew

A continuation from the last entry. Watch for this as a recurring theme to be compiled into an ebook in the future. For now, enjoy the snippet.

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I stopped the car and got out as the woman followed my lead. The street in front of us was blocked by a massive hulk of a tank and a similar beast cut off any exit in the reverse. Canvas-draped trucks flanked us on both sides, creating a nice little cocoon of military green. One of the vehicles, a Hummer, caught my attention and I strode toward it, cradling my shotgun in both hands. I didn't want to look scared. Not when it looked like we could just as easily be gunned down as eaten alive.

Apparently, I chose the right vehicle. As I drew closer, a sunglassed George Clooney lookalike emerged. Well, his face looked a bit like Clooney's; the guy was ripped, though. I quit walking and waited for him to come to me. He didn't.

"General Eddie Howard, God's Talon Private Military Corporation," he barked in greeting.

Ugh, mercenaries. Great... "Hi."

He seemed a little taken aback but pressed forward anyway. "Who the fuck're you?"

He had such a way with words. "Jim," I said. Then, gesturing behind me, "and this is my car. And..." I twisted. "Sorry, didn't get your name."

"Lynette," replied the woman from back where she reclined against my car.

"...Lynette," I beamed at the general. "Can we help you?" Maybe if I made it look like we were graciously accepting his inconveniencing us, the military-whore would let us go.

I watched as he tapped a cigarette into his palm, retrieved a Zippo from somewhere, lit the cigarette while lifting it to his lips and repocketed the lighter. Then, after a couple of pulls on his vice that lit the end a bright orange, he withdrew it and spoke again. "This area is now under my jurisdiction." He indicated "area" with a wave of the cigarette. "And you just happen to be the only intelligent thing we've come across so far, which means you are either going to cease being intelligent soon--once one of those things catches you--or you will join us and stay intelligent until we're far away from here." He reclamped the cigarette between his lips and looked at me.

Uh oh. A military man--worse, a merc--who thought he was clever. Shit just keeps piling higher and higher. I shifted the shotgun in my hands a little before replying. "Uh, nah, thanks but I think we'll be fine. I'm more of a freelance type anyway, y'know?"

His laugh came out in a wheeze. "Listen, Jim." He hacked out a bit of a cough, then took off his mirrored shades and met my gaze with the kind of leniency you find in steel cable. "I'm not asking. You will die without my help and we could always use an extra hand." Another haul on the cig.

I caught the veiled threat and it pissed me off. This bastard was used to pushing and shoving until he got his way. Well he wouldn't get it this time. I opened my mouth to retort when an elbow rammed me in the ribs and Lynette appeared beside me. She spoke, quietly and calmly but not without her own brand of fury.

"We'll go as long as we get a vehicle to ourselves, with weapons."

General Eddie looked surprised. He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded with a sideways glance at Lynette. I still wasn't sure about her trustworthiness. I'd go along with it for now, though, I decided. No use getting all shot up over forced employment.

Fifteen minutes later, Lynette and I had our very own Hummer, complete with mounted chain gun and a hatch full of ordnance. The only requirement was that we stay in line with the rest of the vehicles. Eddie had made it very clear that he did not consider the loss of one vehicle as much compared to troops that deserted him. He'd made his point with a nod at one of the tanks, so I'm pretty sure he meant it. Some people are very good at meaningful nods.

We'd sunk my car in the river. Apparently, they had come across some zombies that could drive and Eddie was still a little shaken up by it. Not that he admitted anything remotely of the sort; I just saw it in his eyes. Interesting fella.

As I drove, and Lynette rummaged around for a gun she liked, I let myself reminisce a little. The day had started out alright, for a Saturday. The late October air and bright orange leaves everywhere had begged me to go for a walk, so I had. I'd taken a little jaunt through the river valley, where you hardly notice the city's presence around you. Nobody else had been out that early, although now that I thought about it, not being out and about by ten in the morning seemed a little odd. In fact, the only sign of life along the trail had been that of a dog, chained to a pole on its lonesome, that growled and barked at me until I was long gone. Most dogs like me...

The radio crackled and Eddie's voice burst forth. "We're headed downtown to clear out the government buildings. You'll be part of the group that does the Legislature Building, alright?"

I brought the mouthpiece to my lips. "Yeah, okay."

"Hit the button," Lynette muttered.

"Yeah, okay."

"Good. After that, we're hightailing it out of here. Might come back in a couple days to check for survivors. Health people are going nuts in search of a cure and it might be our job to find out if anyone's immune so keep an eye out."

"Okay."

"General Howard, out."

"Uh. Yeah, out."

"It won't bite you, Jim," Lynette smirked.

"Actually, my name's not Jim. Nobody calls me that," I confessed, eyes still locked on the road and the back of the drab green truck in front.

"Oh?" she sounded politely interested at best.

"It's Jimmy," I said, and when she snorted, "I mean, Jim's technically my name, but my friends haven't called me that since before I started school. Do you know how much power someone has over you when they know your name?"

I saw her shake her head in my peripheral, clearly writing me off as a nutjob. Fine, let her be that way, I thought. She didn't have to believe me for it to be true.

The radio chirped again. "General, we've got contact up ahead. I think you'll want to have a look at this."

"Be there in a sec, Murph." Ahead, a Hummer broke free of the line and sped past the other vehicles as the caravan slowly crawled to a halt.

"We've got multiple contacts," the voice tensed from calm to worried as it spoke. "Oh shit! Contact! Contact! Get everyone up here! Oh God, General!"

I glanced at Lynette. She looked worried. This had just gotten bad.

Zombies - Conscripted (And An Update)

Okay, I'm re-opening this blog for good. I have, in the past, treated it as a portfolio of achievements. No longer. This is now, indefinitely, my official blog. Here, I will be posting whatever writing doesn't fit into a more professional folder somewhere in the bowels of--well, actually, I'm cloud-sourcing all of my work right now. Google Documents has been a lifesaver after the very premature death of my new-ish laptop. I am now using my old-ish laptop, which has no RAM. Yes, scary.

Anyway, here's the first part of my most recent try in Deadmonton, title pending investigation. I hope you enjoy.

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The zombie apocalypse started three minutes before I realized it, but there was no time to celebrate my near-clairvoyant response time because my front door exploded and I laid my eyes on the first zombie to ever to be killed by an angry woman with a spud gun. I had somehow gotten from a sprawled position on my couch, pizza, chips and beer carefully positioned in an easy-to-reach array across my torso, to standing, staring with a mixture of awe and horror at the fragments of my door now laced with zombie goo when the woman wheeled about and fixed her sights on me.

"Oh shit no, I'm still--" A zombie morphed into existence from behind the woman and faceplanted her back, throwing her forward and off balance.

I own a shotgun. It used to be my badge of manhood, my certification that I was somebody important. I bragged about it at bars and at work. That is, until people got tired of hearing about my Remington 870 and I had to learn to keep my mouth shut about the beast. Not every shotgun can load three-and-a-half inch shells, you know.

I was in my bedroom by then, flinging my closet door open and hauling the gun out. Call me stupid, but I keep it ready to fire. Not loaded. Not really, anyway.

I pumped the action and hurled myself back into the living room where my unwelcome visitor was using her feet to fend off a man in a suit. It had half a head.

"Back away from it!" I roared as I levelled the gun at my hip. The woman flung a panicked look in my direction and rolled behind the counter. I took a few hurried steps forward before I pulled the trigger and sluiced zombie matter all over my fridge before it could dive after her. Frantically, I limped around the counter to find the woman levelling the spud gun at me.

"What the hell? I saved your life, woman!"

She fired.

The speeding potato of death whizzed past me and landed with a squishing sound. I turned and saw another undead toppling backward with a mouthful of McCain's finest.

"Oh," I managed. "Thanks." Then I turned and really saw the woman for the first time. She wore navy blue jeans that hugged her thighs nicely, done up with a simple black belt followed by a bit of stomach soon covered by a black, very flattering t-shirt. Her dark brown hair fell in waves down past her shoulders and she brushed some away from her face with an irritated flick.

"Are you going to help me up?"

"Oh." Awkwardly, I clamped the shotgun under one arm and helped her up with my free hand.

"Nice," I said, gesturing to her weapon of choice.

She glanced at the weapon in her hands, constructed mostly of plumbing pipe. "It's borrowed, but thanks." She looked out the door anxiously and seemed to loosen up a little when the street proved to be empty. "Hi, I'm from down the street. Sorry about your door."

I shrugged. "You alright?"

Now she walked over to peer through the opening. "There will be more of them. We should go."

My first instinct was to resist. This was my house. I couldn't just leave. But then, the woman couldn't stay either. At least, I doubted she would take an overnight invitation from a complete stranger very well, especially with a gaping maw where the door should be. Instead of answering, I moved over to the opposite side of the door frame and looked outside, too. "How bad is it?"

I saw her shrug in the corner of my eye. "Channel Seven newscaster got attacked on live TV," she muttered. "I think it's safe to say it's bad."

I pursed my lips in a silent whistle. Yes, that was bad. That meant nobody was in control anymore. Damn. I was silent for a moment, searching through my options.

"Okay, we'll take my car," I finally said, expecting some kind of protest. I couldn't blame her. After all, what kind of woman accepts a ride from a total stranger?

Instead, she nodded without comment and looked at me. She looked tired. And I don't just mean went-for-a-jog tired; I mean bone-weary, exhausted to the point of almost passing out tired. But before I could allow myself to be concerned, we had to get to safety. I led the way to my Jeep, going around to her side to hold the door for her first, and we were soon on our way.

As we drove, the extent of the city's miserable state really made itself clear. Undead roamed the streets, stopping now and then to snack on the numerous dead bodies scattered in the streets. I tried not to notice, tried to keep my mind from accepting what it was seeing, but it was impossible. People were killing and eating other people, and not necessarily in that order. My stomach turned over violently.

My destination was based on the hope that my brother was still alive, since if anybody had a chance of living through something like this, it was him. He lived in one of those massive houses that people only build on hills and that has the mandatory fortress-like set of walls around it. Except, instead of having the house and walls to complement his ego, Chuck had them for self-preservation purposes. He was a bit of a nut.

And to get there, all we had to do was cross the river on one of the many bridges spanning it, drive up the hill, right to the very top, and ring his doorbell. Without getting eaten, preferably. I had a feeling things would not go according to plan.

He rounded a bend and the bridge came into view, a latticework of I-beams holding up a thin strip of asphalt all the way across the flat, gray river beneath it. On normal days, I would have just driven across the bridge and we would have been on our way. But now it was on fire.

See, that's what I love about being a cynic. You get to be right all the time. Plan A, discard.

You can't win 'em all, though. Just as I was easing on the brakes, a tank roared onto the road ahead of us. A glance in my rearview mirror showed the same thing behind us. Then a military-green truck screeched to a halt beside my Jeep and a tall man in fatigues and sunglasses stepped out.

And that is how I got conscripted into God's Talon PMC.