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.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --

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.