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inkstains contest 'alone at the end'.
The trips to the grocery store were the worst. When she was holed up in her house, she could forget how alone she was, but out there, it reminded her that she had no one. Sure, she could rationalize it and say that they weren’t happy, that she was better off, and part of her believed that. But the other part, the dangerous part, was whispering in her ear that she would do anything to belong. To be part of a group again. No matter what.
She sighed and opened the door, heading out with her little cart to the corner store. An armful of canned goods would last her another week, and hopefully after that she’d be ready to move. She’d already packed everything she could take with her in the back of her car, though she wasn’t sure where she was going. Anywhere would be better than this little town. And somewhere out there had to be someone she could… somewhere there had to be someone. She couldn’t be the last. She couldn’t be alone for the rest of her life. She couldn’t live like this.
“Hello Mrs. Johnson,” she said dully, as her fifth grade teacher bumped into her in the soup aisle. She pushed her away lightly, then brought the sword down sharply on her neck, severing her spine. Mrs. Johnson collapsed to the floor, twitched a few times, and was still.
It was so much harder killing them here. Taking shots from her upstairs window distanced her, made it less personal. It also reduced the risk of infection from blood spills. How silly people had been, thinking that splashing zombie blood all over them wouldn’t infect them. If the saliva was infectious, it stood to reason that the blood would be ten times as infectious. But people believed what they’d seen in the movies, and were bathed in zombie blood as they hacked at their necks.
She shook off the woman who was trying to gnaw on her leg, and brought the sword down again. At least she didn’t know her. That made it a little easier, but it still turned her stomach.
She collected her groceries, killed ten more zombies, and made her way back to the apartment complex she’d managed to barricade. Tom and Jen had helped, before they’d gotten ill, but she’d made some modifications, creating a sally port to keep out any zombies that followed her, and a station to wash off her blood-spattered outfit.
First to come off was the suit of armor, which didn’t fit particularly well because it was Tom’s, but it did keep her from being bitten. She was working on her own set of fine chain mail, but it would be a few days before she was done with that. She set the armor to one side, next to a container of sanitizing wipes and rubber gloves. Then she stepped under the temporary shower in the wet suit and face shield, washing all the blood off and out the door. For the hundredth time she was thankful for her spring break trip that had left her scuba-certified and with a van-load of dive gear. Sure, her friends had laughed, because who needs scuba gear in Nevada? She’d give anything to hear them teasing her about that again.
Once the water ran clear, she stripped off the suit and hung it to dry, then meticulously cleaned the suit of armor with the sanitizing wipes, careful to inspect the rubber gloves for any rips or tears. She wasn’t sure how contagious it was – or indeed if it was a bacteria or a virus or a… whatever, but you couldn’t be too careful.
She dragged the groceries and unloaded them into the cupboards of the too-silent apartment.
***
So, yeah. Need to stop watching zombie movies. I have zombies on the brain. I dreamed about zombies the other night. Please note that I did not say I had nightmares, just dreams.
Also today I learned there is a machine gun that fires grenades. 325 grenades per minute. Between that and the M134 minigun (3,000-4,000 rounds per minute!) I really don't see how we have anything to fear from a zombie horde. Unless... but that's fodder for another story!
inkstains contest 'alone at the end'.The trips to the grocery store were the worst. When she was holed up in her house, she could forget how alone she was, but out there, it reminded her that she had no one. Sure, she could rationalize it and say that they weren’t happy, that she was better off, and part of her believed that. But the other part, the dangerous part, was whispering in her ear that she would do anything to belong. To be part of a group again. No matter what.
She sighed and opened the door, heading out with her little cart to the corner store. An armful of canned goods would last her another week, and hopefully after that she’d be ready to move. She’d already packed everything she could take with her in the back of her car, though she wasn’t sure where she was going. Anywhere would be better than this little town. And somewhere out there had to be someone she could… somewhere there had to be someone. She couldn’t be the last. She couldn’t be alone for the rest of her life. She couldn’t live like this.
“Hello Mrs. Johnson,” she said dully, as her fifth grade teacher bumped into her in the soup aisle. She pushed her away lightly, then brought the sword down sharply on her neck, severing her spine. Mrs. Johnson collapsed to the floor, twitched a few times, and was still.
It was so much harder killing them here. Taking shots from her upstairs window distanced her, made it less personal. It also reduced the risk of infection from blood spills. How silly people had been, thinking that splashing zombie blood all over them wouldn’t infect them. If the saliva was infectious, it stood to reason that the blood would be ten times as infectious. But people believed what they’d seen in the movies, and were bathed in zombie blood as they hacked at their necks.
She shook off the woman who was trying to gnaw on her leg, and brought the sword down again. At least she didn’t know her. That made it a little easier, but it still turned her stomach.
She collected her groceries, killed ten more zombies, and made her way back to the apartment complex she’d managed to barricade. Tom and Jen had helped, before they’d gotten ill, but she’d made some modifications, creating a sally port to keep out any zombies that followed her, and a station to wash off her blood-spattered outfit.
First to come off was the suit of armor, which didn’t fit particularly well because it was Tom’s, but it did keep her from being bitten. She was working on her own set of fine chain mail, but it would be a few days before she was done with that. She set the armor to one side, next to a container of sanitizing wipes and rubber gloves. Then she stepped under the temporary shower in the wet suit and face shield, washing all the blood off and out the door. For the hundredth time she was thankful for her spring break trip that had left her scuba-certified and with a van-load of dive gear. Sure, her friends had laughed, because who needs scuba gear in Nevada? She’d give anything to hear them teasing her about that again.
Once the water ran clear, she stripped off the suit and hung it to dry, then meticulously cleaned the suit of armor with the sanitizing wipes, careful to inspect the rubber gloves for any rips or tears. She wasn’t sure how contagious it was – or indeed if it was a bacteria or a virus or a… whatever, but you couldn’t be too careful.
She dragged the groceries and unloaded them into the cupboards of the too-silent apartment.
***
So, yeah. Need to stop watching zombie movies. I have zombies on the brain. I dreamed about zombies the other night. Please note that I did not say I had nightmares, just dreams.
Also today I learned there is a machine gun that fires grenades. 325 grenades per minute. Between that and the M134 minigun (3,000-4,000 rounds per minute!) I really don't see how we have anything to fear from a zombie horde. Unless... but that's fodder for another story!
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I want to see your unless!