Zompocalypse Now! Give us your take on the zombie apocalypse, be it a zompocalypse story, a zom-com, or a reflection on the genre and the films that inspired it. Write wherever the prompt inspires you, fiction or non-fiction, prose or poetry. Do try and keep things at a PG-13 level, though.Here's mine!
I’m almost out of ammo and I’m pissed. Hawk ascends the staircase and I protest. “Dude, you need to rebuild the barriers." I adjust my earpiece, but I know he’s not listening. It’s too late anyway. A zombie hits me from behind and I can’t get away.
“Shut the hell up,” he says. “Come upstairs to the lobby.” Hawk’s voice echoes in my right ear and there's static in the line.
“I’m dead, moron.” It’s the only thing I can stomach as a response. I yank off my blue-tooth device and throw it at the television. Three more zombies munch on my brains while the screen goes black and white. Game over. All goes blank.
I am awakened by a nudge to my shoulder and when I push myself up on one knee, everything around me is orange and gray.
A man standing next to me taps my arm and says, “Let’s take the east wing first.”
“What’s going on?” I manage to sound confident despite my temporary delirium.
“We’re surrounded and the only way out is up those stairs and through the laboratory.”
I read the guy’s name tag above his right pocket, Skyhawk1122.
The room spins and I try to speak, but my speech is slowed and I feel like I can’t say it fast enough. “Dude, this is not happening.” I wait and hope for confirmation. Nothing comes but the realization we've been physically submerged into the wastelands.
Distant moans close in on us and I recognize the source at the top of the stairs. They come at us, slow at first, eyes gray with no thought. The one leading the pack breaks into a jog straight for me and everything quickens to a normal speed.
With no time to think, I lift my weapon and fire. The blast sprays decayed flesh everywhere and the headless body topples onto the floor. A second shot takes off the arm of a crawler two paces behind.
“Quick, I need more ammo.” Hawk makes his way up the stairs. I follow, taking two steps at a time. My heart pounds in my chest and I wonder if he’s scared too.
He grabs four boxes of ammo and hands me two, then tosses me an AR-15 from the trunk. “Load up. It’s going to get ugly.”
I quickly load and insert my magazine, but before we make an entry into the room, two zombies and a ghoul spring forward and grab Hawk, pulling him toward the stairs. The echoes of his abandoned screams pierce my ears. I hear the quiver in his voice when he begs for me to fire. I can’t get a decent shot because they are all over him and the only thing I can see is the fear in his eyes. I decide it’s too late to save him.
He screams while they drag him away, feasting on his brain matter. Then there is silence, with a trail of blood and pieces of flesh left behind. I can still save myself before the next feeding. I head toward the laboratory.
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