Joe and Jack were twin brothers who lived in New York all their lives. Joe became a cop and Jack was a low life, nothing but a loser drug dealer. Joe knew that his only sibling at that his twin brother was wasting his life by doing and dealing drugs but he couldn’t bring himself to arrest a member of his own family.
“You need to stop what your doing your going to get arrested or worse overdose and die” exclaimed Joe.
“I…I..just can’t stop” said Jack.
“You need to go to rehab its the only way” Said Joe.
The walls seemed as if they were closing in on me. It had to be around 2 a.m. when I heard more screams of terror. Every day, every second of living with the threat of those monsters killing me, my friends, and my family makes me want to just find a way out. But I cant get out of Syracuse alone. My friends were killed, I am forced to be locked in a shack in some random yard, trying not to make any noticeable signs of activity. The thoughts can’t escape my mind, watching my friends, being torn apart by those horrid creatures, I was useless, there was nothing I could do. I had to run. If I even tried saving them I might as well have dug a hole and buried myself in it. I couldn’t bare to let them be killed but I had no other choice, it was to late to try and help them now.
All I have now is a shotgun, with not much ammunition left, a watch, to tell me what time it is, the clothes on my back, and the memories in my mind.
They came without warning, a never-ending tide of the undead. The military was unable to contain the explosion of the disease. The government packed up and headed west. They told us to evacuate the cities and wished us luck. The military was too busy trying to defeat the enemy to help with evacuations.
Flights and buses were few and far between, but that didn’t stop people from trying to catch a ride. Even if you caught a flight, there weren’t many safe zones left in the world. Jack Walker was one of the lucky ones. He had a seat on the last flight out of Syracuse. It was headed for rural Montana.
Another passenger, Bruce Schick, tried selling his seat to the highest bidder in the crowd that had gathered. He was betting that this wouldn’t be the last flight out of Hancock.
Everyone loved zombies. Who knew that New York horded such a massive colony of undead fans? Everyone would go see the movies. They loved watching their badass heroes slaughter mobs of ghouls on the big screen. The fad went unnoticed next to the polo shirts and sports games, but they were there. Believe me, the creepy shirts, hats, movies, books and video games were there nonetheless. Eventually these fans became fanatics.
The American culture loved the walking dead so much that zombie walks became common. You know the drill: a bunch of people dress like their decaying idols and march around “attacking” people, swelling their ranks. It was all good fun. One of these walks was eventually set up to take place in Eastwood. People ran, others chased. The mob had grown quite large since they started and were now shuffling toward Carousel Mall. Malls…the media’s favorite. The costumes were quite realistic. Nobody could tell the difference when the actual zombie joined in the fun. One man was mauled by it. People laughed, some screamed playfully. The man wasn’t playing. It took about ten minutes and three more victims before everyone noticed what was happening. Everyone ran.
Nowadays we sit and wait; stuck in an airport trying to take back our city.
Meaker withdrew his blade from the temple of what was once a middle aged Businessman. The wet thud of the final Z hitting the road seemed deafening, only to be drowned out by the cheers of the Survivors behind him. Crowbars and lead pipes were thrust into the air in sync with the victory cries of those left standing. Meaker checked himself over to make sure he had not been bitten, his Kevlar plates were scratched and bitten but held up more than sufficiently. He wore a Black balaclava to ensure no Ghoul blood sprayed into his mouth, although most of his uniform was covered in the substance including his Balaclava, he managed to avoid infection again. The Sergeant, or more recent Lieutenant looked to the survivors left, More had survived the onslaught than he had expected, They had won the Battle of Mattydale. A small victory in a war that most of those cheering wouldn’t live to see the end of.
The world outside was eerily quiet. Dead silence rang through John’s ears. His wife and two children were lying on his bed before him, the fresh blood still pooling on the surface mixing with the gasoline he had poured under a minute ago.
He stood silently smoking his fourth cigar, his stomach heaving from the adrenaline, the smell of the corpses, the gasoline fumes, and the nicotine. The first cigar was for his wife, the next two were for each of his children, and the last was for the part of him that had died with his loved ones. He finished the Hampton Court, dropped the butt at his feet and said his final I love you as he lit the bodies of his family aflame with his Army insignia Zippo that his wife had gotten him off of eBay for Christmas the first year they were married. He never went on a mission without it.
Yesterday, my class had to stay late after school. My teacher said it was because a bear was in my neighborhood. After they let us go home, my dad wouldn’t let me play outside because a bear was in my neighborhood. Last night they caught the bear down my street, but I never saw the bear. I don’t think there was a bear in my neighborhood, I think it was something else.
Brad’s parents were always fighting. He hated it. He’d wake up to the sound of the screaming spouses and come home from school to the same monotonous noise. If it wasn’t bills, it was senseless jealousy. He had started to grow accustomed to it, but had never become immune.
One day, Brad got off the bus and walked to his front door. He went to pull his house key out of the smallest pouch on his blue backpack when he noticed the door was ajar. Brad looked at the brass knob but shrugged off his worries and stepped inside.
He quietly gave thanks for the silence. He looked around at his home’s interior. The kitchen table was pushed over with the shattered remains of a floral patterned vase surrounding it. A blood-stained doily lay nearby.
Brad’s heart started to race. He followed the trail of broken furniture and porcelain animals through the kitchen, living room, and down the hall. It stopped at his parents’ bedroom door. Brad could see shadows crossing the orange light streaming onto his feet. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open just in time to see his father snap his mother’s eye out of its socket and chew on it hungrily, as her blood ran down his chin and onto the gore-covered floor.
John sprinted down the street of a once quiet suburban town. Now all hell was unleashing around him. He ran past a white station wagon that had been pinned between a red truck and a Pontiac Grand Prix. The two children in the back pressed themselves against the seat as hard as they could, just out of reach of their undead parents’ fingers. The two Z’s in the front of the car remained buckled. His neighbor’s house was up in flames. Out of the inferno stumbled two figures burning wildly yet only concerned with John as he ran past them down the street.
His footfalls fell hard on the pavement below. Pushing himself as hard as he could, sweat pouring down his face, legs burning, he had been running for ten miles as fast as he could, The infection had reached American soil.
John grunted and cursed at himself not to stop until he had reached his destination. He lunged over the body of a dead police officer as it began to push itself to its feet. He was off and running without hesitation as soon as his feet hit the pavement again. Straight ahead of him was a school bus. The inside of the windows were plastered with blood. The bloodcurdling screams from within would never leave him.
As John turned to run down his driveway he noticed the doll being awkwardly held by the five year old walking corpse that was once his daughter. He stopped dead in his tracks, breathless, speechless. Like a twig his mind snapped out of reality to protect him from the horror he knew he was about to witness. His world came crashing down on the asphalt before him.
He stared into the empty eyes of his dead daughter, and she stared back. Her left arm was missing, the wound that had killed her. Her right hand loosely clenched the rag doll she had carried with her since her infant years, the torn and dirt stained rag doll had a few droplets of blood on the head. It swayed in a gentle breeze, the only false sign that there was anything left of his child.
“Abbie? Abbie Baby, are you alright?” He said aloud to the ghoul standing in the doorway of his home. His bottom lip was quivering, a clean trail cut through the soot and dirt on his face where tears were trailing downward with his life. As if in slow motion the doll fell, and she reached outwards for her father, before letting out a sickening moan.
John fell to his knees and wept. By the time he opened his eyes the blurry outline of his daughter was within arm’s reach. He gently placed his hands on her side, her cold fingertips brushed against his tear soaked cheeks. He held her close enough, yet she was so far away.