Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Part One: Thanksgiving Dinner

Hey guys.  I started writing a zombie short story a few days ago and below is part one of the story.  I haven't finished part two yet but might do this as a weekly story thing here in my blog.  What do ya think? Leave me your comments, good or bad.  This is my first attempt at zombie writing, so be gentle with me lol.  -Rhiannon M.

Part One: Thanksgiving Dinner

 It is bitter cold and the sun has darted behind a thick mass of white-gray winter clouds, leaving not even temporary relief from the harsh snowy weather.  I keep telling myself that when I get home, I’ll just make some hot cocoa and drop some marshmallows in the cup.  That would warm me up, I say to myself as I tug on the load I‘m dragging behind me.  That would make the cold go away and after I finish warming myself, I can curl up on the couch with an electric blanket and watch a few saved episodes of Golden Girls with my German shepherd, Zoe, in my lap.

    I could take a hot shower and put on my flannel pajamas, too.  That would help.  After that, I could read a book or wash the dishes in hot, soapy water to warm my hands and make sure that they’re done before Mike gets home from the late shift at the mine.  We could go to bed together and I could sleep with him spooned to my back all night, nice and warm and safe until the sun came out again and it was time to make a late morning breakfast together.

    Of course, none of those things that I could be doing were ever going to happen.  Not today, not tonight, not ever again. 

    There is no more hot chocolate to be found unless, of course, I were to stumble upon a grocery store somewhere and get brave enough to go pillaging alone.  There were no golden girls because it was rare that we had electricity.  I can’t wash dishes because there is no sink of hot water to wash them in and no reason to have dirty dishes if there isn’t any food to put in them and I haven‘t cooked yet.  My dog was gone and I had no clue where she went or what happened to her.  As for my house, I had left it behind six months ago or so. 

    And right now I’m not going to talk about where Mike went or how he got there.

    Right now, I’m going to walk out of the bushes I’m sort of hiding in and make a beeline for the only building in this area that I know to be safe enough to sleep and eat in by myself.  It’s not as safe as I’d like, but it’s in the middle of nowhere and there’s a very old wood stove and some cast iron skillets that I can use to prepare a nice dear stew with.  It’s not the Hilton, but there are clean linens, a well out back for water, firewood stacked out back, and a few books in an old bookshelf.  It’s sustainable living at its simplest.

    The deer, unfortunately, is a problem.  It’s not too heavy for me to carry or anything, but I think I shot an artery right in half or something because the doe is bleeding an excessive amount and the blood just might smell enough to lure a stray walker.  I’m not sure because I don’t know if they go for animal blood.  I’m sure that if they get weak enough and hungry enough they just might…

    I decide to hurry up a bit because darkness falls in just a few hours and I have a deer to chop up and cook.  While it’s cooking (and burning) I have to go clean up the mess I made dragging it home.  I take a moment to ponder whether or not bleach and water really help to disguise the smell of blood from the deer from zombie noses and then decide that it may not even be the smell of dead deer (or whatever my catch of the day is) that they come after.  It might be the smell of living human being that lures them.  I don’t know which it is and I don’t try to take all day figuring it out.  I’m not a zombie expert and it doesn’t matter to me what they’re after as long as I can keep my self safe.  Still, I’m not taking chances and I set out to get things done.

    I am fast to get the deer skinned. I don’t waste time by throwing the skins into a big tub full of water and bleach that I’d prepared before I went hunting.  Next, I slice away as much meat as I can, not paying any attention to what cut goes where.  I’m just trying to get it done so that I can go outside and pour gasoline all over the bloody spots and light it on fire.  I’m not worried about a forest fire, though, because it’s too wet out.

    I go about my tasks and don’t see a single walker outside.  I do hear a bear, but I’m not worried about him.  I am relieved that my day is going so well.  For three days, I’ve not seen a single dead guy.

    Five hours later and I’m eating the deer stew that I made out of deer meat, a few cans of vegetables that I’d found in a cellar a week ago, and some potatoes that I dug up from somebody’s forgotten garden. 

    I am thankful to live in a rural area and even more thankful that the rural area just happens to be in the mountains.  It’s relatively safer than cities right now.

    Suddenly I realize that the stew sucks, but I pretend it’s Thanksgiving dinner anyway.  I think today just might actually be Thanksgiving, but I can’t remember.  I think I may have lost count of a few days on the calendar.  Nonetheless, I declare today to be Turkey Day anyhow and I finish my deer stew and then have a helping of odd-tasting mashed potatoes that I’m pretending is pumpkin pie.

    Best damn pumpkin pie I’ve ever eaten, I decide as I spit some of it right back out.

    While I am pretending, I also pretend that is just at work and that he’ll be coming home soon.  In anticipation, I grab my shotgun and look out the window next to the door.  It’s possible he may show up after all and I know that when he does, there’s a good chance I might die.

    On the flipside, death might not be so bad if I get to be with Mike’s reanimated corpse.  Our corpses could run off together and do whatever it is that zombies do when they’re not tearing human beings to bits and shreds.  And if we decide to eat out, we’ll just go human hunting somewhere we’ve never hunted before.

    Did I really just imagine being dead with Mike?

    I take a deep sigh and close my eyes as I keep staring out the window, chastising myself silently for having such silly fantasies.  Mike would kill me.  He wouldn’t give three shits less if we spent the rest of our time on earth as happy corpses together or not.  A walker doesn’t care about other people and from what I’ve gathered they really don’t care about other walkers either, not really.

    I take another deep sigh and sink down into an old wicker chair that sits by the window. Pulling the lacy white curtains back, I shake my head in disbelief. 

    Three days without seeing a walker was a record, but now it’s nothing because there’s about four of them coming out of the woods.

    Damn deer blood…I chastise myself again, then hold my rifle close to my chest as I count to ten as loud as I can. 

    I know they can hear me because they all look like they still have their ears attached and as I count, I swear one of them cracked a rotten smile my way.  Then again, that may have been just some flesh rotting and moving around on its face. 

    I pretend he was smiling anyhow because I think to myself that it would be fun to shoot a smiling revenant.  With that thought in mind, I cock my rifle and kick the door open with the notion that I just might return the zombie’s smile with one of my own. 

    And by the way, about four actually means seven and counting
    I widen my smile and as I dart down the three front steps, I open fire.  They keep coming at me, gnarling and growling and whining.  I call it whining because that’s basically what it is.  A low, fierce, hungry whine, very similar to a child who wants a toy that he knows he can’t (or shouldn’t) have. 

    After shooting and killing three of them, I miss the fourth, then hit the fifth and sixth.  That leaves two walkers chasing me while I reload and curse to myself for wasting bullets on missing.

    Over the last six months, since the outbreak happened, I’ve gotten incredibly good at running while reloading.  Or running while thinking of where to go next or what to do when I got to wherever it was that I was thinking of going. 

    One of the walkers, a male, probably dead only a week, grabs me out of nowhere.  I had thought I was further ahead than what I really was.  I turn around and ram the rifle through his somewhat soft chest and pull it out again, but he’s so close and his fingers are digging into the sleeves of my hoodie.  Miraculously, I get away with my rifle and shoot him between his filmy eyes.  He falls and the other one catches up to me, but I quickly shoot him, too.

    I spend the rest of my night decapitating the fallen walkers and burning their bodies with my rifle at my side.  I don’t see any more of them all night long, so I take that as a good omen and I lock up and go to bed for a few hours.  Tomorrow I might look for any other survivors, but I have a horrid feeling that I'm the only living human being left on earth...Everyone else is a zombie or dead. Or both. Whatever.



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