The choice between being lunch to the undead and a spider hole was not an easy one.
ooooo
Mark covered his nose with his arm, the stench of rotting flesh striking him like a solid thing. He dry heaved over the side, but nothing fell upon the walking corpses reaching up for him. Their fingertips barely brushed the concrete just a foot below, but he certainly did not feel any safer for that.
With a glance he made a quick body count, and the frightening additions had him scrambling. He balanced his steps, clinging his toes to the rubbery sneakers that gripped the top of the cinder block wall, and leaped off to the adjoining drainage structure.
He heard the moans of want and the ragged hisses of those without much flesh as he moved, and felt the hair on his arms rise. He darted his eyes back for a moment, and saw the bony tip of fingers ripping at the stone.
There were more of the shambling slow moving --things-- now. There were more gathering with every passing hour, and the sun was setting. It was only a matter of time before the unthinking things somehow found a way to reach him up here, in this no man's land between planned communities built nearly atop one another.
The way was an easy walk as wide as a normal walkway, once one bothered to climb up the first ten foot section of wall. He knew it well as his personal playground, having run along it for years.
The flood drain of stepped gardens and cultivated backyards lead here, and flowed down all the way to the river. That was why he rushed along. He had to reach it in time to maybe somehow block it off from the dead things, to make it a sanctuary for the living. At least for the night.
The entrance still resembled a decaying concrete barrel lying on its side, with a rusted jagged mesh exposed like dried bones on a dead fish. Mark narrowed his eyes as he walked up to the shadowed maw, and cringed down into a leaning squat as he ducked his neck low.
He swallowed as his empty stomach seemed to drop to the earth's core.
From the fine clingy drapery that never failed to weave its way across his path, to the varmit's sprawling many, too many, hairy legs, spiders just always gave Mark the creeps. The cracks that he could see within the crawl space formed pockets and gaps that he knew spiders just loved.
He looked over his shoulder, almost longingly, and spied a scraping hand gouging a grip into the top of the wall. For a moment, he felt envy of them, for the dead did not have to face such things as these vile, skittering creatures.
Without so much as a "pop", the meat gave way with a sudden jerk, breaking the rotten arm off right at the wrist, and Mark's definition of the word "vile" solidly changed.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Showing posts with label zombies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label zombies. Show all posts
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Zombies
Today, I woke up in the garage.
I gazed a while at the shadows, slumped and sweaty, tracing the rafters with my eyes. The tiniest shift of my hand moved the rest of whatever I was on, and by the sloshing sound beneath my ear, I soon worked out that I lay on a water mattress.
Only I had no idea how I had gotten there. And. Frankly. As lazy as I am, it was too stinking hot for even me to sleep any longer.
I turned my head and narrowed my eyes. The massive wooden door where the front is was gone, leaving a gaping maw wide open. Sunlight, all cheery and yellow, filter in through an area which I had mistaken for high set windows for some reason. Even in the shadows I could tell a gob of mattresses blocked the space up like a log jam.
I got up and moved one aside. It wasn't easy to do, as there was hardly any give the to thick padded behemoth. I opted to shimmi my way through between the layers, making my way into the hot summer sun much like a worm would through wet soil. I wish I could say it was easy going, but it wasn't. The heat, my grumbling belly, and sticky sweaty skin combined until I worked myself into a rotten foul mood.
I poked my head up to the last of the thick layers with a snarl. It was a rusted carcass of metal wires and coiled springs, stripped of its quilting. It reminded me much of the decayed skeleton of some ancient beast.
But beyond it was a sight the sent my stomach plunging to icy depths.
Shambling along, with rotten skin clinging to bones were things that weren't supposed to move. Zombies, my heated brain whispered, and I spied a few with shiny bits in place of arms. One even had a sheet of metal bolted roughly where his chest should have been, and the gory mess clamored across the long drive way.
Great. Robot zombies, my brain corrected.
I took in a startled breath as one, with bone tiped fingers and raw meat for a face, looked right at me. Eyes wide, I scutttled back as he swept his reaching hand a might too close for my comfort to my face.
Granted he was ten feet away, but that was close.
They moaned and groaned for hours, but the mattresses proved an effective barrier as I cowered low in a spider infested corner of the heated dark.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
I gazed a while at the shadows, slumped and sweaty, tracing the rafters with my eyes. The tiniest shift of my hand moved the rest of whatever I was on, and by the sloshing sound beneath my ear, I soon worked out that I lay on a water mattress.
Only I had no idea how I had gotten there. And. Frankly. As lazy as I am, it was too stinking hot for even me to sleep any longer.
I turned my head and narrowed my eyes. The massive wooden door where the front is was gone, leaving a gaping maw wide open. Sunlight, all cheery and yellow, filter in through an area which I had mistaken for high set windows for some reason. Even in the shadows I could tell a gob of mattresses blocked the space up like a log jam.
I got up and moved one aside. It wasn't easy to do, as there was hardly any give the to thick padded behemoth. I opted to shimmi my way through between the layers, making my way into the hot summer sun much like a worm would through wet soil. I wish I could say it was easy going, but it wasn't. The heat, my grumbling belly, and sticky sweaty skin combined until I worked myself into a rotten foul mood.
I poked my head up to the last of the thick layers with a snarl. It was a rusted carcass of metal wires and coiled springs, stripped of its quilting. It reminded me much of the decayed skeleton of some ancient beast.
But beyond it was a sight the sent my stomach plunging to icy depths.
Shambling along, with rotten skin clinging to bones were things that weren't supposed to move. Zombies, my heated brain whispered, and I spied a few with shiny bits in place of arms. One even had a sheet of metal bolted roughly where his chest should have been, and the gory mess clamored across the long drive way.
Great. Robot zombies, my brain corrected.
I took in a startled breath as one, with bone tiped fingers and raw meat for a face, looked right at me. Eyes wide, I scutttled back as he swept his reaching hand a might too close for my comfort to my face.
Granted he was ten feet away, but that was close.
They moaned and groaned for hours, but the mattresses proved an effective barrier as I cowered low in a spider infested corner of the heated dark.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Long life..
A/n: Happy Mother's day!!
--oo--
Number 115 was a boxy sad affair of a trailer house, with avocado paint, of a shade not seen for at least two decades, peeling off the sagging siding.
Marge let herself in, and strode into the small kitchen, sucking on the inside of her cheek. She glanced at the stacks glossy magazines on the round kitchen table, and placed her case binder and car keys next to her cup of tea on a relatively clear spot at the very edge. She let of a breath as she took up a few pamphlets in her hands, and settled down into a creaky wooden chair.
Her mind was not on the cheerful articles that declared miracle cures, or amazing ways to melt off the extra pounds gathering about her thick middle. No. Her thoughts swirled about the radio program she had listened to intently on her drive over.
Studies say the average life span of marriage is 42 years. This is theorized as men wishing an 18 year old woman in their latter years, rather than the usual complaining shrew most women turn into by age 40.
She looks at the old couple sitting together before the television, glassy eyes staring at the vibrant images flickering across the screen. The volume was up quite high, and nearly made Marge's teeth rattle.
"Hello Mr. and Mrs Smith." She greeted, speaking loud with a tight professional smile stretching her lips. She hoped her voice was louder that the T.V. this time, but it was hard to tell.
She watched the silver head of Mrs.
Smith bounce back, and jerk to life. A turn of the ancient wrinkled neck, and she met the wide vacant eyes sliding her way.
"Oh.. There you are. How are you dear..?" Mrs. Smith greeted, and Marge strained her ears to catch her soft words as the woman spoke in something a normal volume.
"Fine. Can't complain." Marge replied.
"What was that dear..?" Mrs. Smith asked. "You youngun's always mumble.." She muttered as her bushy white brows met at her lined forehead.
"I said, I can't complain!" Marge said, feeling something scrape painfully inside her throat. Her voice had to have been a much louder volume though, for Mrs. Smith smiled a wide pleased smile and a nodded.
Marge leaned over to better see Mr. Smith, and shook her head in disbelief at the silvered head dipped back into the cushions. She eyed his jaw slack and marveled at the thin line of drool dribbling down the stubble sprouting on his chin.
"That man can't hear a thing, can he..?" She said aloud, her own voice a mumble with the terrific cacophony filling her ears.
"What..?" Mrs. Smith replied. "What was that?"
"Nothing!" Marge replied brightly, and darted her gaze back to the open magazine in her hands.
Scientist don't know a thing. Marge thought, and chuckled to herself. I suppose the secret to a long marriage is to live long enough to not be able to hear any complaints.
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
Number 115 was a boxy sad affair of a trailer house, with avocado paint, of a shade not seen for at least two decades, peeling off the sagging siding.
Marge let herself in, and strode into the small kitchen, sucking on the inside of her cheek. She glanced at the stacks glossy magazines on the round kitchen table, and placed her case binder and car keys next to her cup of tea on a relatively clear spot at the very edge. She let of a breath as she took up a few pamphlets in her hands, and settled down into a creaky wooden chair.
Her mind was not on the cheerful articles that declared miracle cures, or amazing ways to melt off the extra pounds gathering about her thick middle. No. Her thoughts swirled about the radio program she had listened to intently on her drive over.
Studies say the average life span of marriage is 42 years. This is theorized as men wishing an 18 year old woman in their latter years, rather than the usual complaining shrew most women turn into by age 40.
She looks at the old couple sitting together before the television, glassy eyes staring at the vibrant images flickering across the screen. The volume was up quite high, and nearly made Marge's teeth rattle.
"Hello Mr. and Mrs Smith." She greeted, speaking loud with a tight professional smile stretching her lips. She hoped her voice was louder that the T.V. this time, but it was hard to tell.
She watched the silver head of Mrs.
Smith bounce back, and jerk to life. A turn of the ancient wrinkled neck, and she met the wide vacant eyes sliding her way.
"Oh.. There you are. How are you dear..?" Mrs. Smith greeted, and Marge strained her ears to catch her soft words as the woman spoke in something a normal volume.
"Fine. Can't complain." Marge replied.
"What was that dear..?" Mrs. Smith asked. "You youngun's always mumble.." She muttered as her bushy white brows met at her lined forehead.
"I said, I can't complain!" Marge said, feeling something scrape painfully inside her throat. Her voice had to have been a much louder volume though, for Mrs. Smith smiled a wide pleased smile and a nodded.
Marge leaned over to better see Mr. Smith, and shook her head in disbelief at the silvered head dipped back into the cushions. She eyed his jaw slack and marveled at the thin line of drool dribbling down the stubble sprouting on his chin.
"That man can't hear a thing, can he..?" She said aloud, her own voice a mumble with the terrific cacophony filling her ears.
"What..?" Mrs. Smith replied. "What was that?"
"Nothing!" Marge replied brightly, and darted her gaze back to the open magazine in her hands.
Scientist don't know a thing. Marge thought, and chuckled to herself. I suppose the secret to a long marriage is to live long enough to not be able to hear any complaints.
Sent via Blackhole
Monday, April 25, 2011
quick...! zombies..!
A/n: In honor of a few things that recently happened-- "zombie jesus day" the fertilizer my friend uncovered in the garage, and my own personal pride of an accomplishment-- all poured into my tired brain and mixed thoroughly.
--oo--
At any other time Mark would have left the old mess alone, but he figured this was an emergency. Mark had no intention of becoming the revived Smith family's next meal.
The old 250 motorcycle sat dully by the rusty container, and Mark quickly found the back tire balding but servicable. The tubes for the gas and brakes fluid were in reasonable condition, and inspite of the clinging clusters of spider nest throughout the chassy, the various vacuum tubes sported no visible cracks.
He turned the cap of the gas tank, and judged the fuel as this side of good. The only problem remained was the pathetic, empty skeleton of the front forks.
Old man Smith was lazy, Mark thought as he gazed at the block box. Maybe he put inside?
The metal door creaked dangerously loud in protest, but it couldn't be helped. Mark frowned and swept his eyes over the various piles, vaguely recalling where the old man had last placed the spare tire he desperately needed.
Palm tree fertilizer. Zombie plague. There has to be. A connection. Mark thought darkly as he regarded the great pile of brightly colored plastic bags. They were stacked neatly in the very back and reached the ceiling, easily towering over the white porcelin dog lamp missing the shade and the pile of discarded encylopedas from 1932.
He quickly found a pile that looked to be mostly "mechanic" things, blocked in by blocky metal tins filled with some mysterious pungent liquid. Mark reached his arms into the back of the pile of rotting newpaper, and felt something round in shape back against the uneven wall. His gloves brushed against a rough surface which reminded him of alligator skin. He wiggled his fingers beneath the promising smoothness of spokes, and yanked the spare free.
To his dismay.. It was not only bald high on the left side, but completely flat. He heard a creak of the metal door behind him, folloed by the shambling sort of footstep the no longer living made.
"Fukk." He breathed, and looked over his shoulder. He gripped the tire firmly and rose to his feet. "I'm fukked..."
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
At any other time Mark would have left the old mess alone, but he figured this was an emergency. Mark had no intention of becoming the revived Smith family's next meal.
The old 250 motorcycle sat dully by the rusty container, and Mark quickly found the back tire balding but servicable. The tubes for the gas and brakes fluid were in reasonable condition, and inspite of the clinging clusters of spider nest throughout the chassy, the various vacuum tubes sported no visible cracks.
He turned the cap of the gas tank, and judged the fuel as this side of good. The only problem remained was the pathetic, empty skeleton of the front forks.
Old man Smith was lazy, Mark thought as he gazed at the block box. Maybe he put inside?
The metal door creaked dangerously loud in protest, but it couldn't be helped. Mark frowned and swept his eyes over the various piles, vaguely recalling where the old man had last placed the spare tire he desperately needed.
Palm tree fertilizer. Zombie plague. There has to be. A connection. Mark thought darkly as he regarded the great pile of brightly colored plastic bags. They were stacked neatly in the very back and reached the ceiling, easily towering over the white porcelin dog lamp missing the shade and the pile of discarded encylopedas from 1932.
He quickly found a pile that looked to be mostly "mechanic" things, blocked in by blocky metal tins filled with some mysterious pungent liquid. Mark reached his arms into the back of the pile of rotting newpaper, and felt something round in shape back against the uneven wall. His gloves brushed against a rough surface which reminded him of alligator skin. He wiggled his fingers beneath the promising smoothness of spokes, and yanked the spare free.
To his dismay.. It was not only bald high on the left side, but completely flat. He heard a creak of the metal door behind him, folloed by the shambling sort of footstep the no longer living made.
"Fukk." He breathed, and looked over his shoulder. He gripped the tire firmly and rose to his feet. "I'm fukked..."
Sent via Blackhole
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
kosher for zombies..revisited
In this dark
Shameful hour
Rotting corpses
Deem devour
Us
Yes
Us
Oh dear
oh dear
Run love run
Don't let them
Come near
Oh wait
what's this
They stumble
And find
A book
The Good Book
Scrawled
Upon the spine
Within
the damp pages
Splashed with
Precious
red liquid
Were listed
all these rules
By which
The undead
Existed
Some burly men
healthy and brave
took flight
just then
alas torn
to their graves
They gawked
We gasped
Some hissed
like an asp
moaning pitiful wails
brimming of doom
for gory details
within the tome
frail women then
took up for us
the horridly thick
omnibus
and tossed it flung it
towards the dead
where it somehow struck
one in the head.
flailing rot
and hoary limbs
fell down hard
and failed
yes failed
to rise again.
and so we stood
sodden
and crazed
and I think
quite a bit
just slightly
amazed.
Some took up arms
so simple
so plain
and the odd shovel
stuck out,
took aim
striking back
and causing trouble.
It wasn't pretty
so please don't frown
the dead can't feel
their broken crowns.
Shameful hour
Rotting corpses
Deem devour
Us
Yes
Us
Oh dear
oh dear
Run love run
Don't let them
Come near
Oh wait
what's this
They stumble
And find
A book
The Good Book
Scrawled
Upon the spine
Within
the damp pages
Splashed with
Precious
red liquid
Were listed
all these rules
By which
The undead
Existed
Some burly men
healthy and brave
took flight
just then
alas torn
to their graves
They gawked
We gasped
Some hissed
like an asp
moaning pitiful wails
brimming of doom
for gory details
within the tome
frail women then
took up for us
the horridly thick
omnibus
and tossed it flung it
towards the dead
where it somehow struck
one in the head.
flailing rot
and hoary limbs
fell down hard
and failed
yes failed
to rise again.
and so we stood
sodden
and crazed
and I think
quite a bit
just slightly
amazed.
Some took up arms
so simple
so plain
and the odd shovel
stuck out,
took aim
striking back
and causing trouble.
It wasn't pretty
so please don't frown
the dead can't feel
their broken crowns.
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