Not all will find this hilarious,
Except those few who share the sense of humor.
Many may not believe the inspiration is from true events,
Perhaps some few who've shared this draft will smile with knowing.
May all others smile, imagining.
This is satire dark and dry...
I watched it all.
“The zombie apocalypse will not be sudden.”
If Jason Armstrong heard his companion’s remark it did not show. He continued to stare ahead, eyes fixated and strained. He grasped the pommel with a sweaty hand. He settled the sight on one of them, squeezing the trigger. At the single clap his target toppled over beyond the instantaneous blur of the muzzle flash.
There were too many of them.
In the dingy light a tangle of the shamblers advanced staggering, crawling, clawing their way up the corridor. One or two more joined them from the doors that lined the tiled walls to either side. Jason and his companion responded to the advance with precision to conserve ammunition. A kind of mirage wavered above the horde of their enemies. It may have been heat, cold, putrefaction—who knew? They fired, managing a backpedaling retreat to the opposite end of the corridor.
“’Cause of the energy drinks….” the explanation dwindled from the young man at Jason’s side as his mind favored flight to speech. “…all the caffeine.”
The gloved hand cycled the action to work loose a potential jam—but there was no obstruction. “I’m out, man.” He discarded the weapon. He noticed Jason do the same after pouring his last rounds into the mob. “Wait, you too?”
“Not yet. Get behind me, dude,” Jason said, producing the sawed-off shotgun. After a couple parting shots they turned and raced to the door. They encountered another one as they bounded flights of stairs to the ground floor. It wore a sparse mat of patchy hair atop its head and the filthy tatters of a familiar canvas jacket. Its emaciated hand clutched at them from a hole midway in the arm. The rest of the overlong sleeve swung about its knees. A sturdy buckle jingled like a bell from the end of a wide leather belt on that sleeve. The other arm, out of sight, remained inside its own sleeve slung under the pit of the first arm and around back, held fast by faithful straps. The free arm sought to draw them into the thing’s maw as it stumbled toward them. It seemed a hideous, hungry cave of broken teeth pegged in receding gums as withered and grey as the rest of the flesh that covered its body; if you could call it “flesh” or a “body.” It cried a note that was at once a hiss and howl. Jason sighted between its limp eyes, whited with cataracts. The head split asunder in a pulpy spray. The cluster of ammunition that passed through the target shattered tiles off the wall behind it.
They ran on before it had even fallen to its knees. They burst from the stairwell into a room that looked like a lobby after a riot.
“Ran.” Jason’s voice was tight.
“What?” his compatriot answered.
“What are you doing? We need to get out in the open.”
“There are grenades over here.”
“Leave ’em. Follow me.”