DIary of the undead: A Tale of the zombie apocalypse

        Incessant upon the glass pane of the door, was the eerily monophonic thud of half-rotted skulls, accompanied by the varying harmonies of guttural groans and the piercing tone of overgrown fingernails attempting to produce an entrance.  The aforementioned conditions had persisted, nigh continuously, for the equivalent of what had seemed a lifetime; however, the true stretch of time rested at twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes.  Four more lengthy minutes would mark the duration of a day, since the heralding of the disastrous consequences of an experiment gone-awry: what had begun as a governmental exercise into the development of neurogenesis within the tissues of proclaimed “dead” brains, lovingly dubbed “Project Frankenstein” by its supporters, had transformed into an event of epidemic proportions.  Within hours of the resuscitation of its first twelve benefactors, the dozen undead had transformed into an unholy hoard of inherently agitated corpses—galloping after and effectively infecting their unfortunate victims.  Without a doubt, the thirteenth of October in the year 2042, would live in infamy within the minds of its survivors; however, at the moment, little time afforded the designation of much thought into the historical importance of this fearful Friday.  As, beyond the door, one of the specimens emitted an unearthly howl, foremost in all minds was the solitary concern—how were the prey to survive the inevitable attack of these fierce predators?

     Of the possible locations for one to be stranded, the colorful walls of a recently deserted art studio could, perhaps, appear to be the most poorly equipped of all; nevertheless, this proved to be quite untrue.  Upon closer inspection of its contents, the building yielded an interesting array of rather useful objects, to be utilized in the impending conflict with the carnivorous cadavers—multiple craft knives, carving tools, hammers, rubber mallets and various flammable objects, such as rubber cement, formed the more volatile components, with less caustic elements, such as salt, alcohol, and limited microwaveable food provisions, composing the remainder.  Much could be performed with these simple objects, and much was to be attempted.

     With an unspoken resolve, the three of us—my father, mother, and myself—commenced our defensive efforts.  Following a keen course my mother had set forth shortly after catching sight of the first mangled creature, we labored, tirelessly, in the creation of both dummies for decoying the dead and makeshift weaponry for detaining them.  Although our hurried hands possessed little skill in fine details, the resulting forms were satisfactory enough: from a distance, surely, the mindless corpses would mistake these mannequins as their prey.  Even if the attempt proved futile, only a few minutes of belief were requisite, for the efficiency of our bombardment to come to pass.  Upon our planned overwhelming of the hoard, we reasoned to set the building aflame, after having coated it in every flammable substance retrievable.  Our woes, however, had only just begun.

     In the midst of our assembling these sculptures atop chairs, the formerly steady moaning intensified—transforming into a deathlike war cry; at the same moment, a withered hand thrust itself through a newly formed crevice, a flake of rotting flesh crumbling onto the floor beneath.  Our escape plan had been, abruptly, hastened: twenty-four hours had created an untamable vengeance within these undead.  Feverishly, we stumbled to accomplish the final aspects of our scheme.  With swift motions, each decoy was firmly planted and each person armed with a weapon of sorts— all the while, the raucous brood persisted, smashing every shard of glass in its wake.  Mere seconds, now separated our throbbing hearts from their stilled ones. 

     Only the ominous glow of the midnight moon served to enlighten the scene, as the final remnants of the door sprinkled the grey carpet beneath.  Without hesitation, the phantoms seized upon the fortunate circumstances: a disorderly band of men, women, and children stumbled among themselves, for the privilege of holding the first chance at devouring the long-awaited, succulent feast.  Blinded by fear and hastened by resolve, we commenced our treacherous overwhelming of the ranks.  Zombies to the left, zombies to the right— onward persisted our motley three into the brooding uncertainty of the face of death.

 


Coming Soon

Pardon our lack of content.  Intriguing fictional adventures are being created.


Coming Soon

Pardon our lack of content.  Intriguing fictional adventures are being created.

Imaginary people are the best kinds of people.
— Z.S. Walker