Zombies Want My Brain
Inspired by Single File and that really addicting game, Plants vs. Zombies
~also, I know this isn't entirely Action Fiction, but it will be. Plus, I didn't really know where to put it...
The four of us are ready with our make-shift armor. Max has a pot on his head, the handle sticking out awkwardly, and is ready to kick butt with a crow bar. Roxy is wearing her brother’s old baseball gear from when he was catcher. She holds a baseball bat with two hands, ready for war. Finny has on the various never-been-worn pads his mother bought him ages ago for when he skateboards. In his hands, he grips a flame thrower, although I can’t imagine where he found it. I have a strainer on my head and am wielding a modified potato launcher, and, if I get desperate, I have my dad’s old Swiss army knife.
We have set up sandbags all around the house, dug pits, and rigged booby traps. We have stocked up on amo and supplies. We have checked and double-checked our plan for any errors. We have written our last goodbyes in case this doesn’t end well. We have prepared our offense and our defense. Now we must sit and wait for the attack.
By now you must be wondering what is going on. Well, you will never believe me if I tell you. Hell, I hardly believe it myself. I’ve told myself a hundred times that I am crazy. And then I’ve told myself a thousand times that being crazy is better than being dead.
*******
It is the phone that wakes me that Saturday morning. I try to ignore it at first. “Go away!” I moan into my pillow. Finally, I give in and pick it up and, still groggy with sleep, begin to shout, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, waking me up this early on a Saturday?!”
There is a pause at the other end. “Uhh… Sam? It’s three in the afternoon…” the voice says.
“Exactly my point, Max,” my mouth replies before my brain can think up an answer that actually makes sense.
There is another confused pause.
I try again, “I need my beauty sleep, so if it’s alright with you, I’m hanging up now.” I slam the phone down and roll back over.
Ten minutes later, it rings again.
“WHAT?” I yell into the receiver.
“Sorry,” comes the reply, “but you made me forget what I was going to say. You know you can’t just go off on me because then I forget what I’m going to say.”
That’s kind of the point, I think to myself while he continues on his tangent.
“Max, were you going to tell me something or not?” I interrupt. I don’t mean to be so snippy with him, but I have very little patience in the mornings.
“Right,” he says, “We have a minor problem.”
“I don’t care!” I moan dramatically.
I actually do care, and Max knows it. “Turn on the news,” he tells me.
Awake now, and rather curious, I flip the TV to channel 11, the local station.
The screen fills with a shot of one of those annoyingly pretty girls who put me and my tomboy-self to shame. She is one of those with perfect, naturally blonde hair, never a strand out of place. She gazes stupidly at the camera. “Hi!” she says with too much pep, “I’m Sunny Bor-dee-ox…” She squints and leans towards what is probably a monitor off screen. There is nearly ten full seconds, no joke, before she pops up and says, “Oh, right. I’m Sunny Bordeaux! And you’re watching Channel 11 News!” She is pretty and empty-minded and stands for everything I’m against. Hell, her bra size is probably bigger than her IQ, but I listen anyways.
She speaks urgently, “Today, in our small town of Millcreek, Texas, we seem to be experiencing matters of grave concern.” She giggles, all high-pitched and squeally. The camera cuts to the end of the street where horrid green… things were advancing, very slowly. “Earlier this morning,” she continues, “Graves were being disrupted as zombies broke through the ground and came to life. Yes, you heard me right- zombies.” I stifle a laugh as the camera cuts to a grainy film, no doubt shot by some viewer. It shows a cemetery, peaceful as can be. Then, suddenly, a hand shoots up, straight through the dirt. A woman screams. Then, a head follows the hand. It is green with rot, misshapen; one of its eyes is hanging from the skull. “What the hell?” drawls a voice. The zombie lets out a horrid yell, and is joined by a herd of other zombies, all in various stages of decomposition. The video camera is dropped, and two pairs of feet can be seen fleeing. Then the camera is picked up, and I find myself staring straight into its face; its horrid and decaying flesh fills the screen. I realize that I have stopped breathing. Instead I am staring wild-eyed at the screen in front of me. I take a deep breath.
I am awe-struck for a moment, mesmerized by the impossible picture on the screen. This isn’t real. Max is playing a joke on me because he thinks it’s funny that I’m afraid of dead people. I laugh nervously as I pick up the phone and begin to dial Max’s number. The phone rings once and then Max answers, “Hello?”
I don’t even pause before I begin to hurl accusations at him. “Is this some kind of joke? This is ridiculous! There’s no such thing as zombies. It’s physically impossible for dead people to return to life- IMPOSSIBLE! You’re sick if you think it’s funny to scare me like this! You know I’m afraid of dead people! What is wrong with you?”
Caught up in the moment, I slam the phone down a second time that morning. Then, I just stop and think things through. I try to come up with logical explanations: It was really good special effects, people in costumes, Max hired the Sunny woman. Deep down, I know these are all highly unlikely as Max lacks the resources to pull off a joke of this magnitude. Still my mind searches for a reasonable explanation- anything that would make sense of what I’ve seen today. Nothing. I have come up with nothing.
