Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬

 

[1] The Cranberries “Zombie”

[2] 45 Grave “Party Time”

 

Damn those infernal zombies. It’s about time somebody taught the undead some etiquette. I have been trapped here for over a week in this old unused missile silo out in the middle of nowhere. My colleagues have all been eaten and many of them have returned from their shallow graves just to bulk up numbers some more. Right now I am outnumbered by around 10,000-1 and have long since run out of options. I know the exact method of dispatch, separate the brain from their spinal column, and on paper it sounds like a cinch. If they come at me in single file then I have no doubt I could kick some rotting ass but alas they congregate in numbers.

There are three bullets left in my chamber and then I’m down to wits alone. I have considered doubling up the body count with a well-aimed ricochet but that still leaves the odds tidily stacked in their favor. I’m now beginning to rue not keeping up with The Walking Dead as that would’ve provided me with a greater understanding of how to evade their chomping gnashers. I guess I’m done for, yesterday’s news and tomorrow’s sushi. However I’ll be damned if I’m letting a single one of them sink their incisors into my rump, I would rather nominate one of these bullets for the center of my forehead than let them get their way.

I hear them scratching right now, sniffing my grey matter from the other side of the door and desperate to chow down. Means of entertaining myself are severely limited as my iPhone charger is back in Lab 7 so instead I have been partaking in a good old-fashioned hootenanny. They really are a formidable choir, groaning their grunge while I provide any falsetto. Any hopeful yelps on my part have been in vain as I’m the only living soul in attendance. I guess I should be thankful I’m not above ground as reports have it that the outbreak is global. The cavalry certainly isn’t coming, there can be no easy win in this situation outside of emptying that chamber into my own cranium.

I just don’t think I have it in me to pull the trigger. What if they grew weary and my coast became clear? I have to hang onto some form of hope, no matter how diminutive. Perhaps my cerebellum would not be to their liking, maybe I could stroll on out and they’d leave me be and go about their business unfettered. It may seem a little like clutching at straws but you try sitting here defenseless while the hordes impatiently rally outside. It’s no fun you know. Being eaten has to be my least preferred manner in which to meet my maker, not what you would call an easy or quick death.

I hope I give them the runs. At this juncture I’m resigned to the fact that, sooner or later, I’m going to be sliding down their gullets so, with any luck, I will be of troublesome digestion and will wreak havoc with their stomach acids. Actually that gives me something to smile about, the queue for the rest room would be off-the-chain and they’d have to suffer the further indignity of sharting their smalls as they awaited their turn. If my last action is to provide stomach cramps for the undead then at least I’m going out with some sort of bang, more of a rectal splutter but anyhoots, the last laugh will be mine.

Shit particles, I have just had another consideration. If I let them get their way then I too will end up a mindless drone and I don’t fancy an eternity walking the Earth tracking down brain food. It seems a fairly banal existence if you ask me, zombies are hardly conversationalists and their repertoire consists of little more than “ugh”. Where is the stimulation going to come from? There is always the outside chance that I could fall in love, after a few months of decomposition perhaps I will start to find it all strangely alluring and settle down with Norma, the zombie bride with the pearl necklace and matching ankle bracelet. Copulation would likely be a messy affair and I’d have to wear two condoms although, by that point, potential infection probably won’t seem such a big deal.

Time is beginning to run out, I can feel the door starting to weaken and, at this rate, they’ll have it off its hinges before too long. To them I’m just another meal ticket and supper time is nigh. If I were to have some meaningful last words then I guess now would be the time to state them. Despite a million thoughts running through my soon-to-be snacked upon mind I am struggling to come up with anything particularly poignant. I could hit them with “Zowie” but have a feeling it will fall on deaf ears. There’s also “please don’t eat me” but, again, it’s unlikely to stop them in their tracks. There has to be something meaningful I can fire as a parting shot, it seems so sad not to make one last statement before I become worm meal.

If the situation was appearing untenable before then it’s royally fucked now. There has been a breach and, whilst frantically attempting to board up the fresh opening, I received a bite on the hand. I can already feel the toxins coursing through my veins and know that there is only one conclusion in such circumstances. In a matter of minutes I will be lobotomized too, destined only to shuffle, and in the same boat as my new-found fan club. Those three bullets are looking more appealing now as I wish only to go out in my own chosen manner and not at the flesh-shredding hands of our zombie friends. It need only take one shot, I may not be a marksman, but point-blank range even I could not miss the target. I played enough Time Crisis to know how to bust a cap, if only I could get the safety off.

So hungry. I’ve lost all feeling in my right arm and holding my firearm now poses something of a conundrum. I think I may have pondered too long, all that’s left now is to wait for the inevitable. All I can think about now is food, a light appetizer should do it, maybe just a thigh or breasts. There’s no reason to bolt the gate and head straight for the skull. Maybe I’m only partially infected, I could become vegetarian instead and head straight for the nearest Alfresco. Denied, I’m just too much of a carnivore and the vision of a prime rib dripping in sinew is just to alluring. I’ll just eat enough to line my stomach.

They’re inside now. Those fortifications could withstand no more and a dozen of the bleeders have already made their way inside. Curiously, they seem disinterested in me now that they’ve gotten here. I must be too far gone already, a cadet, earning my stripes through my steady decomposition. Irony can be most harsh when it wants, I’m surrounded by enough flesh and bone to feed the five thousand but it’s all past expiration. It sucks ass holes being ravenous. What I would do right now for just one plate of fresh gourmet brains. I’m not greedy, these guys have waited longer so just a doggy bag would suffice.

Great, NOW the military arrive on the scene. Thanks guys but I could’ve done with you like an hour ago but at least you can put me out of my misery. I’ve found my shooter and his crosshairs are currently relocating to my brow. His name is Sanchez, his name badge sheds light. He appears nervous, looks like it’s his first time firing a gun. Typical, knowing my luck, he’ll blow off my left ear. Keep it steady Sanchez, you can do it buddy. Release me from my torment please and make it snappy as I can smell your brain already and it’s you or me now. I’m giving you five seconds before I lunge, make them count rookie. Five…four…left a bit…three…two…up slightly, remember your training soldier…one…safety son, safety. There you go. Ouch, my fucking ear. It’s alright, go again. Finally.

It’s amazing how many things fly through your mind at the moment before it exits your head. I never did get to watch The Walking Dead, I think I left the grill on at home, I wonder how many sweaters Bill Cosby owns. Looks like I will never get the answers now, Sanchez hit pay-dirt with second shrapnel and time appears to have slowed to a crawl while I contemplate the mysteries of the universe. Any pain is subsiding, my hunger has dissipated and release is imminent. There is the light, I’m shuffling towards it now and I can no longer feel the bullet tearing through my cranium. My guess is seven – a Cosby sweater for each day of the week. Norma? Don’t forget me. Oh. She already did. Bitch!

Click here to read My Ghoul