• Zombie Fiction Thread
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Doe anyone have any good zombie fiction stories that they'd like to share? I've got 3 and like to share it with you. Can't get the rest after the third though. Here's part 1: The Rise of the Dead: Part I The day started normally by American standards. In the subdivisions, kids and haggard parents were running out of their dreary little houses and into massive vans before driving through miles of identical buildings to schools and work. At the old farmlands, cocks crowed as the first rays of sunlight broke the darkness, as many an elderly farmer blearily stumbled to a tractor. And in the cities, cars had already packed the twisting maze of roads threading through hamburger joints, gas stations, and towering offices that had long since replaced the town houses and family shops of old. Unbeknownst to the residents of those realms, a crisis that would be the largest and most devastating in human history was brewing. Many would be dead by nightfall. At 2:39 AM, I stumbled into the lockerroom and swapped my stained green clothing for a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The stains had come from a small child who had a rather nasty bout of the flu, made worse by a panicked mother who had given her ipecac after seeing a half-open box of rat poison in the garage where the kid had been playing. As usual, she wanted about 30 different highly expensive and totally useless tests for that situation she had heard of on TV. While musing over the events of the night, I stuffed my textbooks and papers into a duffel bag. I was in medical school, training to be a ER Physician, and halfway through the eight year journey to get a degree. As of that point, I was considered competent enough to observe the real docs examine and operate on patients, lending the occasional hand or running a sample to the lab when necessary, but not enough to operate on anything that didn’t reek of formaldehyde. Five minutes later, I was shuffling out of the ER toward my motorbike. Just as I passed the massive sign labeled Emergency Room, an ambulance nearly ran me over. The driver slammed on the brakes seconds before he would have smashed through the glass doors, then hopped out and sprinted toward the back of the vehicle, shouting into his radio. He then jacked open the door leading to the compartment housing the patient and another paramedic. Often, the calls were false alarms, the chest pains not being a heart attack, or people just calling the ambulance to hitch a ride to the hospital, but I could tell this was the real deal. The doors swung open to reveal a shrieking latino man of roughly 20, thin trails of blood running down his face. He was strapped tightly onto the table, and from the scratches, bites, and vomit on the paramedic inside, I could understand why. While I looked on, he vomited hot chunks of meat and blood onto the ceiling. The paramedic immediately shoved a vacuum that the patient began to bite and gnaw on within seconds. The medic flipped a switch, and began to suck the vile fluid from the patient’s mouth with the newly dented and pierced hose. I heard a crash, and glanced up from the ambulance to see a group of men and women in scrubs running toward us. They reached the vehicle, and began to roll out the rocking stretcher. After a few seconds, in which another blast of vomit splattered two of the staff, they had the stretcher rolling through the glass doors and into the ER. While I nervously began to ease away, one of the paramedics poured alcohol on the bites and scratches. Minutes later, I was gunning my Honda down the freeway before pulling into the lot of a ramshackle set of apartments on the outskirts of town. Before 3:30, I was fast asleep. I was awakened at 6:13 by a phone call from one of the head physicians. “Mark, we’ve got quite a situation here at the hospital. Dozens of patients are pouring in with severe trauma from bites and a few gunshots. I know we don’t call students in for helping with patients, but this is a crisis if I’ve ever seen one. Hurry!” Groaning, I fell out of the bed and grabbed some pants before running into the bathroom. Pocketing a knife, lighter, and my wallet, I slid into my old leather jacket and opened the door to the parking garage before hopping onto the Honda and kick starting the engine. A thick layer of stagnant fog was draped across the collection of dingy buildings and ruins that made up my area. A police siren blared nearby, and I glanced up to see four patrol cars racing down the dusty street across the chainlink fence separating the apartments from the nearby gas station. Police presence was something I was used to, living in a pretty rough neighborhood, but I’d never seen more than two at the same time. Something was not right. Then, the wind shifted. The acrid funk of burning plastic and chemicals assaulted my nose. Whatever was happening was spinning out of the control of authorities. I stomped the bike into third gear and sped down the street in the direction opposite of the police cars. Three blocks down, I saw two people, a black teenager and a elderly white man chasing a screaming young woman through the small front yards several of the rundown old shacks sported. I slowed down, trying to determine what was going on, just in time to hear gunfire and see a trio of quarter sized holes appear on the chest of the teen. That was my cue to leave. An increasing feeling of dread and panic descended over me as I blasted full throttle away from the killing and toward the hospital. Things only became worse from there. I had barely made it a quarter of a mile, gunfire and screams getting louder and louder, before running into a police roadblock. Two cruisers were parked in the middle of the street, blocking nearly the entire path. Four policemen and women were crouched behind the cars, with a white-knuckled grip on their M16s and Remingtons. I parked the bike, leapt off, and quickly walked over to a elderly officer smacking a mag into his Beretta. “Officer, what the hell is going -” “DROP TO THE FLOOR NOW!” When one is given an order by a fellow who has more firepower than possessed by most developing nations aimed at them, obedience is generally what first comes to mind. I heard some footsteps, felt a hand run along my jacket, and heard a woman said “He’s clear, get up.” Shaking, I stood up and nervously looked at the old officer. He gave me an apologetic glance, and began to speak. “Sorry, we can’t take any chances after what happened this morning.” I was about to ask what was going on again, but froze when I saw the officer’s eyes widen and a pale color wash over his face. “Get behind the cars. Don’t ask why, just do it.” Needing no encouragement, I was soon crouching behind one of the cars, next to the old officer and a young cop who looked almost as terrified as I did. “Stay low. This will only take a few seconds.” A few inarticulate gurgles and shrieks reached our position, their creators out of view. Suddenly, I heard the patter of what sounded like dozens of footsteps from behind the collection of buildings I had recently passed. A loud *clack-clack* rang out as the shaking man next to be jacked the pump on his 12 gauge. The old officer stood up, pulled out a loudspeaker, and shouted “This is the Police! Halt!” A wave of shrieks, moans, and roars echoed in response. I glanced over the hood of the car, and saw a sight that made my blood run cold. About 20 men, women, and children of all ages and creed were approaching, some crawling, others shuffling along, and most disturbingly, about half of them sprinting. They were all soaked in different quantities of blood and vomit, some missing fingers, hands, and noses, with one crawling along on a ragged stump of a leg that left a trail of thick blood behind it. The elderly officer nodded to the other cops, and picked up an M16 that was leaning against the car door. The mutilated humans were about 50 yards away when the first officer squeezed the trigger of his rifle. A three round burst created two crimson blossoms on the chest of a runner, the last round causing his head to explode. He crashed into the ground, brain and bone splattered everywhere, before being trampled by his brethren. A wave of buckshot and 5.56mm smashed into the mob, causing many to topple lifelessly into the pavement. The panicked rookie next to me fired his shotgun as rapidly as he could pump it, sending many shots wild, though several downed a runner or two. Though the gunfire had a devastating affect, it was obvious that the officers could never stop the surge of attackers rounding the corners of the buildings ahead. I saw perhaps 100 before realizing that the police were all gone. I jerked my head around and saw the four officers sprinting down the street. I locked eyes with the old officer as he spun around and emptied a mag into the crowd. “Run godammit! We can’t hold ‘em back!” he shouted. A blast of panic cut through nearly all thoughts. Grabbing the Beretta the old man had discarded for the M16, I ran at lightning speed, gibbering frantic prayers and curses while wishing that I was anywhere but the city. As I rounded the corner of another dreary block, mob still in pursuit, a burst of gunfire cracked into the pavement near my feet. A few hundred yards away, about half a dozen Humvees surrounded and manned by men and women in National Guard uniforms began to fire. I bolted and nearly smashed through the glass doors of the gas station. Knocking over a rack of chips, I accelerated, muscles screaming with exhaustion, toward the restrooms at the back. I pushed through the door to the men’s room and ran to the last stall on the row. Slamming the door behind me, I huddled in the corner, weeping and gasping for breath. Through the walls, I could feel a series of heavy vibrations followed by massive explosions, while screaming and the roar of machine guns filled the air. After a few seconds of this hell that felt like ages, I fainted. Sorry for the long read, just the way the stories' set out. Please, share your favourites and created stories. [highlight](User was banned for this post ("Wrong Section" - RayvenQ))[/highlight]
Just wondering, where did that one in the OP come from?
Pretty neat story, good read.
yea, I read it all the way through, doesn't happen with me much.
[QUOTE=VassikinX3;16280748]Just wondering, where did that one in the OP come from?[/QUOTE] Dunno what you're talking about. Here's the second after good feedback: The Rise of the Dead: Part II Ages later, I awoke. The lights were all out. The room was dead silent. Groaning, I rose from the cold floor and stretched. The only noise I could hear was the steady drip of water from the faucets in the corner. I fumbled in the darkness for a moment and pulled out my lighter. Once struck, it provided a dim island of light surrounded by pitch black. I cautiously eased open the stall door, the cold steel of the Beretta clenched firmly in my grip. After a quick visual sweep, the room proved to be clear. I stumbled over to a sink, splashed water across my face, and then took a long drink. Then, my eyes wandered over to the door leading to the rest of the gas station. With shaking hands, I undid the latch and let a blast of blinding light enter the restroom. I dipped my head out the door. It appeared to be at sunrise. Racks of food, tools, and a cooler filled with drinks were all that I could see. Relaxing somewhat, I stepped outside and at a crouch began to shuffle toward the shelves nearest to me, careful to avoid the light from the broken window I had slammed through. I slipped a few batteries into a torch, pocketed a roadmap of the county, and then stuffed my pockets with a few candy bars. Just as I was approaching a box of Poptarts, something squished underfoot. A glance downward revealed a lump of unrecognizable meat. I flicked on the flashlight, and played it along the floor ahead. A thick trail of blood and viscera led to behind the counter of the shop. I slowly walked over, and looked behind it. A bald, pudgy man lay facedown on the floor, clothes soaked with red. A horrifyingly damaged leg was revealed, cracked pieces of bone visible. Biting back a scream, I almost ran out of the shop before noticing an odd gleam on a shelf below the register. The torchlight played across a short double barreled shotgun, a box of shells sitting next to it. I tried to hold my breath as I reached and nabbed it. I pocketed the Beretta, and slung the shotgun over my shoulder. I was just about to go back into the restroom when I heard a gunshot. Judging it to be a few blocks to the south, and thus within reach, I quickly stepped outside of the broken window and saw a scene of utter mayhem. The street was saturated in torn clothing, chunks of meat, and crimson pools. Congealed blood ran in the gutters. The scent made me want to vomit, but I forced myself to look away from the charnel house and to the direction the shot had came from. Ahead, shell casings glinted in the sunlight around a series of sandbags and the marks of burnt rubber. A solitary corpse, a mutilated woman in camouflage, was draped over an empty machine gun nest. I was startled by the sound of a static filled radio buzzing to life on the corpse. “Dustoff to Fort Pastor needed for Charlie…” “…..er. Proceed to LZ at…. “…berm around the NG Armory has been breached…declaring free fire zone…” “…load into APCs and proceed to Fort Pastor…10th Mountain…provide cover..” “…requesting immediate dust-off to Pastor! We are being overrun…” I could barely understand the jargon, but the tone of desperation in their voices was unmistakable. I hesitated for a moment, then eased the radio off the dead woman’s belt. A few seconds later, I was walking down the sidewalk toward the first gunshot. I rounded the corner of the street to see a Hispanic man lying facedown in the road, a massive hole through his skull. The pool of blood was still spreading, so the other survivor was close. I heard an odd click, then a window slid open on a old two story house across the street, nestled between a few oaks. A withered hand, waved frantically, gesturing for me to get over there. I was at the door in an instant, and heard it unlock. It swung open to reveal a haggard old man clutching a massive rifle. He grabbed my arm and yanked me inside before relocking the door. “What in God’s name were you doing out there?!? Have you lost your mind?” I was about to reply when he spoke again. “Sorry, where are my manners! I’m Everett. You?” “Mark.” He led me up a creaky set of stairs to the second floor, where I saw a rifle, jug of water, and a set of binoculars lying against the windowsill in a small bedroom. On the bed, a few ragged boxes of ammunition sat. “I’ve been holed up here for a few days. If you just fire one shot, they usually cannot judge where it is coming from. My old Garand hasn’t seen this much use since Normandy.” He tossed me the shorter rifle, which he called an M1 Carbine, and a few magazines. We talked for a few minutes, where I learned more about what exactly had happened. “It started about three days ago, I guess. The TV said there was rioting in New Orleans, Los Angeles, Chicago, Miami, and even places like Paris and London. Next thing you know, it began here. Now, I’ve seen more than my fair share of violence in my days, but this was almost worse than The Big One. People were going crazy and killing each other. Some even reported that they had risen from the dead. I’ve seen that old flick by that, eh, what’s his name, Romeo, fellow before, but they were nothing like that. Sure, some of them walked around as if they were on a Sunday stroll, but others were like greased lightning. The speed freaks will go down if you pop ‘em anywhere, but the shufflers have to be nailed in the head. Don’t ask me why, that’s what the TV said, and so fair, it works. Now what about you?” I told him a little about my medical training, and what had happened to me over the past few days. When I concluded, he slapped my shoulder and began to speak again. “I’ve been running somewhat low on supplies, and was going to set off tomorrow morning for the countryside. If you’d like to join me, you’re welcome to.” I said that I would go, and he seemed very pleased by that. He pulled down a hatch and slowly climbed a ladder into his attic. I was nearly bonked in the head by the first backpack he tossed down. “’bout time these old souvenirs came to some good use.” he muttered. I went up after him, and watched as he cracked open a chest and dumped half a dozen clips for the Garand into a jacket. He waved over at a cabinet, which I opened to reveal a few old military helmets, one with an odd spike at the top, and two bayonets. One snapped onto the end of my carbine, and I handed the other to Ev, who quickly placed it on the end of the Garand’s barrel. While I loaded the weapons and piled some clothes and food into the backpacks, he went downstairs and came up with a armful of medicines. Humming a vaguely recognizable hymn, Ev poured the medicines into his pack before zipping it shut. ”We’ll leave first thing in the morning. If you hear anything moving around, wake me up.” I plopped onto a pile of blankets next to his bed and gently placed the carbine and Beretta against a nightstand. I was asleep within moments, though the dreams were anything but restive. I'll upload number 3 as soon as I get good responses.
Nice setting, but if you're planning on going anywhere with it, you'll definitely want to flesh it out with descriptions and more detailed character development.
[QUOTE=AuoraWolf;16281073]Dunno what you're talking about. [/quote] I mean did you write it, or is it from a site\book\whatever
3rd part NAO!
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