Zombie Story

13 10 2010

One day I was sitting on a forum, bored, and so I started writing a story.   I don’t claim to be a good writer, so take it as it is.




Sharon Jonson was sitting in her car, the windows tight, sobbing.  It looked kind of comical, since the car, a battered sedan, was actually up on blocks.  A tire leaned against the front panel, and the contents of Darren’s tool kit were spread across the cement drive.

I tapped on the window and Sharon looked at me, her eyes filled with tears.  I indicated that she roll the window down, but she didn’t seem to understand at first.  I tapped again and she shook her head from side to side, hard.  It was then she lifted the revolver she’d had in her lap and blew her brains all over the interior.

Stunned, I staggered backward, and tripped over the stupid garden gnome someone had given them for Christmas a few years back. I quickly stood and tried the phone again but got nothing.  In frustration and confusion, I dropped it on the grass and stood there like a fool, staring at what was left of Sharon Jonson of 43 Wakes Drive.

Darren coughed and I looked to the house, startled out of my stupor.  He stood slumped in the doorway of their home, a vacant look to his face and covered in blood.

“Jonson!  Darren, are you alright?  Are you hurt?”  I asked.

I headed over to him, around the car and the damndest thing happened; He growled at me and lunged.

I jumped back, and looked around to see if any of the neighbours had come out, but the street was empty but for the two of us, and the late Mrs Jonson.   Darren lurched at me again, and I noticed that he had several bullet holes through his chest.   Christ… she’d shot him!

“Darren!  Its Quinn!  Calm down and I’ll get you some help!  You’ve been shot.  Calm down!”

Unrelenting, he kept coming.  I went to take his arm and to see if I could get him to sit until I could call the paramedics.  He snapped at me.  Full on tried to bite me.

I backed off again and he snarled angrily.  It was an insane sound.  A roar and a hiss all at once.  I’d never heard anything like it in all my life. Whatever it was, it wasn’t Darren Jonson anymore, and it was trying to fucking bite me.

Circling around the car, I maintained my distance, trying to keep it between Darren and myself.  I needed time to think.

The thing that had been my neighbour got to the driver’s side of Sharon’s car and he paused, looking down at the blood covered remains of his wife.  With one tremendous blow, he smashed the glass in the window and let out a bellow.  Then… I was transfixed and disgusted at once… Then he started eating her.  He took a chunk out of her arm and began chewing it like a greasy chicken bone.   That was enough for me.  I picked up the gnome I’d tripped on earlier and smashed it across his face.   He dropped to his knees and I belted him again, and the gnome fell apart in my hands.   He looked up and snarled.  I backed off again, but now I was next to Jonson’s discarded toolbox.  Grabbing a tire iron, I stepped up and swung, trying my best to hit him out of the park.  The iron connected with Jonson’s head with a slap and his head cracked open.   His body remained standing for a moment and then slumped to the ground.  I hit him again for good measure.

I must have stood there for a few seconds, but in times like those, things seem to drag.  Regaining my senses, I headed into the Jonson’s house and picked up their phone.  I wasn’t sure how I’d explain all this, but I’d have to try. Its not every day your neighbour tries to eat you.

The phone was dead.

I needed to get to the cops.  I vaulted the fence that split the Jonson’s from their neighbours.  I’d actually never bothered to learn their name. Frantically, I banged on their door.  I paused a moment, then hammered harder.

Cursing, I gave up after a few minutes and jogged across the street to one of the houses opposite.  Once more, I hammered.   No answer.

“Maybe they’re all at Church…”  I muttered.

Uncertain of what to do next, I stoop on the doorstep for a long minute, shifting from one foot to the other, nervously.  It was an emergency. I kicked the door in and called out.  Silence.

The house was dark, and I turned on the lights near the front door.  They flicked and faded out.  I flicked again and they came on so I looked around for the phone.

“Its Quinn from number 41.  There’s been an accident. I need to use your phone!”

An accident.   Was that what I’d called it?  My neighbour shooting her husband, then herself, then her husband trying to eat her?  And me?  An accident.  I snorted.

The phone was in the kitchen, one of those wall-mounted ones.  I picked it up and hammered the emergency number.   The phone made a weird click-click sound and then went silent.   I tried again with the same result.     I hurled it across the room, and it sprung back at me, cracking me on the forearm when the cord reached its length.   The day wasn’t going well.

I headed upstairs and checked out the rest of the house, but nobody was home.

Out on the street again, I jogged back to the Jonson’s.  I called out.   Someone must be home, damn it… My neighbours aren’t THAT religiously active.

“Where is everyone?”

I leaned against the front of the car, considering my next move.  Clearly, I had to find some kind of law enforcement official.  I’d settle for a fireman at this point.  My neighbours had all up and gone to church and here I was at a murder suicide crime scene.  I should have stayed in bed.

Ned Crearly was coming down the street.  Finally.

I breathed a sigh of relief and waved at Ned.  He was about 67 years old, and constantly wore a blue baseball with his old navy ship stitched across the top.

“Ned!” I cried.  “It’s the Jonsons, they’re dead and none of the phones work.  I need your help.”

Crearly continued toward me, limping up the road.  He’d hurt his leg back when he was in the service, and had retired shortly after.  That was about six years ago, and he’d had to use a cane ever since.   Now, he seemed to have forgotten it.


He lunged.  His spindly arms grappled me and his teeth snapped at my throat.  He seemed remarkably strong, but I was stronger.  I pushed him away and punched him in the face.  It had little effect.  He lunged again but this time I was ready.  I stepped to the side and brought my fists down across his back.  He fell to his knees and he grabbed at my feet.  I slipped up on the front of the car and kicked out, frantically.  Rolling to the side, I came off the edge of the car, and stood.  So did Ned.  I looked around for a weapon, but the tool kit was on the opposite side of the car, along with Ned.   I circled around the back, trying the same tactic I’d done with Jonson, keeping the car between me and Crearly.   He circled with me, leaning across the car now and then, trying to make a grab.

I got to the broken window and Crearly climbed onto the roof of the car.   I hadn’t thought of doing that.  I reached in the broken window and wrenched the pistol from Mrs Jonson’s cold hands.  He lept, and I swung the gun up, squeezing the trigger as I fell backwards.  The bullet slapped into Crealy’s chest and we crashed together into the garden beside the drive, Crearly’s body on top of me.  I shrugged him off and scrambled away.

The gun hung limply from my hand as I tried to catch my breath.

Crearly sat up.  I pointed the gun at him and fired again, frantic.  It fired twice and then clicked- empty.  It was enough.  Crearly lay in the garden and didn’t move again.

The gun fell from my hand and I ran my fingers through my hair.  Blood covered my hands and stained my t-shirt.   I had to go into town.  I had to find the cops.




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