A Short Story on Zombies

March 16, 2013
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Windows break. I awaken immediately when I hear the cacophony of glass crashing to the floor. This is the night I have dreaded ever since I got here. I hear someone clambering their way through the remains of the window, and not so gracefully leaping from the window sill. What kind of burglar makes this kind of racket? Slowly, I slip out of bed, and pull on a pair of jeans hanging on my chair. I leave the shirt alone. Hopefully I will look more intimidating of I am revealing my rippling muscles and bulging biceps. I glance in the mirror and take in my image. Without hesitation I reach over and put my shirt on. With sweaty hands, I grasp my lucky golf club. I hear thumps and crashes from the living room. This burglar is either really stupid, or is really confident. Probably a combination. It feels a lot heavier now that I realise what it’s going to be used for. Quickly, I run through what I should do in my head. Sneak in, flick lights, if they have a weapon, surrender immediately. If not, yell nasty words and threats. If that doesn’t work, advance on the burglar whilst holding the club like a samurai warrior. If that fails to scare them off, follow through with the ‘bluff’ and actually attempt to hurt the burglar. Okay, with that plan in mind I can head out into the lounge. Slowly, hands shaking, I open my bedroom door and step quietly into the hall. I can hear shuffling in the living room, like an old person who can’t quite lift their feet enough to call it a ‘footstep’, but more of a ‘footslide’. Then there is another crashing sound. I jump a little, and try not to wet myself. I creep slowly and not-so-surely down the passage, till I come to the doorway into the lounge. I take a few deep breaths, and place my hand on the switch. One…Two…Three…I suddenly flick the switch, and gasp in surprise when nothing happens. The shuffling stops. I flick the switch back up, then down. Still nothing. I frantically tap at the switch on and off for a few seconds and still nothing is happening. I hear the impostor move a bit quicker, somewhere in the darkness. Do they know? Almost certainly. Suddenly it hits me, and I mentally slap myself. I was hitting the switch for the fan in the dining room .The light switch is just below the fan switch. I slide my hand down and promptly switch on the light. I draw myself up to full height and hold my club in an intimidating way, briefly blinded by the sudden light.

“Hey! Stop taking my stuff!” I semi-yell in the gruffest voice I can manage. Not easy for someone who has just woken up. It sounds too croaky and hoarse, like the cat that ‘got my tongue’ has left scratches. As my eyes adjust, I see that the burglar has really been busy. The fridge is tipped over, and food is strewn all over the place. A couple of chairs are on their sides, and the intruder is holding onto a piece of raw steak that I planned to cook the following evening for tea. This is getting weird. The burglar isn’t actually that big. Nor are they very intimidating. They are shielding their eyes from the light. It is then that I notice that they don’t look particularly well. In fact, they look terrible. I let my club drop a little, and get a better look. I think I need to create a new word to describe this freak, because terrible doesn’t cut it. Their skin is a nasty shade of green and white, and… Is that a fly that just flew out of their mouth? I fight back the urge to vomit. Then the intruder shuffles forward into the light a bit further, and the full extent of their nastiness is revealed. I think it’s a man, probably about sixty years old. A very old burglar indeed. Drool and meat juice is dribbling down his chin, and I can see that he was eating similar stuff previously, because there is dried red liquid surrounding his mouth. Then he tries to speak, but it comes out more like “Uuuuuuhhhhhhhgggg”. I think he might be asking for assistance, and by the looks of things he will need all the help he can get. It’s then that, when I step forward to try to bridge some kind of communication, the burglar’s right ear falls off. I don’t mean it a part of it, or a piece of chunky earwax or anything, I mean his whole freaking ear falls off and flops onto the floor. This time, I can’t fight the urge, and I rush to the fish bowl. I issue a mental apology to Boris the Goldfish, and hope that nothing in my vomit will look too appealing to him. The old, sick creepy burglar guy, meanwhile, seems to have not noticed his lack of hearing from his right side. I freeze. I think there is a turning point in many situations, when your brain suddenly realises that what they are interpreting around them isn’t what they think it is, and takes a couple of seconds to stop, and access the ‘not-so-possible-possibilities’, and come to a crazy conclusion. This is that turning point. After that couple of seconds, for some reason, I come to the conclusion that I am not up against a very sick, old, creepy man. I come to the conclusion that I am up against a decomposing, stumbling, pile of dead person, re-animated into un-death. I am up against a zombie burglar… With this sudden burst of information, I look at the trespassing zombie with a surprising surge of anger. How dare this zombie crash into my house, thinking it can snack on my raw meat?! Quickly, I bring up my golf club and take another, powerful deep breath.

“All right, you stinking pile of death and decay! This is not your house, it is mine! Therefore, without my permission, you are illegally on the premises, and you are taking what isn’t yours! You don’t know this, but I planned to eat that steak for tea tomorrow, and you have eaten it! If you take one, no… Two more steps, I will be forced to use force upon you!”

I am surprised at the impact that my speech had. Then I realise that zombie burglars probably don’t get impacted by speeches, due to them lacking the brain power to do anything except eat stuff and move their muscles, although some of the smart-ish ones can make noises and break windows ‘open’. Plus, a zombie with one ear missing has even less chance of being impacted by a speech, because their listening capabilities are halved. So with that in mind, I step quickly forward and swing the golf club into the side of the zombie’s head. It connects with the incredibly satisfying sound of kerthunksplat, or something like that. The zombie burglar’s head spins on its neck, snaps, and falls to the ground, not three feet from its previously dropped ear. I stare in disgust as the body stays standing, flailing its arms about a bit and spurting a bit of blood on the carpet. It stumbles towards me, so I deftly swing the club at its feet, toppling it to the floor. Then I rush guiltily to the fish bowl again.

Once finished, I go to the kitchen, and grab a plastic ‘Glad-bag’, and fill a bowl with fresh water. I promptly head back to the fish tank, and scoop poor Boris out, trying to avoid a floating half digested éclair. He doesn’t look too offended, but even so I apologise profusely until a put him into his new bowl. He swims around, takes in his surroundings, and three seconds later he probably forgets it. However, he is not of my concern at the moment. Right now, I have a zombie burglar’s head to deal with, along with its body. Briefly, I glance into the living room. The head is trying to bite its way through the floor, and the body is trying to scale the couch. The house will be fine whilst I go outside to dig a hole. Putting on a pair of slippers, I open the door and head across the front lawn and into the garden shed, and look through all the equipment for my trusty spade. Upon finding it beneath dust and cobwebs, I turn back to my lawn and begin to dig something that will hopefully resemble a grave. About an hour and a toilet break later, a reasonable grave has been dug. Sighing, I turn back into the house. The zombie body is now reclined on the couch, trying to tear out the armrest. The head, however, has gone. A chill runs down my spine, and I immediately begin to tread much more carefully. Using my golf club again, I search the house timidly. It is a short amount of time before I find the head near the back door, in the oddest position a head could get into. It is stuck in the cat flap. How a head could manoeuvre itself down the hallway, and then get into the cat flap I have no idea, but it is most certainly stuck. I open the back door, stand on the outside of it, and stare at the head. It groans loudly, and drools on the carpet. In response, I lift my leg and kick it through the cat flap. The head sails through the air beautifully, like a shot from Rooney himself, and lands at the entrance to the lounge. I shut the door, and walk up to the head. It is at this point that I realise how far I have come with this situation. I have dealt with a zombie, and dug a grave for it, and haven’t even flipped out since I vomited in Boris’s bowl. I smile to myself and kick the head further through the door.

Soon, after a fair amount of dragging, I have the two pieces of zombie sitting next to the grave. Looking disgustedly at the pile of dead flesh, I shove it into the grave. It flops into the dirt, and writhes a little. I give it one last look, and then bury it. The dirt piles up slowly, and it’s another half an hour before the grave is fully filled in. Grunting in satisfaction, I throw down the spade, and head back to bed.


It’s six o ‘clock in the morning. I awaken immediately when I hear the sound of breaking glass. Quick as a flash, I get up and walk out of the door, golf club already in hand. I trudge down the hall, sleep still trying to take over. I walk into the lounge, and step around the multiple blood stains and gore with ease. I raise my club and knock the incoming zombie to the ground in one swing. I walk into the kitchen, still kept clean. I start boiling the jug, and put coffee into a mug, along with the sugar. Turning around, I march back into the lounge, raise my club with two hands this time, and cave in the floored zombie’ forehead. The blood splatters are not too bad this morning, I only get a little bit on the dining table. Leaving the club sticking out of the zombie, I grab a fresh cloth and soak it in the soap bucket next to the front door, and wash down the surface of the table. The jug clicks off, and I pour the hot water into the mug. At last, my needed coffee fix. I smile, and breathe in the fumes. I lean on the bench and look out into the front yard, which now has about fifteen big lumps in it, and another grave, waiting to be filled. Great I think, as I sip my coffee more work to do. Stupid zombie apocalypse. I look back at the forehead-less zombie on the floor, and sigh loudly.

“Will you guys ever learn?” I say, almost to myself, but more directly at the decomposing ‘thing’ on my floor.

“Uuuuuuggggghhhhhh” it replies.

“I thought so” I say, and continue to sip my coffee.

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Madie2k said...
Oct. 7, 2013 at 6:20 pm
What an attention grabber! Your story was so descriptive and I loved it! Amazing job!
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