I burned my thumb and cursed as I applied the last weld to my creation; my old M16 with the new chainsaw securely attached to the barrel would be a nice addition to my arsenal.
Fricking zombies. It was just two weeks ago I would have been sleeping in, having pancakes for breakfast, taking the dogs for a walk. Now the dogs were gone, early victims of the virus, and the boys were augmenting the national guard on the front lines.
I didn’t know if they were ok or not. The cell network and phone lines were one of the first things to go down when the sickness spread, destroyed during the mindless raging violence that accompanied the virus.
The shortwave radio sputtered static, and an operator announced that the horde was just south of downtown. He cut out, ominously, in the middle of a sentence and never returned.
I starting tossing weapons into the passenger seat of the car. Axe. Knives. Shotgun. New hybrid M16. On a whim, I tossed the welding torch in as well, and finally wedged my pistol on the dash, above the steering wheel.
The car’s gas tank was full, and I was pretty sure I could make it to the boat, that is, if I didn’t encounter any stray zombie bands separated from the main horde.
I took a deep breath, climbed in, drained the last of the bottle of scotch, and hit the gas pedal hard. I wasn’t sure why, but live or die, I was going to fight with everything I had to make it out to sea.
This post is a part of BLITEOTW 2009.