Note: This post is a second story in zombie-themed Blog like it’s the End of the World 2008 - It’s gloomy and depressing and PG-13. It’s FICTION!
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While sirens screamed in the distance and fire threatened our neighborhood, we started to load supplies into Matt’s big truck. We had to hose bits of Matt out of it first.

Both Julie and I had lost everyone to the zombie plague. While there seemed to be no use going on, we went through the motions.

Bottled water. Axe. Crowbar. Cans of gas. Toilet paper. Odds and ends from the pantry, whatever looked edible. I blinked as she added a Bushmaster and a case of ammunition to the stack.

“What?” she said, as she saw me looking at the well-cared for gun. “Jeff and I used to go shooting a lot.”

We climbed in and backed out. There was soft thump as we ran over something in the smoky darkness. I didn’t want to think about what it might be.

We fought our way through the wrecked cars and burning debris down the hill. At the light, traffic had literally piled up, and the biohazard trailer that had been at our house earlier was overturned there, tires slowly spinning in the air. The undead were congregating around the wrecked cars, feeding.

I shifted the truck into low gear and wrestled it the off the road. A couple of undead lunged for us, unrecognizable and gore-smeared in the flickering darkness. They bounced off our fender and we slogged on. I tore through a hedge and swerved into a backyard. We punched through a fence and came out on an alley, skidded in a puddle of something unrecognizable, corrected, and zigzagged our way down to the waterfront.

Downtown, the horde had acquired numbers and a voice. It surged and swelled as it moved aimlessly along Front Street, looking for new members, for food. It shattered windows and trampled slower ones underfoot.

We paused, idling, at the top of the hill. We didn’t need to drive down Front Street, just across it. If we had enough momentum and a little help, could we make it?

We glanced at each other. “Do you have any ideas?” I asked.

Her eyes gleamed in the dim light. She rummaged around under the seats, finding a couple of giant glass beer bottles, and proceeded to make a couple of Molotov cocktails. She took a deep breath and said, “Timing is going to be tricky on this, we’re going to have to toss one out each window just before we hit the horde. Are you game?”

“Anything’s worth a try!” All those years in PTA - I never knew she was such a MacGyver!

We counted down. She touched flame to the rag, and I hit the accelerator.

20mph… 40mph… we were almost there… 50mph and and we threw the Molotov cocktails out the windows and frantically rolled them back up. We hit a wall of zombies, slowing, as the homemade bombs exploded. I kept my foot on the gas, fighting for every foot of forward momentum we could get, as the undead squelched and crunched under under our truck.

We slowed… 30mph… 20mph… but we were almost through. Just a couple more feet… we made it.

We gasped in relief as I accelerated again to put some distance between us and the horde. The windshield was streaked with gore and the wipers did little to dispel it.

The marina was dim and deserted, but we saw no wandering undead. They didn’t seem to like water much, so we probably were not the first survivors to have had this idea.

Julie got out first, covered me, and we loaded our supplies into a couple of carts and headed for my boat.

A lone zombie stumbled out the shadows around the gas shack, and Julie efficiently shredded the thing with her Bushmaster. Useful woman!

When we got to our pier, I realized practicality was more important than, well, legal ownership. We unbuttoned a nice, clean 34 foot sailboat, the Incommunicado, instead of my own power boat. I checked under the captains chair… yep, spare keys. Chances were the owner wasn’t around to enjoy it anymore, and when we ran out of gas, we could sail. We cast off and headed out to sea.

It was peaceful out on the water, cool, clear and dark. The fires onshore receded behind us. It’d be a long time before the zombies built up enough underwater body debris to be able to walk out to us, and we’d be safe for a while. Maybe we’d eventually remember how to cry.

To stay alive, we could fish. Fish don’t carry the zombie virus, do they?

Note: This post is for zombie-themed Blog like it’s the End of the World 2008 - so family, please don’t take it literally. It’s gloomy and depressing. It’s FICTION!
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This morning my teen awoke as if from the dead, croaked that he felt awful, and told me he’d be taking a hot shower.

That was the last that I heard from him. I wish I’d paid more attention.

Later, the biohazard team came to clean and sterilize the second floor. They told me that if I’d detected and isolated him at the first sign of the disease I could have prevented further damage.

Because I didn’t, I’ve lost both boys and the dogs. They’ll have to burn the bodies.

The skies are dark with smoke; the streetlights are on although it’s still day. We survivors huddle silently together in the dim light, breathing the bitter air.

Sirens wail throughout the city but we are too numb to cry.

I am doing another group writing project – it’s located here. This one’s a lot different than the last – it’s a WWII period piece, very coherently and (if I do say so myself) professionally done. Each writer is contributing a chapter. It’s all organized by logistics guru Nathan and graciously hosted in one spot by Tom.

Charlotte is a young woman in 1942 Florida, taking care of her orphaned baby niece and nephews. She’s trying to make ends meet and coping with the changes that the war brings to the home front.

My chapter 3 is located here.

Do you ever overhear scraps of conversation, without context, and wonder about the rest of the story?

Sunday evening, I was at the airport waiting for my pre-flight meal at Anthony’s restaurant. At the bar (food bar, not drinks bar) were a man and a 12-13 year old boy, chatting idly and pleasantly. A woman sat down next to them, and the man proceeded to chat the woman up.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries – where are you from, where are you traveling to, etc. The man answered that he was from Bellingham, going to Las Vegas, but dropping the boy off at a camp for troubled teens.

The woman’s eyes opened wide, and she asked the boy, “Are you a troubled teen?”

The boy answered yes, with a smile. His appearance was innocuous – white, nearly adolescent kid on the slim side, wearing an oversized baseball hat over neat, short hair, and a button down shirt and khaki pants.

After that, the talk drifted to other subjects.

I had to wonder – what is the story there? I have experience with troubled teens – even with trying to get them to go where they don’t want to be. It seems rather rude and overly personal to blatantly announce, “He’s a troubled teen!” to strangers. The troubled teens – and some normal ones too - would not sit happily in an airport restaurant and chat about their upcoming trip to wilderness camp. In fact, short of force, you’d never get them to the airport or the camp at all.

There are escort services that parents can hire to take their children to and from wilderness camp, schools for troubled kids, and military school. They are pretty rough, tough experiences, even can stage a surprise ‘kidnapping’ with the parents’ consent.

Maybe the man was a paid escort? It might explain why the boy was talking so pleasantly with him – and also might be an explanation for the oddly personal, public ‘troubled teen’ reference. Interactions are always different with strangers than with parents.

Anyway, I’ll never know the rest of the story. I might write one, though!

As you know, Jeri and I are participating in a round-robin story game. I am now up again in the final round, one slot early. So here goes. Part 28 is here, by the way.

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As Blink, Sophie, and Not-Sophie communed, the room lit with an odd, flashing light. “What’s that?” said Sophie, frightened by yet another sudden, odd change in surroundings.

“It is I.” a voice rumbled.

“I?” said Blink, peeved rather than frightened.

“I am that which is. I am the power over all telling. And I have a need to communicate with you three.”

“Well, we can hardly simply call you ‘I’,” growled Not-Sophie, as she began scanning through the dreadnought sensors Blink had returned to her bidding, “that’s going to get confusing, isn’t it? Don’t you have a proper name of some sort?” Not-Sophie looked around for the source of the light. “And just where the hell are you, anyway?”

“I am here, and there, and all about,” intoned the voice, “and no where, at the same time. It is true that some have called me…”

“God?” interrupted Blink, skeptically.

A rumble filled the room that felt like thunder, but somehow non-threatening. A chuckle, the three realized.

“Hardly,” said the voice with some irony, and with considerably less pomposity. “Who would want to be that? All that worshipful crap, everyone so bloody convinced they have it exactly right, and no one coming close. No thank you. Some have called me ‘The Narrator’. Now shut up and let me finish.” A soft throat clearing sound echoed through the room, and the voice continued, returning to its more senatorial tone. “You three obviously need direction. You’ve been mucking about, and never quite seem to get to the point of dissipating the threat to your planet. I’m here to put you on the right track.”

“Well that’s good news,” said Blink with hard-edged sarcasm, “we’ve got yet another source of truth here to help us. Lovely, that.”

“BE SILENT!” the Narrator’s rumble took on a tone of menace. “Or I’ll turn you into something more unpleasant that a multi-limbed intelligent furball that likes to lick people and eat out of dumpsters.” After a brief pause, the voice said thoughtfully, nearly in a whisper, “though off-hand, I can’t imagine what that would be.”

“Now then,” the Narrator continued, “where was I? Oh yes. You three need to start cooperating more. No more bloody fighting, splitting off into different tangents, nearly blowing one another up, infecting each other with bugs and viruses and whatnot. Don’t you see the power you have?”

“You mean the power of my ship?” Not-Sophie asked, somewhat mollified.

“You mean the power of my mind?” Blink thought, he thought to himself.

“You mean whatever it was that made everybody think I’d be a good killing machine brain even though I’m a cute skin-kneed little preteen girl?” said Sophie meekly.

“No, no, and no.” The Narrator responded, enjoying Blink’s dismay at his thoughts being overheard. “I mean you have the power of three. Three is a magic number. Yes it is. It has been so throughout history. You speak of the divine…the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The Id, Ego, and Superego. Kirk, Spock and McCoy, for crying out loud. Even Luke, Leia and Han. The three of you together are unbeatable. You have the power of mind, body, and soul. Use it. Look at that weak character over there.” The light seemed to shift, and a Tregethan appeared in the room, seemingly spotlighted by The Narrator’s light.

“Faaaaaarthuuuum,” the Tregethan screamed heavenward, with exasperation, then looked wildly about, “what the hell are you doing to my quarters!? Where’s my skull rubber!?”

“He’s pathetic.” The Narrator continued. “You probably wouldn’t even have to join forces to defeat him. Yet, if you simply mold your minds together, as you have started to do in the past, you will have absolute power over him. Try it!”

Blink, Sophie and Not-Sophie exchanged glances. “Worth a shot,” said Blink, giving his closest equivalent of a shrug, for a multi-limbed furball, “let’s try it.”

The three closed their eyes, and made mental contact. “Now what?” they asked.

“Focus on the Tregethan.” The Narrator instructed. “Then decide quickly on what you’d like to happen to it.”

In a trice, with a loud splat, the Tregethan blowed up. Real Good.

The three broke contact, and looked about at the pieces of Tregethan, which, while all about, hadn’t mussed them in the least. “That,” said Not Sophie, voice rising, “was - freaking - AWESOME!”

“Indeed,” said The Narrator, “you are powerful. And fast too. Well done. I will leave it to you, then. Go on, figure out what else you want to do. I can’t be bothered to hold your hand for the entire rest of it.”

The light went out. The Narrator was gone. Blink, Sophie and Not Sophie looked at one another, and considered their next move.