Wicked Zombies


Another short, quick piece that takes place in the "I've Been Deader" universe.


It was early fall and not very warm, so the beach was nearly deserted. Jon sat on a large towel, taking in the gray waters, gray sky and washout shore, what little color it clung to rapidly being lost in the fog. The soft crashing of small waves tried to lull him to sleep, and he’d found his head nodding more than once before snapping up in alarm. There was no one else around, except for the one figure, still a good hundred yards or so away; just a small ghost, barely visible in the fog.

Jon rubbed absently at his right leg. The burns had scarred over nicely, but still itched like crazy. He’d have to go on another drugstore run soon. Percocet and Codeine on this week’s special. His mind wandered back to Mother Mary’s Home for the Aged and he shuddered. He never cared for Jeffery, but no kid deserved that; especially from his grandma.

The figure shrouded in fog, now about 80 yards away, had wandered into the cold water. Jon watched as a small wave came and drove it to its knees.

“Goddamned Shamblers.”

After the incident at the home (Grandma, what fuckin’ big dentures you have!), he’d decided to light out west and keep going until he hit ocean. And here he was.

“Easy peasy.” He barked a short laugh at the thought. He didn’t know if the eight hours negotiating the Eisenhower tunnel would qualify as easy, but he’d definitely peasyed himself a few times in there. Even now the memory of all those flies and ghost screams of the kid he had to leave behind, caused his stomach to wretch. Jon had seen and done his share of killing, before and after Z-day, but that was different. Before, he’d shared such “intimacies” only with women. With a child it was… it wasn’t pleasant.

The zombie somehow made it out of the water, but had gotten itself turned around. It faced away from Jon now, swaying like a thin reed in the wind, not otherwise moving.

Jon sighed. He used the broken beach umbrella pole to hoist himself up off the blanket. He’d hole up here for the winter and when the spring thaw came, he’d head back East. Stay there for a while, and maybe see what was happening in Canada, or come back west again. Why not? The fragment of a poem he remembered from childhood kept playing over in his mind.

It’s the journey not the destination, you see,
that keeps the butterfly free.

Jon started down the beach toward his neighbor, using the wooden pole as a walking stick for now.

 Da End.


For those who want a little more intense zombie fun:  http://www.amazon.com/Ive-Been-Deader-ebook/dp/B008H04Z0G/ref=sr_1_...

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