This is the heart-warming, heart-splattering tale of two young boys living with their gruff, old school great grandpa, during a city-wide zombie outbreak. The boys believe they have personally caused the outbreak and feel it’s up to them to end it. The story is a healthy mix of humor and horror, sprinkled with shock and awe.
The damned things had us surrounded. A dozen or so of ‘em were creepin’ toward us, all duh, fried, and zombified.
“Uhhh! Errrgguhhh! Durrr!” they hoarsely moaned and groaned as they staggered in for the kill.
As freakin’ stupid as they looked and sounded, they’d managed to corner us upstairs inside Daniel’s doorless closet. So I supposed Daniel and I were the real dummies here in this predicament.
This was the end. Our freaky, terrifying night was approaching its gruesome finish—a ravenous, blood-splattering, flesh-eating finale. Great-Grandpa Don wouldn’t be home from his graveyard shift at the factory until 6:00 a.m. or so—nearly ten hours from now. Sure, Gramps was a badass, but seeing as how he was eighty-five, even his manly World War II shit wasn’t going to stop a hungry mob of the undead all crammed in this bedroom. Besides, my little brother and I’d have our bones picked clean long before he got home. Our nearest neighbors out here in the country—excluding the already-bitten Franklins who’d been renting the old farmhouse next door—were far too distant to hear any last minute cries for help.
Little Daniel crouched, shaking, using me for a human shield as the zombies stumbled across my brother’s messy room, intent on sealing our fates. They looked horrifyingly ridiculous. One of the she-zombies in the hungry pack was missing both legs and pulling herself across the floor, while grandpa’s little mutt-dog, Dumbass, bit and growled, tugging at her skirt like a rabid maniac. I was gaining a whole new respect for that pint-sized crotch sniffer. One of the undead dudes had a big fork stuck in his forehead. He was also missing his lower jaw and sported a pair of burn-your-retinas orange plaid golf pants. Another creep held a severed undead head under his arm which was gnashing its teeth uncontrollably, like a set of those windup novelty jaws. Hell, one of the psychos still had Daniel’s shitty underwear—from the first time the little dude had soiled himself—over his head. The stupid zombie hadn’t even bothered to take ‘em off, opting instead to peek one bloodshot eye through a leg hole in order to see. As freakin’ scary as this situation was, it felt surreal. As if we were all actors in some cheesy, B-grade horror flick—absent the totally hot, screaming chick in a tight, torn T-shirt (darn).
I’d say one thing for sure, though: I was damn proud of my brother. The skinny little guy had really impressed me. Hell, he’s almost four years younger than me—he’s only nine—but he’d really kept his head in the game tonight, saving my life more than once. Knowing his young life was nearing a gory, premature end jerked at my heart strings like nothing I’d ever felt. Still, I knew full well he’d been the one who’d started this whole insane mess to begin with. In fact, this was all 100 percent entirely Daniel’s fault—and he knew it.
“Incoming!” I yelled to Daniel as Grandpa hocked up a serious loogie and stuck his unshaven face out the driver’s side window in one fluid motion. “Fire in the hole,” I added just before some of the spit splintered, whipping back in through the open rear window on Daniel’s side.
Disgusted as usual, my brother wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. I’d been lucky, for it hadn’t reached me. Even if the radio hadn’t been blasting Grandpa’s morning talk radio program, he still wouldn’t be able to hear our desperate pleas for mercy. He was so deaf it wasn’t funny. Though sometimes he’d surprise you and hear everything—it was weird. Gramps was a loogie machine, a lovely byproduct of his 70 years of hardcore chain smoking. The heat from this already roasting-hot June morning, coupled with Grandpa’s thick, choke-your-brains-out cigarette smoke, left us with little option than to leave the window down and suffer the splatter of coughed up goo.
Bouncing down the old country road at varying—though always excessive—speeds, Daniel and I were both uncharacteristically quiet. June fourth was never an easy day for us; it was the anniversary of Mom’s death. Three years ago, Mom was broadsided by some drunken ass-wipe in a pickup on her way home from the restaurant she’d worked at day and night. She’d been a hard-working single mom. Dad, whoever the hell he was, had left mom and us when I was about three, before Daniel was born. My only memory of him was a fuzzy, dream-like still picture of Mom crying with a man’s voice yelling and screaming in the background. I’d been told that the voice was his. Incidentally, Daniel had been born with a noticeably darker complexion than mine and suspiciously curly hair. I never asked Mom about Daniel, though—it didn’t matter.
Regardless, Mom was a great mother and did what she had to do to provide. The three of us had already moved in with Great-Grandpa a few months prior to her death because we’d hit a rough spot and needed a place to stay. So, after the accident, Daniel and I just kept on living there. Gramps had a big-ass heart, but they didn’t come much gruffer and more set in their ways than him. He was quite a unique character, to say the least. Say what you will, but that man was, without a doubt, our hero. He was there for us when no one else would or could be. We loved our Great-Grandpa Don. Okay, well, I feel a damn baby-tear squeezing up, so let’s move on.