Narrative #1: A Day in the Life of Post-Armageddon

“I’d be willing to bet that just about everybody on earth thought they could handle a zombie apocalypse.” I said to Amy, trying to lighten the mood. I had just emptied a clip from a V2-208 Scorpion into the skull of a Rabid Hunter, so we were both covered in blood. But Rabid Hunters are just a mutated strain from the original virus that wiped out all of Manhattan, and then the rest of the world. I know, I know, a zombie apocalypse sounds corny and overused, right? Well, it happened. Amy kicked me with her foot.
“And look how they ended up.” She replied grimly. She was fiddling with her Bluetail V8 Shotgun, probably trying to fix the reloading mechanism. It was always jamming up on her.

We had our backs to an old Chevy, probably once black in color, but the corrosive winds ate away at the paint until it was bleak and grey and rusty. That’s pretty much what happened to the rest of the world, too. Bleak, gray, ugly, and every day is filled with fear. My name is Kirk Mercy. I’m 17 years old, and I’m pretty tall for my age. The pretty bombshell model of a babe sitting next to me is my girlfriend. The thing is, we met under extremely crazy (and now extremely hilarious) circumstances. I was running from, wouldn’t you know it, a Runner, trying desperately to reload my Falcon-C14 handgun, but the damn thing was jamming up on me. Just when it was about to pounce, a slender shadow dropped down from nowhere and mounted the skinny, rotting monstrosity on my tail. In seconds, the poor creature was choked to death in between a pair of strong, athletic track legs. Before I could raise my gun, a huge shotgun was pointed at my head. She said her name was Amy Uderland. Sounded German to me. Or Russian. Well, long story short, I made nice, and after spending a lot of quality time together. Now we are inseparable, but she still wears the pants most of the time. I don’t mind.
“Did you hear what I said, Mercy?” She shouted, shaking me out of my reverie.
“Huh? What? Did you see something?” I felt so flustered.
“Not really. Just don’t go coppin’ out on me when the s**t hits the fan…for the millionth time.”
“Alright, alright. I’m awake and alert and—“
“Hungry?” She asked, revealing a small candy bar. She has this hard, ‘I can do it myself without your help, bub’ type facial expression. But no matter how much she scowled at me, I always thought she was adorable. When I told her, I was punished with a broken pinky. She really is a sweet girl, but it takes a while to dig through the layers of ice and concrete to get there. She has medium length dirty blond hair with streaks of natural brown in it. She has bright, piercing green eyes, and she likes to wear skimpy clothing. “It’s so I don’t trip and fall and die of idiocy.” She told me when she walked out from behind the car in a tube top and cut-off shorts.
“I swear to God, Mercy! Pay attention!” she yelled, decking me. Wish I was paying attention now.
“Oww! What now?” I said, rubbing my cheek. She had this neat habit of talking to me with her eyes. I couldn’t do it as well as she did, but I always knew what she was saying. She was looking past my shoulders at an old Barns&Burgers Restaurant. From out of the dusty newspapers flittering aimlessly in the gritty winds, I could see slow moving figures hobbling towards us. The always hobble first, but they do run...fast. I reached behind my back and pulled out my favorite gun in the whole universe: an old fashioned bolt-action Winston&Hawk rifle that I painted yellow…you know…so I could see it better.
“How many are there, Cap’n?” I asked, flashing a smile. She pinched my butt and rested her gun on my shoulder.
“Always too damn many.”
“Sooo…you take that side and I take this side?” I asked.
“Shut up and hold still! I can’t aim with you movin’ around alla time.” She rested a semi-automatic Octopus SV-34 with an extended barrel on my right shoulder. I always loved that thing. So long and smooth, yet so quiet like a whisper. She even had her favorite silencer on. Hell, she even painted skulls all over it. SPLAT! A zombie’s head about 10 feet away from us disappeared. I must confess: spending time in this world has made me just a little sadistic. I love watching a zombie’s head explode when a high-caliber bullet punctures their dead flesh. It’s so awesome! I could feel the gentle jump of the gun against my shoulder as she squeezed the trigger once per second, aiming carefully. SPLAT SPLAT SPLISH went their dead little heads. When all was said and done, we were staring at a pile of meaty flesh. I looked at her. A sheen of sweat from the adrenaline rolled down from her forehead. She looked like a modern day valkyrie goddess of death or something. I was just about to kiss her when the whole ground shook like crazy. Usually when it does that, it’s probably a hulker. Hulker’s used to be wrestlers and fat people. They aren’t fast, but their not stupid. And that’s the problem. They work is teams of 3 or 4, and when one starts shaking things up, it means that A) They know we’re here and B) They’re cooperating to lure us into a trap and then…you know, do zombie stuff to us. Amy cocked the gun, knocked out the magazine, and punched in a new one. Click, slick, chonk. That’s all it took for her. Me, I like smaller guns. I don’t know how she manages all that heavy artillery, but I’ve never bothered to ask (Cuz’ if I did, I’d probably lose some teeth). As we ran, hand in hand, the shaking got harder and louder. Usually, if you can’t see what you’re afraid of, then you’re more likely to get eaten. We turned a corner and saw an old abandoned Walmart.
“Aww! I could sooo go for a twinkie right about now!” I laughed as we bolted past a group of deadies and into the parking lot. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about living in this dead world, you can’t just…walk into any deserted space indoors and make yourself at home. Amy must’ve read my mind again, because she picked up what looked like a leather dress shoe, and chucked it at an unsteady pile of canned food. The pile toppled to the floor in a loud thudding noise, and instantly, like a bell that tolls for a hungry dog, three bloody, undead dummies came charging at us from pretty much nowhere. It’s actually freaky to look at em’ up close. Ever seen a good zombie flick, where their faces are half eaten so you can see the teeth in their jaw, or their skulls eaten off so you can see their blackened brain entrails? Some of em’ even lack the decency to wear clothes or at least eat properly, so sometimes there’s the occasional naked zombie babe running at me, or a dead football jock charging my girlfriend. Before a word was exchanged, I whipped out my Falcon and squeezed the trigger neatly 3 times. Bam, bam, bam! They each sported a new, bloody hole in their foreheads as they hit the ground running. Behind me, I could here the screaming of what must have been a Rooker Daniels Navy issue magnum. KA-BLAM! It was so freaking loud, but she managed to put a hole in almost 5 of the zom-boobs that were chasing us. In the distance, a tall, black, SUV-sized man creature slowly hobbled from the shadows of dusk. Amy shoved past me, grabbed my hand as if on reflex, and lead us into the store, where we immediately slammed both shop doors behind us. Thankfully, the handle on the inside were those old fashioned square shaped ones. Amy grabbed an armful of skis and stuffed them through the handles. We then threw ourselves behind the check-out counter, and waited. The sign hanging above our heads that said “Check out here” was half doused in dried blood and guts.
“Oh, how lovely.” Amy said, grimacing at it.
“Shya, no kiddin’”.
“I swear to God, if that big brute of a zombie comes through that door…” she trailed off and angrily took an RPG-7 from her back strap and propped it up against the counter next to her. I forgot she had that thing back there.
“He’ll wish he hadn’t?” I asked, snickering. Amy just hmphed and turned away. Amy wasn’t always like this. I used to go to school with her. She was kind of a geek, but she was sweet to me nonetheless. She was quiet and unattentive and nobody really knew she existed. She didn’t go to prom or school parties and avoided everyone who looked at her. She wore goth-y clothes and had weird peircings. She probably listened to scream-o music and cut herself at home. She may have been a little shy, but she had the most rockin’ body I’ve ever seen, and I fell in love with her when she punched out Elizabeth Serzi, the most popular (and we all new why) girl in school. Oh man, was that high-octane orgasm fuel! After that, her reputation blossomed, but she didn’t care much for people. Well, after the whole zombie fiasco totally crushed Manhattan, we ran into each other. She was crying and covered in blood, telling me her parents just tried to kill her. I knew exactly why. I felt terrible, of course, cuz’ my parents suffered the same fate. Walter and Whitney Mercy were eaten alive by our jerk-off neighbor Burney Bronzstein. Who woulda thunk it? I put a hand on her shoulder, gently massaging it. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I could tell she was smiling. I smiled, too. It’s times like these I wish we could just go back in time, so I could court her like a real man, without the incentive from a post-Armageddon world. The loud shaking of the hulker’s footsteps grew louder and louder, and then, just like that, it stopped.
“What the hell?” I whispered.
“Shh. I think it’s still looking for us.” She said, propping her weapon up on the counter. Then, without warning, we heard a loud KA-BOOM! But Amy didn’t fire the RPG. No, it came from outside. Fire and shrapnel blasted through the windows. We both looked at each other was we heard cheering and laughter. It sounded like an audience to a comedy show. Canned, but real enough for us. We looked at each other with looks of surprise and confusion.
“Amy…what is that noise?”
“Other people, genius. Clearly we’re not the Adam and Eve of hell on earth yet.”
“Should we change that?” I asked, gesturing with my gun. She gave me an evil smile.
“Maybe. C’mon. Let’s go see if they’re friend—“ the doors exploding from their hinges drowned out Amy’s voice. My ears were ringing. The flood of voices came pouring into the room. Amy was obviously paying attention, and quickly grabbed the intercom thingy from the floor.
“Attention shoppers. This is the manager speaking. I can see you. All of you.” She said into it in a deep, manly tone. Her voice echoed throughout the store clearly and loudly. I felt so happy to know she had such a talent. The voices quieted down and a man’s voice spoke up.
“Oh yeah? Well, come on out and we promise we won’t hurt ya.”
“Let me see your hands.” Amy replied firmly. There was a clinking and rustling of metal. We exchanged glances and she knew they were armed to the teeth. Amy dropped the intercom and stood up, RPG poised and ready.
“Freeze, jackholes!” She screamed. I flinched, and stood up with her, Falcon aimed and ready, too. There were at least 12 of them, most of them probably middle class working fathers, complete with torn suits and missing ties. They looked disheveled, and their hair was greasy and unkempt. Bottom line: They all looked like Hell. The guy in the red suit with a black “A” painted on it, looked surprised.
“Holy Mary Mother o’ Jesus! What in God’s name is you doin’ widdat!?: He had a Southern drawl that slurred most of his English, but I could tell he was genuinely crapping himself right about now.
“Keeping you from shooting at us!” She yelled, hopping over the counter. She stayed at least 8 feet from the leader, rocket launcher pointed straight at the floor in the middle of everyone.
“Okay, fellas. Nobody has to die today. Not when all we got is each other. So why don’t you guys just take what ya’ll need from the aisles, and leave.” I said, mimicking his accent, thinking I might get across. I think it worked.
“Hey, now! There ain’t no need fer violence. We jus’ noticed ya’ll runnin’ in here from—“
“Yonder frickin’ window? Pfft, can it, buddy! We don’t trust you as far as we can throw you, which is too bad for you, cuz’ I can blast you farther than both.” She said, gesturing with the RPG again.
“Alright, calm down Miss Uderland. I thought all those years in my classes taught you respect for at least something.” A kinder voice said. A taller man in a cream-colored suit and a red tie stepped out from the crowd. He had a shotgun slung over his shoulder and a cigarette in his mouth. I was this close to killing him for that cigarette.
“Mr. Trattermayn? You’re still alive?” Amy exclaimed, genuinely surprised.
“’Course. I’m a survivor, just like you. Mercy, nice to see you again.”
“Same, Mr. T. So, is this Southern guy here really yer leader?” I asked, scratching my head.
“No. I am. Raymond’s the lieutenant, if you want to get technical.”
“Great. Now get yer s**t and get out. We got here first.” Amy said venomously, re-strapping the RPG to her back. Quick as lightning, she drew out the Octopus and pointed it at the crowd, like a cop movie or something.
“Easy, Miss Uderland. We came here to help you with the hulker.”
“Well, you did what you had to do and for that we’re both grateful, now either get out or I’ll—“ I put a hand on her shoulder.
“What she means is ‘thank you’ and ‘would you like to stay for dinner’?” Mr. T looked at his men, and then back at us, considering his situation.
“You sure you don’t mind?” He asked. Mr. Craig Sterling Trattermayn, married 34 years and going, had 3 kids and a hot wife. From the faraway look in his eye, I’d say he was only Trattermayn family member left alive. He had short, buzzed brown hair. He wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, and he had a little stubble on his chin. He had deep, brownish green eyes and had a generally mild attitude and an overall sense of zen. He the won the Teacher-of-the-Year Award 11 years in a row. We always knew he was in the marines and the air force after his father, and took martial arts at the dojo a few minutes away from mine. All in all, he was a good guy. He scratched his chin fuzz and looked from me to Amy. He smiled a sheepish smirk.
“Ohh, I see. Well, maybe we should just be on our way, eh gentlemen?” He motioned with his arm to follow him as he and his crew walked out of the destroyed doors. Suddenly, we heard a loud, screech, and turned to see a zombie charging straight at Amy. I spun around so fast the gun flew from my hand and clanked against the counter top. I was about to tackle her and sacrifice myself for her when I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a certain Bluetail shotgun going off. I looked up from holding Amy to see a headless zombie corpse fly head first into the cash register. We turned to see Mr. T with his back to us still, Amy’s shotgun pointed over his shoulder. From the angle I was at, I could tell he was smiling triumphantly. He set the gun on the counter, brushing aside his kill like a paper towel.
“It shouldn’t jam any more, Miss Uderland. Take care, both of you. And if you need us, I put a short-wave radio on the counter so you can reach us. The frequency is—“
“Four two three eight eight! I know!” Amy shrieked. “It’s the same damn one you used to rat me out when I was smoking under the bleachers in 9th grade. Now get the hell outta my store before I blow you all to hell!” She was screaming now, probably because she was embarrassed to have to be saved by a teacher she hates and respects. As the last of the men left, Amy immediately ran and closed the doors. They shut 93% of the way. Amy looked around and spotted a stack of bicycles.
“Help me with this, Mercy.” She said, dragging bike after bike up against the door. By the time we were done, we had 20 odd bikes blocking the front entrance.
“Freakin Bastille now, baby!” I said, putting up my hand for a high-five. Instead she grabbed my arm, craned her neck, and kissed me on the mouth.
“It better be. I don’t need everybody trying to save helpless, innocent lil’ ol’ me.”
“Innocent maybe, but helpless? I don’t think so.” She sighed and kissed me again, this time a little longer.
“Dya’ think this place sells mattresses?” I asked, holding her hand.
“Probably. Why?” I flashed a devilish grin.
“Well, it’s been a long day…and I’m tired…and I could really use another one of your special…massages.” She pinched the back of my leg and ran off ahead of me. I laughed and followed her. In this zombie, post-Hell world, all we need to survive is a decent firearm, a spare magazine, and a condom…just in case.