my first zombie story i wrote-dated sometime in winter-2008 prt. 1

PART ONE: THE BEGINNING

Our last stand
Michael Richardson
There was beeping. That much Meh Bliss knew when he awoke. He slammed his hand down upon the alarm clock, and it stopped. Crap…forgot about work, he thought to himself. He slipped into a pair of zipper pants and put on a T-shirt that had the word yomama. He brushed his teeth, then stepped into a pair of shoes, and was out the door. As he got into his old cutlass, he stopped. Who cared if he didn’t make it to work that early? He deserved some time off. He took the keys from the ignition, and got out. He applied himself to a brisk walk, his longish hair flapping in the wind.
As he turned the corner, something bumped into him. He glanced back, and saw it was a person lying on the ground.
“Sorry!” he shouted. “Moron…” he muttered under his breath. Further down the street there were more people, staggering around. He turned, reaching for the door to the local convenience store. That was weird-the door was usually closed this early in the morning. Raja, the owner, liked it warm when he opened up. Regardless, he stepped in and made his way to the cooler, reaching in and pulling out a diet coke.
He whirled around a hand clamped down onto his shoulder. Raja grinned, but this grin was amassed by blood oozing from his neck, the whites of his eyes staring at him. Meh pulled away, and Raj let out a horrid animal growl, and lunged at him with slow, lazy movements. Meh dodged, and instinctively leaped behind the counter. The zombie of Raj blundered around, looking for Meh. As he finally let out a breath of relief, he made the mistake of looking down. Clinging to his pants leg was a severed hand.
“Ah!” he creamed, kicking it away. All of a sudden, a shadow loomed over him. He looked up, and there stood what formerly was known as Raj leering down at him…inches from his face. Meh was P-Od. He wasn’t in the mood to die. He lifted the can of diet coke, and brought it down upon the head of the horrid zombie. It let out an animal howl, but didn’t go down. Meh leaped to the cooler, drawing another soda. He lifted it high above his head, and let it fly, smacking into the zombie.
He reached in once more, and threw the two cans. Pretty soon, he would run out of cans. The zombie continued to come closer. As it grabbed hold of Meh, he picked up a can, and slammed it into the zombie’s head, breaking through the skull, and piercing the brain. The zombie’s hold loosened, and it fell onto the floor, coke can sticking out of its head. Meh grabbed the last sod. Shit. It was diet. Regardless, he guzzled it. He jumped up and closed the door before the other zombies came in.
As the day slowly crept by, Meh found that the zombies were so stupid, they didn’t know how to open doors, and had the mentality of a monkey. After combing the store for items of survival, he cleared off a few shelves and took the unit to barricade the already barred windows. For food, he had an almost endless supply of snack foods and frozen foods, along with a microwave. He also found, to his delight, a Jericho 9mm Baby Eagle and 10 clips.
After a few hours, it started to get dark. He would defiantly have to wait till tomorrow to go home. For now, he would have to manage with the homemade barricade. Well, after a few minutes of tinkering, he had the lights going. There was a TV in the back room, along with a mini fridge full of beer. He flipped on the TV and tuned into the news.
“Religious groups are calling it the coming of the apocalypse! People are claiming that the recently deceased are rising from their graves. There have been reports of people literally being eaten alive. Scientists, however, have come to the conclusion of a virus that takes over the brain and controls the body. We ask that you stay indoors and if you know someone who has been bitten, you must isolate them immediately.” Meh flipped it off, taking a bite of a TWIX bar. He got up, checked the barricade, micro waved a corndog, ate it, and then went to sleep.
Meh’ eyes flew open, a loud crack ringing out. He leaped from the floor, throwing the blanket from himself. He took out the Jericho and loaded it, ducking down below the barricade. Another loud crack rang out. That wasn’t a zombie…that was a gunshot! Other people! Meh looked out the barred window and saw a man holding a pistol and a woman holding a pink composite bow running across the street. Meh quickly grabbed a back pack, loading it with food and water. And of course the clips. He fired a shot into the door, shattering the glass. The people stopped, then saw him and ran toward him.
“Shit! Why the hell did you bring the freaking zombies here!” screamed Meh, firing a shot into a zombie’s head. The people shrugged, and Meh motioned for them to follow. They all sprinted down the street, not wasting bullets, but shooting if one got too close. They all passed the car, and entered Meh’s apartment building. Luckily, it was a brownstone. And, again, luckily, it was on the top floor that Meh lived.
“Okay…who are you guys?” asked Meh, looking them over.
“We are other survivors, like you. We were ambushed in our home.” Said the woman. “My name is Karen, and this fatso is Pete.” She said with disgust. The large man opened his mouth to speak, but Karen shushed him. Meh chuckled. He then took a hammer, and a bookcase, and nailed it to the doorframe.
Meh grabbed his shotgun and looked out the window. It was a 20 gage, and it had half of a binocular duck taped to it for a scope. Yes, it was messed up, but it was ten times cheaper than a scope. And it still allowed him to see what was going on….
Our Last Stand
Chapter 2
Michael Kenneth Richardson III
“The suns’ going down…better lock up,” Meh Bliss murmured, looking out the closed window. In the past few days, all of the shops were searched, and he had devised a method to get his “Sorry ass” out of there, and had a stockpile of food in the basement. The last shop to search was Murdoc’s guns. Meh used to know Murdoc, and planned to put him out of his misery if he was a zombie. Damn zombies had been battering the brownstone for days, and it had started to get weaker. Karen and Pete had moved on, and were probably dead.
Meh picked up his M16. It was army issue¬—he had found it in an overturned truck yesterday. Since he raided the truck, he had a jacket, which was quite warm over the T-shirt. Every night, it was the same routine. Check ammo, eat dinner, load guns, and sleep in the bathtub with a loaded pistol in your hand. How comfy.
Meh eyes flew open and he looked beside him. The clock said 6:00 am. He got up, strapped on his shotgun, and went into the street. The street was filled with zombies. They turned their dead eyes toward him. He dropped the piece of candy he was eating. This could get ugly as hell…hell on crack, to be exact. Meh grabbed a grenade from his ammo belt (from the truck) and threw it, throwing the pin to the ground. He ran inside and quickly grabbed a few backpacks, stuffing one with food and one with water. Bolting the basement door behind him, he shoved aside the shelving and crawled into the escape tunnel…
Our Last Stand
Michael Richardson
Chapter Three
Meh looked left to right, wondering when the tunnel would end. Finally, he broke through the weak wood concealment, and saw fresh air. It was mid day, and he looked across the old school football field. There was still blood on the bleachers, and a few rotting corpses strewn across the field. Meh unholstered his Jericho Baby Desert Eagle, and cautiously crept into the ruined field. As he passed the first body, a zombie grabbed his arm and bit down hard. He shoved it away, screaming as a chunk of flesh was ripped from his arm.
He swung his shotgun and knocked over the zombie. It grabbed his leg and bit down, but his shoes protected him. He kicked up and heard a crack as its neck was broken. He reached into his pack and withdrew a t-shirt. He picked up the chunk of his arm, put it back in place, put some booze on it, and then tied the t-shirt as a bandage. He staggered for a few seconds, and then collapsed. He awoke to the sound of dogs barking.
“Hey, dude, get up.” Meh looked up and screamed, a pit bull inches from his face. The kid who was holding the leash grinned. The kid had to be about sixteen, but was skinny and tall. He held a dog leash, as well as a Benelli M4 shotgun. The kid looked at Meh, and Meh looked at the kid. “Yo, dude, you seriously need to calm the fuck down.” Said the kid. Meh got up, and looked at the kid.
“Who the hell are you?” was all he said. The kid laughed.
“I’m the dude who saved your ass. My name is Sam Nields.” Replied the kid. “Come on, my friend is waiting in the car.” Meh followed, and picked up his gun, and followed the kid to a rundown pickup truck. In the driver’s seat, was none other than Mike Murdoc. He was tall and lean, but was strong. He also had a bit of a beer gut, but all in all, he was looking ok. He had combed back dark, graying hair, and he wore white-gold aviator sunglasses. All he had on was a white sleeveless undershirt, a pair of black steel toed combat boots, and a pair of black S.W.A.T. pants.
“So, Meh how’s it?” asked Murdoc, grinning with his sharp white teeth. Meh cringed as he looked at Murdoc. The whole left side of the guys face was messed up. He had a scar from the corner of his mouth to his ear, and Meh could see a scar going over the left eye as well. “It ain’t that bad, it don’t hurt that much.”
“What the hell happened?” asked Meh. Murdoc shrugged. “You should know you were obviously there!” growled Meh.
“I was getting ready to open the barricade for a survivor, but there were a bunch of zombies that had chased him. He got in, but not before we had to fight off the horde. I was about to throw a grenade out there, when one of them grabbed me. The grenade fell out of my hand, but the pin was already out. Quickly, I jumped behind a wall and curled into a ball. The explosion sent a bunch of shrapnel into my face. I lost and eye, too.”
Meh watched as Murdoc took off his glasses, revealing a gaping hole where his left eye used to be. His right was pure black. “let’s go.”

They finally stopped in front of Murdoc’s small gun store. They all exited the truck and opened the tailgate. As they all climbed out, they each took a box that was full of food, weapons, ammo, or water. All Meh had left was the Jericho Baby Desert Eagle. A “Baby Eagle” was the medium, 9mm, version of the gun. The large one was the Desert Eagle, the smallest being the “micro-Eagle”.
“Uh, Mike…do you even have a gun?” but before Meh heard an answer, Mike turned around with a silver Remington 870 marine magnum. Slung across his back were a Winchester 1300 defender, fitted with a synthetic stock and a tactical flashlight in the synthetic fore grip, and a Mossberg 500 cruiser. All the guns were equipped with side saddle and butt stock shell holders.
“Yes, I have my fair share…” he replied, loading a pair of pit holsters with an 8 in Colt python .357 and an 8 in .45 Colt Anaconda. He then picked up two Taurus PT92 AFs, and put them in the back of his belt, two Black Mark XIX .50 Eagles in thigh holsters, a pair of Colt Navy .38 s in hip holsters. Lastly, he took a Smith & Wesson model 10 and a Colt SAA Buntline in the front of his belt, also a crowbar. All of the belts and holsters also carried bullets. “Meh, would you care to rest, or would you like to come out and kill some zombies?”
Meh paused, thinking it through. He eyed the arsenal that Murdoc carried. Murdoc stood silently, cracking his knuckles. Murdoc reached into a box and pulled out a pair of sawed down Remington Model 1100 Tactical Shotguns - 12 gauge, and tossed them to Meh along with two Smith & Wesson model 629s with some holsters and boxes of shells.
"Thank god this is america!" muttered Meh. They walked out into the light once again, and entered the truck. Before Meh could climb in, a white and gray Alaskan husky jumped in beside Mike. Strapped onto the back of the dog were a tactical knife and a canteen. Meh looked around, and then climbed inside.
“Mike, where are we going?”
“Going to go look for survivors.” He replied.

As Meh and Murdoc opened the doors to their truck, the zombies looked over, and studied them. The zombies inched forward. There had to be at least 200 of them. They cocked their shotguns, and moved in. The zombies looked at the survivors, breaking into a staggering jog. Meh and Murdoc fired away, blowing off a zombie head. Meh lifted his gun, and swung it into the head of a zombie. It fell over, and stopped moving. Murdoc switched to his Mossberg, for he had no time to reload the Remington. He slung the Remington across his back where the Mossberg used to be. Meh, on the other hand, had had time to reload, and was using both his shotguns. Murdoc gave a savage war cry, slung his shotgun across his back, and drew the Python and the Anaconda, leaping into the crowd of zombies. He round house kicked one, and elbowed another in the face.
“Meh! Wait at the truck! I’ll be back!” was all he said before he slammed the door in the faces of several zombies. It turned out he had gone to the police station. As he turned from the door, he raised his hands, dropping his pistols. A woman was holding a pair of Smith & Wesson model 5946s in his face.
“What do you want?” she asked, finger ready to pull the trigger at any second. Murdoc said nothing. The woman was thin, young, and tall. She had dark hair that hung to her jaw, and she was wearing a plain tank top and S.W.A.T. issue pants. “Who are you?” she asked, jabbing the gun to his chest.
“My name is Phillip Ignatious Staker.” He replied, grinning. She looked at him with loathing.
“Piss taker. Really?” She rolled her eyes. “What is your name?” she asked, getting angry.
“Alright, alright. It’s Mike Murdoc. I’ve come here for supplies, and now I come here to bring you to safety.” He smiled, picking up his revolvers and putting them back into the pit holsters. She looked at him as if he was on crack. “I’m serious!” he exclaimed.
“First off, I don’t need saving. Secondly, I am a police officer, you are not. And thirdly, even if I did need saving, I doubt it could be you.” With that, she turned around and turned on a light. The police station was almost empty, but it did have bars on the windows. It was about as safe as Murdoc’s shop.
“Do you have any guns except for those?” asked Murdoc, pointing to the 5946s. When she didn’t answer, he reached behind him and grabbed the Mossberg, reloading it and cocking it. “Here, take this.” He said, placing it on a desk. The woman hesitated, then picked it up, slinging it on her back.
“How did you survive this?” she asked, handing him a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a bottle of water.
“I own a gun store.”
“Oh, so that’s why you are so heavily armed.” She muttered, looking at his array of deadly force. “Say, do you mind If I keep this shotgun?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg.
“No problem. I’ve got my other two right here.” He replied, cheerfully taking a bite of food. “In fact, we have to go soon. My friend and dog are still out there.”
“There are more survivors?” she asked, in shock and awe. “I thought it was only Thor and me!” she pointed at a door off to the left.
“Who?” asked Murdoc.
“Thor, my German Shepherd.”
“Oh, I see. How is it that you know my name, but I still don’t know yours?”
“It’s Jill. Jill Valentine.” She said, giving him an unsure smile. Murdoc drew the Winchester, indicating Jill to follow. “I have to get Thor!” she said, sprinting into a room and returning with her dog. Thor looked at him with friendly, beady eyes. Murdoc pet him. Murdoc moved toward the door, gun at the ready. “What are you doing?”
“Going outside to save my friend and my dog…” said Murdoc.
“How do you plan to get through all those zombies?”
“Duh! I have a shotgun, you know!” he laughed, turning back to the door.
“I have a better idea. There is a sewer entryway downstairs. We go through there, and exit in the middle of the street.”
“Or there’s that…” muttered Murdoc. Jill led him down the basement stairs to a hole in the floor. He motioned for her to wait, and grabbed the Winchester and turned on the flashlight, pointing it into the sewer. “I hate stupid ass sewers.” He muttered under his breath as he climbed down the ladder. The sewer was empty, except for a few rats. The flashlight was a help, since it was almost pitch black, but even with it, you could only see about six feet in front of you.
“Are we almost there yet?” asked Jill, who was being paranoid and looking around, even though she couldn’t see. Finally, after about a minute, they opened the hatch and climbed out right next to the truck. Meh was in the tailgate, using his shotguns to fend off a shit load of zombies.
“About time, asshole! While you were visiting your little girlfriend in there, I was watching your stupid dog and killing these motherfuckers!” he screamed, blasting a head off a zombie. “Get in!” he growled, jumping into the driver’s seat. Murdoc let Jill sit in the cab, and took out an M60 with an extendable bipod from a compartment in the tailgate. He then fastened a belt of ammo from a crate to the M60.
“Drive, shithead!” screamed Murdoc, pumping round after round into the zombie crowd. Meh floored it, knocking Murdoc to the floor. Murdoc leaped up, flicked off Meh via the rear view mirror, and resumed his post at the turret. Written on the side of the M60 were the words Big Boy.
As they neared the gun store, a running zombie jumped in front of the truck. Meh slammed on the brakes, but the truck swerved into a building, which happened to be "Lisa's Pub".
"Shit!" screamed Mike, reaching for his Remington 870. it was broken. "FUCK A DOODLE DO!" he growled, drawing his Anaconda. he killed six zombies, one shot head shots, but he had to reload. he had lost alot of blood, abd blacked out.
He woke up in a large space surrounded by beer kegs stacked to the ceiling, with spaces for guns to pop out of. Sam and a strange woman he had never seen before were talking in a corner. "Where the fuck am ?" he asked, reaching for his pistol to find nothing. he looked beside him to find his guns neatly arranged in a row on a tabled, and his holsters were hung neatly on a chair.
Two other people were looking at him. one was short, skinny, and had dark hair and an army helmet, the other was a buff back dude. he had a Remington 870 slung across his back. a cattle prod rested at his belt. the black dude looked over, and brought Sam.
"So you're awake!" he said. Mike nodded, re fitting his holsters to his person. he gabbed his pistols, and swore under his breath. he had lost his Winchester and Remington. he looked out one of the holes, through the window, and saw his truck. before anybody could stop him, he opened the other two compartments, taking out an M1 Garand with a scope and bi pod, and a Mossberg 590 Mariner with an extended magazine tube, a heat shield, and saddle and butt stock shell holders, and a tactical flashlight in the synthetic foregrip. it alo had a synthetic stock. the M1 rounds he wore on bandoleers. lastly, he replaced the SAA and S & W with a Five-seveN. the woman walked over along with Sam. "This is Lisa Spratt. she owns this pub." Mike shook her hand, and remembered.
"Shit...where are Meh and Jill?" he asked, looking around.
"They ran out before we got there. they probably thought u were dead. and without another word, Mike fell asleep.
Our Last Stand
Chapter 4
Michael Richardson
“Why the hell did you give all these guns to this crazy mofo?” the guy with the army helmet asked, pointing to Murdoc, who was still wearing his weapons and rounds strapped to him. “More importantly, where did you get this shit!” he asked.
“I own a gun shop.” Replied Murdoc. “Who are you?” he asked, picking up his crowbar and putting it back into his belt.
“My name’s Joe Quinn.” He extended his hand, and Mike Murdoc shook it. Joe then looked at Mikes M1 Garand. “Nice gun. You say you own a store?”
“Yeah. You looking for something? I hear it’s a good time to buy these days.” He chuckled.
“Yeah. Do you have a scoped Kar 98K?” asked Joe, getting anxious. Murdoc, who was still a bit groggy, rolled his eyes and got up. He looked out the window, at his ruined truck, and got a little pissed off. ok, a lot. In fact, he even punched Sam in the face. Sam, who was hitting on Lisa, kicked Murdoc in the balls and left him lying on the ground.
Meanwhile, Meh and Jill were on their way into a grocery store. Meh had some glass in his leg, but Jill was ok. As they walked into the grocery store, Meh tripped and “accidentally” grabbed her ass for support. She turned around, and punched him in the face. He fell over, swearing a long string of words, and got up, apologizing while cursing under his breath. Jill still had the Mossberg 500, and Meh had one of his guns. The other was too broken. Thor trotted happily by Jill, while Meh limped along. The doors swung open, but there was nobody there. Instead, a large iron wall made of shelves blocked their way.
“HALT!” screamed a man. He was holding a minigun in an alcove. “Drop your weapons!”
“Shit!” screamed Meh. Jill rolled her eyes. This could get ugly…

Chapter 5


Joe looked around the pub. Something wasn’t right. It was very quiet, and he and Mike were on watch. The dogs of Sam and Murdoc were uneasy, no matter how much they were comforted. Mike felt it too. He was always checking his shotgun to see if it was ready. And he was fidgeting with his old Nazi helmet. Joe was also fidgeting with his helmet raided from army surplus. Murdoc gave a nod to Joe, and went to go take a piss. All of a sudden, there was a loud crash, the glass on the window had just been busted open. Joe growled, putting the dogs into a secret hatch. He lifted his rifle, and shot a few. The kegs started to come loose. There were too many zombies. Mike ran in, and drew his shotgun. He fired off a volley of shells, but had no time to reload. The kegs finally came crashing to the ground, soaking the carpet in beer.
“Joe!” Mike yelled as he tossed a fire ax to Joe. He himself drew a Hacksaw and his crowbar. Joe gave a savage yell, slung his rifle across his back, and brought his ax down upon the head of a zombie. It went limp, and splattered blood and brains all over the place. Mike grinned, using both his weapons to crush and slice. Joe looked over.
“I haven’t had this much fun since Iraq!” he howled, chopping zombies here and there. Lisa and Sam came running out of the secret place, Sam wielding a sledgehammer, Lisa wielding a chainsaw. They both looked at each other, and joined in. the survivors fought with the animalistic ferocity of demons, yet the oncoming horde was too big. After two hours, they had retreated behind the counter. Murdoc and Joe ran off, into the back room, and came back with the whisky, vodka, and bourbon.
“What the fuck are you shitheads up to now?” screamed Lisa. Joe just grinned, but Mike replied,
“MOLOTOV COCTAILS!” in a scarily accurate Russian accent. Then, him and joe started lobbing the explosives into the crowd of hungry flesh eaters. They blasted a hole in the floor, and set the carpet on fire (it was soaked in beer). Mike and Joe finally ran out, having taken out about 500 a piece. Now, there were about 200-300 left.
“What do we do now?” asked Sam, who had left his guns downstairs.
“Duh!” screamed Joe, taking out his Kar98. Murdoc handed Sam his M1 Garand. Murdoc handed Lisa his shotgun, and he drew two of his pistols, lighting up a cigarette.
“This is it.” He said. “Too bad I didn’t get to drink any of this shit before I died”, he indicated the empty bottles surrounding him. “Alright. You guys can go. Snipe the front line, clear me a path. I will distract them and lead them somewhere else. If the runners get me, if Jill is alive, tell her I love her. And Joe. Take care of my dog.” With that, he removed his two Taurus pistols and handed them to Lisa, who took them and returned the shotgun. He handed his Five-seveN to Sam, and finally, handed Joe the desert eagles, who traded him the M1. He took the sniper rifle, and slung it with his shotgun.
“Dude, you don’t have to do this shit.” Sam said, tears glistening in his eyes.
“I do. I want this.” Mike said, placing his aviators over his injured face. He looked at Sam and Lisa, who was trying to hide her tears, and gave them his blessing. “Lets see what these mother fuckers can do!” Mike growled, taking a puff from his cigarette. With one last look, he cocked his colt Anaconda and Python, and leaped over the counter, and out the doors, into the crowd of undead. The last they saw was the right side of his face, the good side, grinning as he shot down several zombies, aviators gleaming in the early morning sun, cigarette smoke streaming from his nostrils, and gun smoke from his revolvers…



END OF PART ONE
WILL BE CONTINUED IN ANOTHER NOTE
COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME