You all may or may not remember my post called The Man a while back; a short writing piece based around a man within a zombie apocalypse. Well, I’ve decided to continue it, adapt it into a longer, more full story. I hope you enjoy it.
Here’s the original piece again:
Stumbling through the forest, gasping for his breath, he ran. Not daring to look back, he ran. Not daring to stop, just for a moment; he ran. Weaving through the trees with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, he continued on his way. His frame, long and slender, contrasted with the chunky hulks that were the tree trunks. His hair, brown and flowing, bounced upon his shoulders with each bound and step.
He stopped for just a moment, to catch his breath. ‘I’m 27, how am I tired already? Come on, ‘ya bastard. Get’cha legs moving. COME ON!’ He thought to himself. Almost as if it was a sergeant breathing down his neck, he stood up again, pushed off the tree and with even greater ferocity, continued his journey through the never-ending forest. The mindless growls and snarls from the herd chasing him kept him motivated, determined not to be the main course on tonight’s al a carte meal. ‘Starter, some poor bastard from Manchester. Main course, better not be me. Desert, fuck knows, maybe a kid, maybe a fookin’ chav.’ The man chuckled to himself.
Soon, the trees began to thin out and separate, showing the road, beckoning forth to him. ‘Oh, you fuckin’ beauty, come to papa.’ With a few more super-human steps, he had reached the road. He stopped for a second to find his mark, his eyes scouring up and down the road until the locked on to his target; a mud-soaked, dirt-coated Land Rover.
“Yes! Holy shit, yes. I fuckin’ made it back. I’ll be fuckin’ damned.” He let the words escape his mouth, over-joyed at the fact he had made it through the forest in one piece. He knelt down, slid his pack off of his back and unclasped the clips. He dug his hand in and drew out a black water bottle. Opening the lid, he gulped down a large quantity of the clear nectar, refreshing his system after running for the last hour or so. He closed the bottle and replaced it back in his pack. He then pulled out a golden-oats bar and started eating it. ‘Haha, gotta love ‘em. Fuckin’ ratpack bars. Better than sex.. Well.. Almost better.’ He audibly laughed at his own joke. He had nearly finished the bar when he was interrupted by the snarls of a mindless predator.
“Oh, you bastard. I was enjoyin’ that, you fucker.” He stood up and turned around to meet his adversary. His eyes were met by a middle-age, balding, slightly overweight man. The man was missing half his jaw and his face was smeared with blood and small chunks of flesh, most likely human. The man, brain-dead, shuffled towards him, snarling and growling at the him.
“You really wanna do this? You.. really.. wanna.. fuckin’.. do.. this?” He slowly enunciated the last sentence, full of vengeance and the anger of a man who had lost people in horrors past. His right handed moved across his body and grasped a knife, it’s sheath wedged into his belt.
Drawing it out, preparing to savour this kill, he looked down at his knife. He held the blade up to the light, the sun’s rays glinting off the knife, and admired the many notches upon the knife’s hilt, the signatures of past kills. ’78 bastards, I’ve killed. Looks like you’re bastard number 79. Lucky you.’
He held the knife tightly in his hand and walked towards the zombie. When he and the zombie were almost face-to-face, he spat in the zombie’s face and then, with the force of a bull, brought his boot-heel up and shoved it into his chest, splintering the rib-cage and shattering several ribs. The zombie fell backwards, smacking roughly into the asphalt of the road. He leaped forward, grabbed the zombie by the head and pulled him up. The zombie, arms flailing, tried to grasp the man’s flesh with his teeth.
“No you fuckin’ don’t.” He smashed the hilt of the knife into the zombie’s mouth, crushing the teeth into miniscule pieces and snapping what was left of his top jaw in two. “I wonder if you even feel fuckin’ pain, I don’t even give a shit. I’m going to fuckin’ enjoy this. You’re lucky your friends are only a minute or two away because I’m going to have to be quick about this.”
He let go of the zombie and stood up. Waiting until the zombie stood up and had started stumbling towards him again, he dropped to his knee and with his full force, threw his fist into the zombie’s knee, pulverising the entire joint and causing the zombie to collapse to the floor, unable to walk.
While the zombie attempted to stand up, he forcefully kicked it in the head, sending it falling to the floor again. he then stepped over it so that he was stood over it and brought his knife swinging down and bringing it home, driving it into the side of the zombie’s skull, shoving it through his ear. Pulling it out, he stabbed again and again and six more times; smiling as he did.
Calmly standing up, he turned around and picked up the remnants of his golden oats bar and munched through it.
“Still got to finish it and got to have some fun with a mushy. That was fun. See you in hell, fuckface.” He calmly walked towards the Land Rover when he began to hear the snarls, groans and growls of the remaining herd. “Oh, joy of joys. More of the mushy fuckers.”
He swung open the passenger side door and grabbed his L98A2 rifle, resting in the foot well. Bringing it up to his shoulder, he released the magazine to check the weight. ‘Feels like a full mag, time for some fun.’
He pushed the magazine back into the housing, grabbed the cocking handle, pulled it back and then released it, loading a round into the chamber. He reached his left hand over the rifle and karate-chopped the cocking handle to ensure it was fully forward.
Holding the rifle at his chest, he walked around to the other side of the car, opened the driver side door; ready for a quick drive-off. He then stood and held the rifle in his shoulder, aiming down towards the herd that was now on the road. Flicking the safety off, he searched along the herd, choosing his target. Finding a young man, in his twenties, with no arm, he squeezed the trigger and let off a round which found it’s mark, deep inside his skull.
Thump-thwack-thump-thwack-thump-thwack. 3 more rounds found their resting place within three more zombies. Four zombies now laid on the road, dead for real this time.
“Fuckin’ target practice, baby.” He laughed as he fired yet more and more rounds. Zombies began to drop but the remaining ones just kept walking, oblivious to the gunfire. He fired a few more rounds but then heard the disappointing click as the working-parts held to rear, signalling an empty magazine. “Shit, my guessing skills need some work. It was just getting fun.”
Placing the rifle in the foot-well of the passenger chair again, he got in to the car, started the keys in the ignition and slammed the gear-stick forward into gear. Pressing his foot down on the gas-pedal, the car lurched forward. Swinging the wheel around, he u-turned the car and kicked up rocks and assorted debris at the remaining herd.
The car then droned off down the road, the engine the only one to be heard for miles. The man then pulled down the sun-visor, pulled down a picture of a young-woman, a child and himself. Kissing the picture, a tear rolled down his face and dripped on to the picture.
“I miss you, baby. Why did the mushers have to get you? Why? Why did the fuckers get you and Jamie, why the fuck couldn’t they have left you for me? I shoulda’ saved you.”
He replace the picture back into the visor, closed it and pulled a small pen-knife from his pocket. He braked the car for a second, stopping just to carve the seventy-ninth notch into his knife.
The car disappeared, turning a corner and becoming shielded once again by the forest.
Aleatory Poetry 