Author’s note: This is a short story excerpt set in the Zombie Apocalypse Call Center Universe. Each week I’ll write another part of the story on here. You can read part 1, part 2, part 3 and part 4 here. If you enjoy, check out the Zombie Apocalypse Call Center series which shares more zombie apocalypse fun.
There’s Vermont. I turn right on it. My house is only a little further away. I lied to Sam about it being the Zombie Defense Base, at least for other people. It’s a defense base but only for me. Maybe eventually I’ll take some people in, build a little dystopic community based around my rules, or maybe just keep to myself. I’ve always been a loner and interacting with people bores me. The only real benefit of other people in a zombie apocalypse is that their walking meat shields.
I pull up to my house and put my car into the driveway. As the zombie apocalypse gets worse, I’m going to expect to see abandoned cars, and I don’t want my car out on the road. If I had a garage, I’d park the car in there, but the driveway will have to do. I get of my car and warily look around. The neighbors are still at work. There’s no one around.
I hurriedly walk to my front door, nervously fumbling with my keys. The zombies aren’t here yet. There’s still time to get inside and lock myself in my zombie apocalypse bunker. I get to the front door and shakenly try to insert my key into the door to unlock it. I drop the keys instead.
“Shit!”
I go to pick the keys up and that’s when I hear it.
“Unnngrrry,” someone moans.
I look around warily, but I can’t see the source of that sound.
“Unnnggrrryyyyy!”
That damn call center rep told me there were a couple zombies nearby, but he didn’t say where. That’s got to be one of them nearby.
I scoop up my keys and hurriedly jam my house key into the front door and twist it, unlocking the door with an audible click. I practically ram myself into the door to get it open.
“Unnngggrrryyyyy!”
That came from right behind me!
I rush into my house and roughly grab the door and slam it shut behind me, but it doesn’t make a slamming sound. Instead it makes the sound of a thud and then the door creaks as its opened.
I blindly turn around and fire my .45. The bullet smacks into a wall. I blink and then I see my first zombie.
It’s my neighbor, Carol. She’s black snot running down from her nose and her eyes are bloodshot. She doesn’t seem to recognize me.
“C-carol, are you, are you ok?” I hesitantly ask.
“Unnnnggggrrrryyyy!”
“Yeah, there’s no food you here, Carol,” I reply.
She stalks toward me, her mouth slavering.
“Unnggrryyy,” she moans.
“Sorry Carol, but I’m not on the menu today, or ever,” I say. Then I point my gun at her and click the trigger. Nothing happens.
“Shit,” I swear as I start backing away from Carol. I try shooting the gun a couple more times, but no bullets come out. The gun must have jammed.
Carol lunges at me. Her left hand grabs my right arm and she reels me toward her with inhuman strength. I push back against that hand futilely. I can’t escape her grip. Then I realize I need to stop fighting it, and use my martial arts training. I let myself go loose and as she pulls my close, I grab her with my other hand, while twisting my right arm, which breaks her grip. Then I pick her up and throw her. She crashes into one of the walls, but rebounds up, seemingly unphased by the throw.