Like any self-respecting author from my generation, I have written a trashy Zombie apocalypse novel that should probably stay hidden in the most remote folder on my computer, but because I love you guys so much (or hate or whatever), I have decided to share an excerpt of that novel with you. Enjoy.
My ass hurts. I suspect I’ve been bitten, though I pray that isn't the case, assuming I would have noticed if I had been, but in my wilder days, long before the infection turned us all wild, I had felt the sensation before. Of course, in those wild days, I would have enjoyed the bite; indeed, I might have even begged for more, but now, it makes me nervous—cautious whenever I sit down so as not to alert the suspicion of my peers. I wish I could have seen the frisky monkey who decided my ass would taste better than the brains further upstairs. If I had seen him, I’d have popped him right between his banana-loving eyes with the butt of my gun, and I would hit him and hit him again and again until his furry skull was spread across the African wilderness. For now, however, I will hold out as long as I can.
“You alright, man?” Tomahawk asks. His name is Tom, was Tommy many years ago on the playground, but he insists we call him Tomahawk now. He carries one too, though we have never seen him use it. I figure he’s too frightened of the beast to fight. He had always been too frightened, too frightened to speak to women, too frightened to pursue his dreams, too frightened to take on his belligerent superior, too frightened to die. That’s why he cowers behind us whenever they come rushing the camp, those bloody fangs glistening in the wake of our torch lights, but we call him Tomahawk nonetheless. After all, this is a time made for making dreams come true.
“Yeah, I just bruised my rectum.”
“Bruised your rectum?”
Aside from Tomahawk, there’s Katy who asks to be called Kate, Bill who wants us to refer to him as Jesus, Samuel who goes by Samantha, Amy who has started calling herself Batman, and Marcia and I who just want to use the names our mothers gave us. We all plan to survive together, but more importantly, we all plan to die together, figuring, if we are going to die (and we are going to die), we might as well die with the closest thing to family any of us have ever had.
*** And now, we shall skip ahead a bit to the good part. You know … the part with the zombie chimps and whatnot. Continue enjoying or start enjoying depending on how entertaining you found the first, expository section.***
I start to turn, blood boiling and will power dwindling, yet no one notices. The rustling in the woods distracts them. We know they’re coming, those shit-flinging, brain-craving bastards. They will come swinging in on vines like a demented army of Tarzans without a Jane to soothe their carnal instincts, yelping with the full capacity of their lungs. We will shoot and we will shoot and we will shoot with complete disregard for our finite supply of ammunition. When their heads explode, like water balloons from an R-rated gore fest, we will delight in the imagine, bearing that creepy grin which reminds us, no matter how long we survive, we are no longer human. My survival clock brains brains brains brains brains brains is ticking and ticking quickly brains brains brains brains brains brains and I figure now is as good a time as any brains brains brains brains brains brains to tell them.
“You guys,” brains brains brains brains brains brains, “I think I’ve been bitten,” brains brains brains brains brains brains
The chimps tear through the trees, swinging, yelping, flinging, hungry. It seems as though the trees are collapsing behind me, but I realize soon enough that my penchant for the dramatic is affecting my perception of the event. Still, there are flames rising in the distance, smoke drifting up into the night sky. They hear me, but they have no choice but to start firing ahead of them. I want to join them, staring at my gun, but I no longer possess control over my limbs. My back begins to arch … my eyes turn red … I, too, am hungry.
Tomahawk looks my way. He has his titular weapon drawn and aims it in my direction. I think he is crying. He’s always been somewhat of a baby. The chimps gather around me, smelling it in me. They rally to my cry. I gaze around at my fleet of chimps, ugly and ready to die for me and for their meals, and I realize I have always been one of them. Tomahawk is still looking my way, still crying like the scared little child he is. Oh yes, we are going to die together alright.