Creative Writing: Zombie Apocalypse

Some people would do great in the zombie apocalypse. Rednecks, soldiers and bodybuilders would be at their prime, slaying huge mobs of zombies and looking good doing it.

I am not one of those people. I was a fucking art major from New Jersey. I’ve never even held a gun in my life, I hid my face in a pillow during the scary parts of horror movies, and I had an affinity for feather boas. But here I was, walking alone through the deserted streets of New York City with a .45 slung over my shoulder.

I wasn’t always alone, of course. My brother and everyone else I cared about all lived in a big farmhouse about an hour away from the city. But when it came to supply runs I prefered going alone. There was less chance of someone I loved getting hurt

“I promise.”

“Even if you were a psychopath, you wouldn’t be the worst guy I’ve brought home.”

That sent both of us into another bout of laughter. We continued chatting casually as if we’d known each other forever. Before we knew it, the sun had set.

“Jesus, it’s dark already,” he remarked.

“Yeah,” I said. “We should probably get some sleep if we’re gonna get out of the city tomorrow.”

He agreed, and both of us sprawled out on the floor. We attempted to get comfortable, or as comfortable as we could get lying on a cold hard floor.

“Goodnight, Frank,” I whispered after a little while, but the other man was already asleep.

***

I woke up the next morning to the soft dawn sunlight streaming in through the boarded up windows. Frank was still sleeping, curled up closer to me than he was when I fell asleep the night before. I had a little more time to study him when he was asleep. He looked really fucking peaceful when he was sleeping; his normally intense facial features softening into an almost childlike face. Even though I just met him, a small smile tugged at my lips. I couldn’t help but feel like I wanted to stay there forever, tangled up with him on the floor. But soon pangs of hunger shot through my stomach, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the morning before. I didn’t think Frank had any food either, so I assumed he would be just as hungry as I

“When did you become a middle aged woman with marriage problems?”

His face turned red and he shoved the book under the desk behind him. I just laughed, tossing a packet of beef jerky and a water bottle at him.

“Eat up. I wanna get out of here before noon.”

We ate in silence, and then when I finished he let me wrap his ankle. Even with the bandages, he winced as he tried to put his weight on it.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said. He tried to protest, but I didn’t let him. I told him to wait there as I searched the upper floors of the building. Luckily, I found a pair of crutches on the third floor in a storage closet.

I brought them downstairs and presented them to Frank. “I think they’re made for kids, but they should be fine for you.”

He made a face, but accepted the crutches, letting me help him up and leaning heavily on them, practicing a little before he was able to walk smoothly. I collected my things and both of us left the shop, walking back through the streets to where I had parked my truck.

I took care of the few zombies we encountered, but I still gave Frank a handgun just in case. We were mostly silent so we didn’t draw too much attention to