Another Flash Fiction effort, this time based on what’s currently hot in popular culture. And it’s Halloween month.
Zombie Apocalypse . . . almost
“The NZA is predicting a swarm to pass through the area sometime between seven and eight A.M. Mostly slow movers, but reports indicate the possibility of up to twenty percent fast-moving zombies.”
Bill groaned as he listened to the TV announcer give the daily traffic and zombies report. He was already running late, and this promised to add to his hour-long commute to work.
“This particular group seems composed of mostly fresh zombies, so be ready for a messy commute.” The zombie forecaster seemed thrilled with the idea of still moist body parts littering the roads. Bill, on the other hand, regretted getting his car washed yesterday.
He sighed, strapped his two .45 caliber Glock 21s between the four spare magazines already on his belt. He debated grabbing a few extra magazines, but opted instead to grab the loaded drum magazine for the SR-25 already in the car. Finally, he slipped the Taurus Judge loaded with .410 Buckshot shells into his underarm holster. Bill hoped he would not need the close quarter gun, especially given these were wet zombies. He put on his jacket and headed downstairs.
“. . . but mother, the rest of the girls carry .22’s!” his daughter was using her whiny voice for what he knew would be a losing argument with his wife, Mindy.
“I don’t care. Grab at least a 9mm, and carry an extra mag.” Mindy was already turning, signaling the argument was over, and walked up to him for his morning kiss.
“Can you drop off Susan at the bus stop?” Asked Bill, “I’m already running late.”
“Sure,” replied Mindy, “but please take the garbage out before you leave.”
Bill put down the stuff he carried, and headed to fulfill the time-honored male role of garbage disposer. He grabbed the garbage bag and the M4 tactical 12-Gauge leaning by the garage door, and headed out. He cycled the garage door, and got ready to deal with any stragglers which may be wandering outside. He had not heard any shots as he got ready, but he was likely the first one to be out since he left earlier than his neighbors . Luckily, the yard was clear. He dumped the garbage, went back for his stuff, and got into his pride and joy, the Z25-Suburban.
The titanium plow allowed for a fair amount of zip versus the heavier steel model, and the blade automatically adjusted the road clearance using on sonic sensors mounted on the reinforced prow. The splash shield theoretically allowed him to hit zombies at near 50mph, but as usual the claims were a bit exaggerated; anything above 35 and he still had to deal with cleaning off bits of dead flesh from the windshield. He had opted for the manual Gatlins instead of the self-targeting semi-autos, and while they chewed through a lot of ammo, he usually had no trouble clearing even the thickest zombie throngs, and the Z25 could carry plenty of ammo to feed them.
Heading down the hill, he turned his radio on to hear the latest about the zombies heading this way.
“ . . . mbie enforcement is out this morning along I-25, so be careful. Remember, get your quota, or get a ticket!” Damn! He did not need the Zombie Patrol breathing down his neck. Oh well, he better be careful; he already had a ticket this month for speeding by the small group of zombies without stopping to shoot them. He had not seen the Z-Patrol car until he saw the lights and heard the siren.
Pulling out into the main road out of the subdivision, he turned on the news.
“. . . saying construction of The Fence is proceeding as scheduled despite a recent increase in swarm activity at the border. On the political front, arguments continue over a bill proposed by a bi-partisan committee that would cancel survivor benefits of anyone turned into a zombie. ‘I don’t see how there can be survivor benefits when the actual earner is still running around.’ Senator Benton was quoted as saying, to which Senator Armstrong replied ‘Oh, are we now going to label the undead alive?’ Testimony from various religious, medical, science, and voodoo experts is expected to continue through the week.”
Bill turned off the radio as he noticed cars up ahead braking. “Great!” he thought, “What now?”
The Mandatory Fire Check lane sign was lit and flashing, and everyone was pulling off to check the function of their on-board guns. As he slowed to a crawl, he wished he had not hit the snooze button on the alarm clock; a half hour earlier he would have sailed through here.
His turn finally came, and he fired a quick burst into one of the dirt hills. The noise cancelling system inside the cab made the Gat’s sound like someone passing gas. The Lane Officer scanned his licence and waved him on. Luckily traffic after the check lane was moving. He just got up to speed again when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye; about sixty fast movers running to intersect the highway a quarter mile ahead. The car ahead of him had already pulled off, and a young lady was in the process of grabbing what looked like an AK-47 and a bag of magazines out of the trunk.
Reluctantly he put on his signal and aimed his car at the group. Were he not late, and married, he might have stopped to pick off zombies alongside the attractive young lady. As it were, Bill stopped the Burb, manned his guns, and mowed the group down long before she got off a shot. As he pulled out she smiled and waved at him, and he nodded back in what he hoped was a stoic and manly way. At least, as stoic and manly as a pudgy middle aged man can look.
He thought back at The Fence story. The US had been lucky so far. With so many people owning guns, and so many weapons manufacturers on its soil, US zombies had been wiped out in the first month of the infection. You still got the occasional straggler, but most swarms these days were imports coming up from Mexico and the rest of South America. It used to be jobs attracting immigrants, but now brains attracted zombies to cross the US border.
Worse yet, the Northern Fence was still on the drawing board. So far the billions of Asian and European zombies had not ventured North in large numbers, but every year more and more found their way across the frozen Chukchi Sea and into Alaska. No one knew how, but zombies could tell where fresh brains were to be found, and other than in the middle of winter, they had shown they could make the transit between continents. Already there was talk of large migrations ambling North.
“Oh well,” Bill thought, “we’ve handled tough times before, we’ll handle whatever comes up next.” He gunned the engine as he headed up Ute Pass, and wished more politicians had been infected. Those were the most satisfying of zombies to fill one’s quota.