So I was supposed to write a short story about a time that I was horribly shattered and disilusioned. Well, this week is Humans vs. Zombies, so I figured since this class is already a crock of shit I might as well have fun.
Casper the Unfriendly
I met him the day after the first zombies were reported. I was walking behind the bushes, photographing. A risky job, to be sure, but since my infected roomate took over my entire residence hall, and since free food and ammo was provided for any photographers willing to take the risk of working for the zombie field guide, what else was there for me to do? So, while zombies were after my brains, I was out after their profiles.
There, I saw one. Well, to put it correctly, I smelled one, and then, after blinking the stench out of my tear ducts, then I saw it. Lurking there; dead. It sensed me, and I heard that spine chilling moan that anyone who's seen a George Romero film can only identify as a member of the undead.
It started towards me. Quick! Snap! Quick! Snap! Quick! Shoot. Hit the shoulder. DAMN! Cock. Fire. Head shot. Then once more, just to be sure. Took one more shot of the now once-again-motionless corpse, kissed my M16 and my Cannon 450 for getting through another one, and was stet to go take in my shots.
Hey, it was a dangerous life, but hey, what did I care? In a non-disgusting way, I also belong to the world undead. For you see, this is a shitty fantasy written at 2:00 am by a college student, so I am a vampire.
On my way up the elavator in the zombie press building, I heard a ding, and then the elevator stopped to let in the most bad-ass guy I've ever seen. Bleach-blonde hair thinly tried to veil his electric blue eyes. A small snarl escaped from him and in the process revealed a pair of unnaturally pointed canines, but his heaving chest betrayed that he was still among the living. My eyes crossed his leather-jacketed torso to the red band on his arm: Zombie Relief Force- and then down to his left hand where I discovered a very distinct pentagram.. He was a self-made werewolf.
So rielieved to meet another freak in the demented world that my life had become over the last few days that I couldn't hold myself back from introducing myself, I said "Hi, I'm Lolita; a photographer."
He looked startled at my direct eye contact, and then responded, "I'm Casper, the clan leader of the ZRF."
He followed my eyes to the mark on his hand, and to his clawlike fingernails. "A monster," he reavealed, "because it takes one to fight these damn things."
"I understand." I said.
"I'll bet you do." He responded ambiguously.
I couldn't contain my curiosity anymore, because I'd heard such horrible stories about werewolf transformations.
"So...," I pondered, "Does it really hurt badly?"
"Like a thousand bitches released from Hell itself," he answered gravely, "but not as much as watching everyone you care about die, so here I am."
I nodded, admiring his courage.
"If you ever need help," he added, "you know who to call." He gestured to the ZRF hotline number written on my hand.
Ding! And the ride was over, my courage soaring.
Over the next few days, I "fought" undead the way that a hawk "fights" the fish it plucks from the water. I knew that if I ever really needed, that I could have Casper there in seconds. With this knowlege, I slaughtered hundreds of the things, and felt better with each kill.
Then, three days later, I was walking back from my kills when I heard a sound like I'd never heard before. It was a low, gutteral, bestial moan like something you wwould hear from a Mayan death whistle auto-tuned by Daft Punk. I turned around to see a massive, hairy, undead beast raised to kill. Teeth bared in a snarl that went all the way up to the violently blue, dead eyes.
Casper's eyes.
Sometimes even tho most promising of heroes aren't enough to overcome your battles.
Wondering what it would be like to die a second time, I cocked my gun.
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