Srol 
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Apr 2 2010, 08:34 PM
Post #1
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Italic User
- Posts:
- 428
- Group:
- Time Keeper
- Member
- #29
- Joined:
- Jan 19 2009
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- Gender:
- Male
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The Zombie War
"Some sort of narrative prose about some thing"
By Srol
For decades, the winding mountain roads and tunnels of Colorado were filled with the wealthy as they rushed to their cool snowy pleasure domes in order to escape the hustle and bustle of their whorish Hollywood lives.
But none of that mattered, because Colorado does not exist. Neither does Hollywood for that matter. What kind of moron are you who thinks things like that could exist in this, the best of all possible worlds.
The place I'm talking about is Hyper Colorado. It is much better than Colorado, if it existed, and it lies along the West coast of Alaska, except there's no such thing as Alaska, so stop thinking about things that aren't real.
In a small cabin in the Super Rockies, a small bedraggled group of SubMericans huddled together to keep warm. As SubMericans, they were used to living in their subs close to the underwater volcanos on the floor of the Specific Ocean, so they had not properly adjusted to the cold Hyper Coloradoan temperatures yet.
But they were also shivering because they were scared.
Scared of the zombies.
Only one member of the group was not partaking in the display. He had scooted over to the broken window on the outside wall of the cabin and raised his eyes so they just barely cleared the edge of the window sill. From there he scanned the amber horizon as the abyssal snow had left its dull yellow glow over the rocky hillsides outside. After being sure that there were no signs of unlife outside, he sagged and rested his back against the outside wall of the cabin.
“All clear,” he whispered to his comrades, and the group collectively sagged in relief.
His crimson tunic was stained and torn, but he wore it with pride as one of the few SubMericaners still in possession of such regal garments. At his side, his laser halberd glowed softly; its power cells only had a fraction of their original power, and probably only had a half dozen discharges left before the spell on it would unravel and it would turn back into a puppy.
Also, this probably should be set in the past.
As if in reply to the burgundy-suited man's words, the last remaining glass pane in the window shattered as an object about the size of a grown-man's fist shattered through the window. But the refugees soon discovered that it was not a fist as it embedded itself into the skull of one of the bedraggled survivors, scarlet liquid gushing from the wound.
The wounded man quickly pried the object from his head and examined with his weary senses. Green discolored flesh ringed ivory blades with a sliver of loose skin falling out in the middle.
Once, this was a lower jaw of a man. Now it was just flak in the war.
The war against the zombies.
Soon, the wooden walls of the cabin began to shake, as more stray organs were pelted against the walls. A few fingers, a kidney and a nostril that looked as though it must have seen better days also came through the lone window to scatter aimlessly across the floor. But the zombie marksmen were unable to repeat the success of their initial volley.
As quickly as it began, the organ assault ended. The man in the crimson uniform breathed heavily, trying to gather up courage for another scouting glance at the abyssal hillside. He slowly pulled his legs in underneath him and raised his head to take another peak out the window.
The amber hills had been replaced by a bloodshot, rotting pair of eyeballs, barely concealed at their inward edges by a pair of tarnished iron nez-pierce spectacles.
The man kicked at the wall wildly, pushing himself back toward the other refugees. As he slid on the dilapidated wooden floor of the cabin, he pulled his laser halberd in front of him, and let loose with a light blue volley on maximum power.
The entire wall vaporized under the onslaught, leaving behind only some suspicious black smoke and the odd smell of a burnt George Foreman grill. The laser halberd dropped from the man's hands, its charge spent.
But it was all in vain, as now that the wall was gone, the refugees could clearly see their opponent.
In addition to the glasses, he also possessed a cowboy hat, a handlebar mustache and a bolo tie. His withered undead lips were pulled back into a vile grin that once plastered all the newspapers of SubMerica before the zombie onslaught.
It was him. The Zombie President.
Theodore Roosevelt, himself, had come to finish off the last gasps of the human race.
“Walk softly--” his croaking voice rasped, “--and carry a flesh-eating plague of undeath with you wherever you go.”
Something inside the uniformed man sagged. Maybe it was the realization that he was about to die, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. Maybe it was the fact that he had just released his bowels. Either way, he developed the kind of insane courage that the insane possess and cowards lament.
He stood, dusted off his uniform off, and thrust his laser halberd aside, as it already had begun turning back into a puppy.
“So this is your square deal,” he said. “Undeath for all Mericans, sub and sky alike?”
Roosevelt cocked his head to the side, as though he were hearing a noise from far away and had to strain to hear it.
“Zombies are good for the economy,” Roosevelt said. “They do not require food, so I will never have to create the USDA. They don't pretend to care about nature, so I won't need any national parks. Plus, you really ought to have known what you were getting yourselves into when I ran against MegaTaft 3 in the Zombie Bull Mouse Party.”
“That wasn't the name of your party!” The uniformed man yelled. But before he could muster up any further protestations, Roosevelt moved so quickly, he never saw him leave the spot where he had been standing. He just suddenly was there, in front of him, holding a human trachea.
The uniformed man tried to say something, but then he noticed a gaping hole in his chest and a feeling of yawning emptiness in his chest. Plus, he was vomitting stomach acid directly into his lungs.
He collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor, as Roosevelt raised the trachea to his lips and spoke into it, his voice coming out in the voice of his fallen opponent.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “That was totally the name of your party.”
“You're a monster,” one of the refugees yelled.
“No,” Roosevelt replied. “I am a
TO BE CONTINUED GUYS, I GOT FUCKING NOTHING
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