Zombie Pikachu

Via Red Bubble Tshirts

LAPD

"Fuck! Fuckin’ fuck fuck!" screamed Detective Tom Boswell as he scanned the room looking for someone else to shoot. His partner stood on the opposite side of the smoke filled room, gun hanging from her hand. She looked up from the bloody mess that was her left arm and fired another round into the dead zombie at her feet. What should have been a routine bust had just gone as bad as bad could go. Outside, a car screeched to a halt and voice began hollering their names.

"Vasquez! Boswell!" The front door burst open flooding the dingy house with light. "Christ Almighty!" hissed the cop from behind his gun. The floor was littered with dead gang bangers, junkies and two zombies. The zombies necks were bound with chains and metal collars attached to long metal poles much like what dog catchers used to capture aggressive dogs. The plain clothes officer, crouching in the doorway, slumped against the frame. His gun hand dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.

"Tell me they didn't..." he couldn't finish.

"My arm," the cop named Vasquez said angrily, shaking it like maybe it would fall off. "They had it on a fuckin' chain. A fuckin' chain," she cried, pointing her pistol at the zombie. She spat and fired yet another round into the twice dead body at her feet.

Boswell said nothing. He shuffled towards a stained and thread bare sofa and sat down beside a junkie in a Lakers’ jersey who had taken a round in the neck. Looking to the cop in the doorway he asked, "So how you wanna' do it, Johnson?"

"What?" Johnson croaked.

"Don't what me. You know what you've gotta do." Johnson looked back and forth between the two, shaking his head.

"No... I can't... Not you two." Vasquez dropped her gun and shuffled over to the sofa, dropping down beside her partner.

"It's your duty, Chris. You took the oath, you know the rules."

"But... your families won't even get your insurance now," mumbled Johnson as he wiped at his eyes. Like most insurance policies, the one covering the LAPD did not cover infection. It could be purchased, but not at a rate affordable to anyone in law enforcement.

"Fuckin zombies," said Boswell, shaking his head.

"My arm feels cold," said Vasquez. There was fear in her voice. Boswell took her hand in his and squeezed it.

"Don't worry, Johnson," he said. "I'll do us both." Vasquez looked at him and smiled, patting his hand.

"You were a good partner, for a gringo." Boswell laughed, but it quickly turned to a sob. He opened his mouth but couldn't find the words.

"It's ok," she said, touching his face. "It's ok." She leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes.

"Wait!" shouted Johnson, staggering to his feet. "Wait!" They stared back at him blankly. The veterans had been through this situation more than once and recognized the signs of denial.

"It's over, kid. Why don't you go back to your car and call it in?" Johnson waved him off with a look of determination.

"Why don't you go back to my car and get my MP5? Danny's is in there too. We're only a few blocks from Green Street's. Most of Rodriguez’s crew is out. Hit him. Grab all the cash you can and hide it somewhere. Call Katie, call your mom, tell them where they can pick it up." Neither infected cop said anything, but the look of defeat on their faces was vanishing as they considered what he said. Johnson looked from one face to another. "You don't have a lot of time to think about this, guys."

Boswell shook his head. “You want us to hit a gang house?”

“Yes. What do you have to lose?”

"What about you, Chris?" asked Vasquez. "You don't take us out and it's your job. Prison time if they decide to make an example of you."

Johnson looked around at the bodies. "Everybody in here dead?"

Boswell gazed around. "Those two still need a head shot," he said. Johnson got up off the floor and fired the sure shots.

"Knock me out. When I come to I can say you attacked me and I didn't know you'd been bitten." The two older officers stared up at him, considering.

"I don't know, kid. I'm already starting to feel cold," said Boswell, but his face said he had already started planning.

"Enough thinking, amigo, let's do it. If I can leave my daughter and my mom something I'm doin' it." She heaved herself off the couch and retrieved her gun. Then she started searching the bodies of the gangsters.

“What are you looking for?” asked Boswell. He had accepted a helping hand from Johnson and was now reloading.

“Blow. They say it holds it off.”

Boswell laughed. “You ever done blow, Maria?” Spotting a duffel bag by the wall, Detective Vasquez picked it up and threw it on a side table.

“Ha!” she barked, pulling out several sale-sized bags. “No, I’ve never done it, but I already feel like shit, love, and you look the same. Can’t go bursting into Rodriguez’s place feeling like we got the flu, it’d be a short hit.” She tore open a bag and poured some on the back of her hand. Johnson and Boswell tried not to laugh as she snorted the drug and then preceded to smack herself between the eyes as if she’d just drank something cold. Tried and failed.

“Shut up and take some, you idiot,” she yelled and threw a bag at Boswell. “And I get to hit Johnson.” The younger officer stopped laughing at that, which only made Boswell laugh harder.



Five minutes later Johnson handed over his keys to Vasquez.

"In the back left hand corner of the trunk you'll see a blue lunch bag, I've got a couple concussion grenades and smoke grenades."

"I'd give you a kiss, Kevin, if..."

Johnson nodded. "Good luck."

"Make sure everybody knows about the chained zombies, Johnson," she said.

"Give me your piece," said Boswell. "You know I'm gonna have to hit you with, right?" he asked, taking the pistol by its barrel.

"Shit. Hadn't thought about that," groaned Johnson. Neither infected detective could risk striking him with their own fists or blood spattered weapons. Johnson sighed and closed his eyes.

"Down on your knees," said Vasquez, "Not as far to fall." He opened his mouth to thank her when the lights went out.


Six hours later Detective Kevin Johnson shuffled into Skinny Pete's bar on Wilshire. Through the one eye he could still see out of he saw several suspicious patrons reach towards weapons. The detective wasn’t sure being shot would be all that bad at that point, it would probably hurt less than his head did. At a shake of the head from the bar's massive owner, they went back to their drinks and Johnson collapsed onto the closest stool. He squinted up at a TV that sat at the end of the bar.

"Sandy, will the LAPD be making a statement on the incident?" asked an anchorman to a reporter standing in the middle of a street before several emergency vehicles.

"They're staying tight lipped on the situation right now, Jim, but my sources are telling me it was some type of murder suicide pack and not an attack by a rival gang like we were led to believe earlier. Witnesses say they heard several loud explosions before the gunfire started and that the shooting lasted a long time." The bartender, not so Skinny Pete, approached Johnson and dropped three envelopes onto the bar in front of him.

"He said to give you these," he said and walked away. When Johnson had come to on the floor of the crack house he found a strange cell phone in his pocket with a text message waiting for him. The message only had the bar's address and nothing else. The top two envelopes were marked for Boswell's wife and Vasquez's mother, the bottom one was his. When Pete returned he put a beer, a shot glass of Jack and a bottle of Tylenol down in front of him.

"On the house," he said. Johnson took a handful of pills with the whiskey and chased it back with the beer before opening the envelope. Inside was a key to a bus station locker and a note that read, 'Don't spend it all in one place.' On the TV, the reporter's face had been replaced by photos of Detective's Tom Boswell and Maria Vasquez. Johnson wiped his eyes and then raised his beer to the TV.

Hey, Cap'n! How's it Going Up There in Southwestern Canada?

For Special Occasions...

Via soule's shop

*Working on a new story, should be up soon.

New York

*This is a little longer than the usual, but it's a new year and all so go big or go home, right? And it's not that long. Sorry about the formatting, something zigged when it should have zagged. So glad I spent all that time making it pretty for nothing.

"Right," said Colonel Blackwell, Special Air Service, slapping his palm on the table. The New York state statistician who had been droning through an endless and numbing list of numbers jumped visibly at the interruption.
"Don't mean to be rude and we certainly enjoyed all the introductions, but how's about we skip the dancing and grab this by the balls." Twenty faces representing most City, State and Federal agencies that operated in the city stared back blank faced from around the giant board room table. Behind them, lining the walls three deep were the blue collars who actually kept the metropolis running. There were more than a few smirks from that quarter.
"Excuse me, Colonel-" began Governor Stewart.
"Our apologies, Governor," responded Commander Christopher Brown, Scotland Yard raising a hand. "We appreciate the welcome you've given us and the fine assortment of brass you've rolled out, but if you want to shut this spread down we've got to start working now. The facts and figures are all well and good, but I've yet to hear one that'll help us here." Incredulous faces stared back at the two Englishmen.
"Look, I'm sure the Home Office would've preferred sending out some suits to do this, but quite frankly, if they're not already dead then they're probably responsible for the original cock-up we had," explained Blackwell. "We're here to help you lock this down because it's what we do. It's not pretty, but it's effective. If you're looking for long lunches and coffee breaks and smoke blown up your arse I'm afraid you called the wrong people." Glances were traded around the room before the Mayor finally cleared his throat and asked, "And where would you have us start?"
Brown nodded and turned in his chair towards the large map of Manhattan. He had studied the city in detail on the flight over, but he had one last look before speaking.
"Cut off all exits from the island. Bridges, tunnels, ferries, whatever. Leave three bridges open. Triborough to the north, and the Brooklyn and Williamsburg to the south. No cars. If they leave, they leave on foot. Cars take too long to inspect and you don’t have that kind of time. Anyone with any sort of illness is held back, anyone showing signs of the sickness should be shot on sight and dropped over the side. Give them three days then cut the bridges. Commandeer any helicopters and float planes you can and destroy those you can't. Blockade the entire island immediately and sink any vessel that attempts to leave. Sink anything that floats that stays behind. Mine the river bottom all the way around."
"Evacuate Manhattan in three days? By foot?" sputtered the mayor. "Do you have any idea how many people live here?"
"I know exactly how many people live here which is why I gave you an extra day."
"Commander, I know the primary concern here is containing the spread of the disease, but the overwhelming majority aren’t sick," said the Deputy Director of Homeland Security. "I realize that, Director, and that makes it all the more difficult at this stage, but the bowels of your city are contaminated and every second we waste now is a second closer to the flash point. Hell, we could already be there."
"Flash point?" asked the Governor.
"The moment all those infected rummies down in your subway system realize there's food above them," answered Brown. "Then it all goes to hell, regardless of your plans and preparations. There's no stopping it once it starts."
"Once the exits are cut is when it gets bad. Then they start trying to escape and you can't let them. Best you can do is try airlifting them off buildings, but who you take off has to be harsher than at the bridges. Mob rule will weed out a lot of infected before they get to the helipads, but a lot of those'll show up armed and dangerous." "Lots'll be draggin' loved ones along who're infected but they'll swear it's just a cold or an allergy. Them's the ones to worry about cause they'll try anything. They'll bribe, they'll threaten, the pretty ones'll offer some ass. You'll need extra soldiers just to watch the ones who may consider it. You need hard men. Men who won't blink at putting a bullet into anyone, because it will come to that quickly. They need to be prepared to drop another soldier so it's best to set up two teams, one to herd and one to watch," said Blackwell.
"Whose got subways?" asked Brown to the crowd of engineers. Two heavy set men stepped forward.
"Right. You need to hook up with the Army engineers. Any tunnels leaving the island need to be walled up and the inner wall needs to be mined for when you come back. Protect the engineers."
"Excuse me?" interrupted the FBI representative. "What are the mines in the water for if we've sunk all the boats?"
"Two things. First off, the zombies'll walk the river bottom and escape. Second, survivors will start building rafts. They'll loot kayaks or canoes from sporting goods stores and the truly desperate will try and swim. You can try processing them on the water if you like, but lock it down at night." Faces were quickly turning pale around the table as they realized their worst case scenarios were merely starting points for the horrors that lay ahead.
"Then what?" asked the mayor.
"Once you've pulled out as many as you can it turns to cleanup. Round up as many snipers as you can find and camp them around the island, they'll be busy for years. You'll probably need to hire out to civilians as well."
"Put teams on secure roof tops. Not the high towers mind you, but the medium sized buildings. Secure the rooftop and set up a self sufficient base for a sniper team and establish a secondary building they can zip line to if they're overwhelmed."
"You can also make excellent use of Central Park as a killing zone," added Blackwell.
"How so?"
"Eventually they'll begin running out of fresh meat as the number of uninfected drops. They'll feed on each other if they have too, but you can draw the bastards out easy enough with some live bait. Animals will work, but nothing beats a human screaming their lungs out, drives 'em nuts."
"Bait?" asked the horrified mayor.
"You set up a tower that they can't climb but that you can drop a man on from a chopper. Once you've gathered in a good number you evac your man and drop some anti-personnel explosives or some napalm."
"Luckily they're stupid and you can keep doing it over and over again," said Brown.
The anger and incredulity on the faces of the men and women around the table had now been replaced with shock and horror. None of their training or management skills had prepared them for this. Around them, notes were being scribbled at a furious pace and department heads had already begun whispering plans to one another.
"You're lucky geographically. If you move fast enough you can contain the worst of it to the island and won't have to take the drastic measures that others have had to," said Brown.
"Needless to say, this has to be kept quiet. There's a reason no one was allowed to bring a cell in here. You need your assets in place before even a whisper of this gets out, otherwise you may as well just Shanghai the city now," said Blackwell.
"They said that was an accident," said the governor. General Smythe, of the Air National Guard cleared his throat, his first contribution to the meeting.
"It wasn't an accident, Governor, the Chinese dropped two tactical nukes on the city. They shot any survivor that tried to escape." There was silence around the room.
"Did it work?" someone asked from the back. Brown shrugged.
"There's no zombies in Shanghai anymore, but the city was bleeding evacuees for days before they cooked it. One thing China's not short of is zombie food." The Englishmen allowed their words to sink in for a moment or two.
"You need to start moving your troops now. And you need to get as much work out of your city guys before they start to run so you'll also need extra troops for that too. Protect them and and keep them working.”
"Why can't we use army engineers for that?" asked a heavy set Teamster.
"Because there aren't enough of them and they don't know the city like your people. Let's make one thing clear here in case you've missed something. You're going to be sacrificing a lot of people here, probably millions so this isn't the time to get all sentimental or worry about your union ties or bullshit like that. You can give up the city and contain this or you can fuck around like a lot of other cities and lose it all. I know you've probably got a bag full of contingency plans you're already planning to throw at us but I can tell you right now they won't work. You want to try them first, that's up to you, but in the end you'll wind up like Bombay or New Delhi or Hong Kong. Your city is simply too big." Blackwell took a look around the room. "So, are we staying or are you taking us back to the airport?" The room went silent, but before anyone could respond, the representative from the State Department spoke up.
"On behalf of the United States government I wish to extend you our deepest thanks for taking this trip and formally request that you help lead our efforts at containing this outbreak."
"Wait a minute," started the Mayor. The man from State pulled an envelope marked with the Presidential Seal and slid it across the table.
"The state of New York is hereby under direct control of the federal government. Colonel Blackwell, ___ Brown, the full resources of this state, at all levels, along with whatever support you require from the United States government is at your disposal." Across the table, the Governor was turning purple while the Mayor's face had gone white. "You're handing over my state to a bunch of foreigners? And we're supposed to just roll over?"
"John," said the Mayor, holding out the letter with a shaky hand, "You should read this before you say anything else." The Governor waved dismissively towards his aide, his eyes not leaving the man from State.
“John, it’s signed by the President. He can have you removed from office or shot if he wants to,” said the mayor quietly and slid the letter towards him.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” State smiled before turning back to the two Englishmen. “Where do we start?”

Zombie Peanuts!

What? You didn't think I meant Charlie Brown and Lucy, did you? That would be wrong.



via bent objects

Thanks Keely

Not a Single Mention of Brains