Who Says Zombies Can't Be Adorable???

Not Tera, at Olive Hue Designs, that's for sure. Just look at this cute little brain-muncher!

Zombies, ninjas, and a Hello Kitty t-shirt. Seriously, the only thing missing are some LEGOs.

Lessons

"It's a great deal," insisted Mrs. Sanford, "You should really get yourself a pair."

"I'll check it out next time I'm over there," agreed Mrs. Epps as she pointed a finger at Samuel Dylan. The troublesome four year old had just picked up a handful of sand with the intent to throw. Samantha Epps was ready to move quickly if she had to since young Samuel was known to be ‘difficult,’ but the boy dropped the sand and pointed behind the young teacher and the older volunteer.

"Oh my," said Mrs. Epps, "They've seen a few seasons, haven't they?"

"The poor souls, there's barely anything holding them together, is there?" In the dense shrubbery behind the Sunshine Elementary's 12 foot chain link fence two zombies stumbled through the thick fall leaves. The recent rain had softened the leaves and muffled their approach. As Mrs. Epps had observed, the two had probably seen at least two winters now as rot and wear had withered them away to almost nothing.

"Ew!" squealed Amy Chen, as the rest of the pre-school class finally noticed. Mrs. Epps was about to dispatch the two but had to stop and make sure her charges stayed at safe distance.

"I'll get them, dear," said Mrs. Sandford as she fished a snub nosed .38 from the pocket of her cardigan.

"Boys and girls, let's back up and let Mrs. Sandford take care of them," Mrs. Epps said, herding the children back. "Beverly, be careful you don't hit the fence."

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Sandford answered and closed in on the fence so she could rest the barrel between the wires.

"Now, are these new zombies or old zombies?" asked the younger teacher. She turned back from the tiny waving hands when she heard the click of Mrs. Sandford's empty pistol.

"Oh dear me," she muttered, "I'm terrible at reloading this thing."

"Mrs. Sandford," began Mrs. Epps, "You really should-" She broke off as the older woman fell back sharply, crying out in fear and pain. The arm of an unseen zombie had shot out from beneath the fence and dragged her foot under. Mrs. Epps drew her own Browning 10mm with surprising speed, but it was too late, the legless undead had already sunk its teeth through Mrs. Sandford's shoe. As it shook the screaming woman's foot back and forth much like a dog with a chew toy would, Mrs. Epps dispatched it with two rounds to the head.

"Beverly? Samantha? Come in please," crackled the radio on Mrs. Epps hip.

"This is Samantha. We've got zombies at the north fence. Beverly got too close to the fence and was pulled under," she reported to the office. "We'll need a cleanup crew for the back woods."

"Beverly?"

"Bitten," answered Mrs. Epps. She looked around to make sure the class was still behind her and safe. Recess volunteers were already racing towards them and she could see the school's sniper on the roof preparing to dispatch the undead in the woods. She held a hand up to stop him. "Should I send the kids in or use this as a learning tool?"

"Oh, by all means let's use this!" answered Mrs. Kale, the school principle. "Let me call the other classes over before you do anything."

"Understood," Mrs. Epps answered and clipped the radio back to her belt. The sniper, who had heard the conversation over the radio, lowered his rifle and gave her the thumbs up. "Ok, kids, can anybody tell me what happened here?"

"Mrs. Sandford was dumb!" shouted Noah Lichfield.

"Noah," Mrs. Epps scolded, "We do not use that word in class, do we? And how do we answer a question?"

"Raise your hand!" shouted the rest of the class.

"That's right. Noah was right in that Mrs. Sandford was very silly," Mrs. Epps said as she retrieved the woman's revolver and opened the cylinder. She turned the gun around and showed it to the assembled children. She kicked away a groping hand and stepped away from the groaning lady before speaking again.

"What should mommy's and daddy's always do after they have used their firearms?"

"Reload!" Mrs. Epps smiled at the other teachers who had now joined them.

"That's right!"

Mrs. Sandford rolled onto her side, begging for help. Mrs. Epps looked back to the children and raised her hands for quiet.

"Listen up, listen up everyone. Did you all hear her?" she asked, pointing at the woman.

"She asked for help," said a tiny voice from the front.

"That's right, Emily. Is this Mrs. Sandford anymore?" Mrs. Epps asked the little girl. Her blonde curls shook with her head. "And why isn't she Mrs. Sandford anymore?"

"Cause she's infected."

"Exactly!" Samantha called over Mrs. Sandford's pleas. "As soon as she was bitten she stopped being the Mrs. Sandford we loved. This is super important to remember," she said, making sure to make eye contact with each and every child. "What's the most dangerous zombie there is?" she asked, quoting the government's Guide to Survival.

"A new zombie!" they shouted.

"And?"

"A zombie that you know!"

"Excellent! Excellent! I'm so proud of you. Now, who can tell me some signs of a newly infected zombie? Hands! I'll only take hands!" She pointed at Gabriella Estrada. "Yes, Gabby?"

"Their eyes!"

"Yes, their eyes. Did everybody know that?" Seeing some blank faces, she guided the children so they could see the infected woman's face. "See how her eyes are already clouding? That's because the zombie that bit her was very old and dirty. Also, you can see how her leg is already starting to turn blue.

"Samantha..." growled Mrs. Sandford.

"Mrs. Epps," called Principle Kale, "This has been a fantastic lesson, but I think Mrs. Sandford is turning a little too quickly." Mrs. Epps nodded.

"Ok, everyone, back up please."

"And why are we backing up boys and girls?" asked the Principle.

"Splatter!” The kids shouted. Even Mrs. Epps retreated a step as what was left of the older woman tried to spit at her. One shot to the centre of her forehead was all it took.

"Great shot, Mrs. Epps,” called Mrs. Kale, leading the clapping children, “But I think the School District would prefer a second shot whether she needs it or not.” Mrs. Epps followed the Principle’s orders and then returned to the children.

“Now, before we go anywhere, can we leave those two nasty zombies out there in the woods?” she asked.

“No!” screamed the children.

“Well then, if one of you can tell me what kind of gun I carry, maybe I’ll let the winner shoot one.” Tiny pink hands reached for the sky.

Survivors 2

Today is part two of the story Survivor from our guest poster Amy of Subject to Change.

_____January 15th

The stench is awful. Jonah tells me the chemical tang hanging in the air and burning my nasal passages is the napalm, but that's not the worst of it. It's the burnt smell. Intellectually you'd think it was no different than leaving a steak on the grill for too long, but it's not. Somehow knowing that the still-smoking piles of bones crunching under the tires used to be people makes the smell so much worse.

At least we're not hungry anymore. We came up yesterday and stocked up on food, water, and gas. We switched the car for a truck because I figured having something with four wheel drive would probably be a good idea sooner or later. We looted a weapons shop, too. I remember making jokes about all this stuff when it was a just videogame scenario. It's not nearly as fun when it's real.

* * *

We're almost on the edge of the city now, I can see the barricades a few miles away. It took us two days to get out this far because we stopped along the way to see if we could find any other survivors.

No. Why am I lying? It wasn't anything nearly so altruistic. We did pick up a few people but I wasn't looking for them. I went home looking for Eric. I don't know why because he was all the way across town at work when the shit hit the fan. And even if he could have made it home he wouldn't have stayed there. He knew about Grandpa's stupid panic room, they all did. They would've tried to make their way there if they could have. Still, I had to check. After I went home I stopped at everyone's houses and jobs but I didn't find them. No one survived, at least not that I found. I didn't really expect them to be alive anyway

But when we were looking for the rest of our family we found the others. Jack, Isabel, Stephanie and Charles. Jack is six or seven. We found him wandering alone. I don't know how he managed to survive everything because he won't talk. We only know his name because his mom embroidered it into the collar of his jacket. I cried when I saw that. Isabel and Stephanie were in town with some friends to celebrate the New Year and Charles is an ex-marine, so that'll be useful, even if he is fifty-something. When we picked him up he set the break in Jonah's leg and found some pain meds for him.

We're on the 15 heading towards LA. That's where Isabel and Stephanie are from and they want to go home. Seems like as good a destination as any and the rest of us don't have a home anymore, so why not? Jonah, Jack, and I are sleeping in the back of the truck. Well, Jonah and Jack are asleep. Jonah's been passed out ever since Charles found those meds for him this afternoon. Jack's curled up in a little tiny ball against my side. I can feel him shaking and he whimpers in his sleep. I can't sleep. I keep thinking about everyone I left behind. What if I gave up too quickly? What if they're still alive out there somewhere?

* * *

The freeway is blocked off at the mountain pass. We weren't the only survivors from Vegas and apparently they all decided to go to LA as well, only the California Highway Patrol won't let anyone thru. People are saying they're shooting anyone trying to sneak by on foot, no questions asked. Looks like we're stuck here for a while. We could turn around and try to go somewhere else, but why bother? I'm sure every route out of Vegas has undergone the same treatment by now. None of the nearby cities are gonna risk infection just to give sanctuary to a few unlucky bastards that weren't smart enough to die right away.


_____January 17th

There's a sort of refugee camp here now. People huddled together for protection. There's already been eight infections discovered, but they were killed before they could turn anyone else. Charles was one of them, turns out he got bit on the leg a few hours before we found him. He'd been hopped up on coke the whole time he was with us. Apparently that slows the process.

* * *

There's about sixty of us altogether. People kept trickling in for a little while, a few of them every hour or so, sometimes alone, sometimes in a small group like ours, but that's stopped. There hasn't been anyone new approaching in more than half a day. The pass is still blocked. We'll probably die here.



_____January 22nd

There's barely two dozen of us left. So many people have died, or been killed, because of this stupid virus. The other refugees brought it in with them, just like we did, because they couldn't admit to themselves that their loved ones were infected. Isabel heard from someone that they're gonna take out the camp because the California government doesn't want to risk us infecting their perfect golden citizens.



_____January 23rd

I can hear the helicopters coming with the napalm now. I should get up and try to run, like Isabel and Stephanie did, but I've got nowhere to go. Besides Jonah can't run anywhere and Jack's gotten sick from being out in the cold for so long. I can't leave them. I sang to Jack til he fell asleep, the poor kid. He must be more messed up than I thought if he can find my singing soothing. Anyway, he's peaceful now as the choppers bear down on us. That's the best I can do for him, make sure he's not afraid anymore. I've put these papers in a toolbox that I found in the back of the truck we stole and had Isabel take it out far enough from the camp that hopefully it won't be in range of the fire. I don't know why I want them to survive. Maybe they'll answer some questions for someone. Jack's mom, if she's still alive, or maybe Eric if he managed to escape, which I can't seem to stop hoping for.

If you're reading this it means that no miracle saved us at the last minute. After I handed these papers off to Isabel I went back to our makeshift tent and fed Jack the rest of the pain meds so I could be sure he'd sleep through whatever was coming. And who knows? Maybe I slept, too.

Good work, Amy, and thanks again for your story. A big thanks to everyone else who has sent us pics and links as well, we appreciate it.

Survivors

We're trying something new on the ZNN today, Amy from Subject to Change is stepping in to become our first ever guest poster which is all sorts of awesome since I'm too busy watching the Olympics to come up with anything on my own and Middle Aged Woman has been busy working on getting her first Tony. The story is not that long, but we're going to split it in two anyway since it takes up less of your blogging day. And don't worry, I'll be doing the same with my future stories as well. So here we go, part one of Survivors.


_____Survivors



It's no surprise, really. Even with the downturn in tourism lately we still get a fuck of a lot of visitors, and by now we all know that all it takes is one.

I think it may have spread a little faster here, gone unnoticed for just a few hours longer because of the state people are typically in after a night or two in Vegas. In the beginning it's hard to tell the difference between the ones that are just strung out on all kinds of drugs, out of it because they haven't slept in more than 24 hours, and the ones that are infected. Slurred speech, impaired movements, glazed-over eyes. It all looks pretty much the same whether it's coming from a soon-to-be zombie or a junkie on his last leg. It's not until the end when you notice the difference. The junkies just die. They fall down and stay where they fell, nice and reliable. I'm sure when that first guy got back up everyone at the blackjack tables was shocked as hell. Probably stood there gawking as the thing bit the security guard who went to check on him. I heard that a few of the braver patrons and employees formed up a gang and tore the zombie apart while everyone else tried to run. Fat lot of good it'd do us in the end. It bit enough people before it stopped moving to get the ball rolling.

Maybe it really is a government conspiracy, like my husband Eric always said. Seems to me like Vegas would be a good place to drop the bomb, so to speak, what with the crowds and how fucking difficult it is to get around at the best of times. And on New Year's Eve, when the entire Strip is packed tighter than can of fucking sardines, it's the goddamn zombie version of an all-you-can-eat buffet. Add a stampeding mob to the mix and it's a wonder that even one person got far enough away from the Strip to warn anyone.



_____January 3rd

That was three days ago. My cousin Jonah and I have been holed up in the panic room that Gramps built when this whole zombie mess was just a crazed gleam in the conspiracy theorists' eyes. Most of the food he had stored down here has long since rotted away. Even canned goods don't last forever, and we spent too much time making jokes about crazy old Grandpa Jakes to pay him any mind, let alone re-stock the place. Not until it was way too late, anyway. The little bit of food that we managed to scrape together on the way here is almost gone. At least we still have plenty of water, thank God Gramps installed plumbing when he built this place.

Anyway, I figure we can hold out here for a week or two, maybe a month at the outside. You can go a month without food, I saw that on the Discovery Channel or something. By then the military should have taken care of the zombies. Nukes or napalm or whatever it is they're gonna use once they stop pretending they're looking for ways to save those of us that are left. The blockades were up not even twelve hours after that first guy got up and started munching on that security guard. They had no intention of rescue, only containment, but I understand. I'd like to say it isn't true, but I'd probably end up making the same decision if it were me out there.



____January 4h

My phone died today. I've been calling Eric over and over for the past four days, but he never answered. Neither did anyone else. It's probably too much to hope for that anyone I know is still alive.


_____January 9th

I don't think we're gonna last another three weeks. We've got a day's worth of food left, maybe two if we really stretch it. Jonah's already wanting me to go outside and check on things. He says that after nine days they've long since cleaned up and gone on to deal with the next outbreak. That's how it was in New York, at least. Three days and then the whole place was up in flames, survivors be damned.

He's right, but with that broken leg he got on his way here he won't be the one putting his ass on the line. Even with the car my odds of coming back are slim, since I'd still have to get out of it to grab the food. No. Both of us can easily last another week or so and I don't want to risk it. Not just yet. I'd rather be hungry and human than risk becoming zombie bait for a few twinkies or whatever I could scrounge from the neighboring houses.



_____January 13th

I'm so hungry. I didn't count on this. Kinda makes me wish I'd lived a little rougher as a kid, then maybe I wouldn't feel so weak from just a couple of days without eating. I'll have to go out soon because if I wait much longer I won't have enough energy left to do anything but lie here and wait for us to die.


Part two will be posted on Friday.

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?