ZOMBIE BOOKS

stand his ground.  Bat in hand, he acted as though he were some doper at a homerun derby, crashing one zombie head after the next; the sickening thud of the wooden bat against the dead weight of the zombies’ heads.  In the end, he was surrounded and swarmed like all the rest, with the undead falling upon him like ants at a picnic.
So I ran.  Direction didn’t matter.  My course was not important.  I put the sounds of death and annihilation at my back and fled in the opposite direction.  It wasn’t survival.  It wasn’t planned.  I wasn’t thinking at all.  I just couldn’t be in that spot any longer.  I had to be as far from those monsters as I could get.  In my mind, everyone in that range was as good as dead, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near it.  My pace was sporadic with bursts of running followed by fast walking.  Tired, hungry, cold, and feeling alone, I just kept running.  From the sounds.  From the people.  From my experiences.  From the world.
Weeks ago, when life was normal, I was shunned as a worthless loser by those in my community.  Living in a college town and being a high school dropout doesn’t get you far in people’s eyes.  Now, I would give just about anything for that level of recognition.  To be looked upon as a fellow human, even if it was only to decide that I was a less important human, would be infinitely better than living alone in a world of brain-thirsty monsters.
And that’s when the hatred began to blossom.  I wasn’t sure how long I had been stomping while I marched, but when I realized I was, I didn’t care.  Zombies had ruined my life.  My family was dead because of the outbreak.  My home was gone.  My life was irrecoverable; irretrievable.
Someone had to pay.
◊◊◊
All of the radio stations had been out for days now, so there was no news from Spokane or anywhere else for that matter.  No one knew what was happening in the world, but that didn’t matter, really.  The only world that mattered was the small one that made up his family’s daily reality.  Turnbull had been too crowded for his liking so he had moved his household east of the range and wandered into the dirt.   During the night, at the first sounds of gunshots, he had decided to close camp and flee.  A couple of shots were to be expected.  Dozens of shots taken in apparently random bursts made Steven nervous.  The sounds of gunfire became more prevalent as he prepared and it became clear that something massive was happening, so he had to leave the area.  Away from the noise and away from the chaos.  The man had no intention of getting caught up in a slaughter, regardless of who won.
Amy was sleeping when her father gathered the family and told them to get in the truck.  She had been dreaming, and it had begun as a sweet respite from the last two weeks.  In her dream, the girl was on a date with Matthew Heinzman, the cutest junior at Cheney High.  He had taken her on a drive outside of town.  The window was down and his shaggy hair was dancing in the wind of the open road.  Something in her yearned to touch him, and to be touched by him.  His carefree smile warmed her heart as he drove, one-handed, through the little roads littering the land outside of town.  She laughed in response to the joy welling within her, and Matthew shot her his best look.  A small part of her melted, and she moved in closer.  Amy reached out her hand to stroke his hair.  When she drew back, the sight of Matthew’s head left her petrified.  Portions of his scalp have sloughed away, exposing a bloody skull.  Bit by bit the skin slid from his head, like wax from a candle, until all that remained was a bloody skull still smiling at her.  She screamed, and the skull dove at her, mouth open and eager.
Her father had shaken her awake before she was eaten by the bloody skull, but the damage had been done.  Sleep would not come now.
How could she live like this?
Her mother was whispering loving words to her little brother.   He father and Tom were closing up the trailer.  Amy knew that without them, she had nothing, and was as good as dead.  Family was all that was left.  The world was lost.  The game was over.  It was run or be eaten.  So she climbed into the truck with her family, and they ran.

CHAPTER 4
My Favorite Weapon
Late summer in eastern Washington means the heats sticks around well after dark.  The dry ground soaks in the sun all day, and radiates it into the night.  The zombies don’t seem to care, though.  They wander around the downtown area, looking in shops, trying doors, and sticking random things in their mouths.  They squabble with each other and whine a lot; particularly so if they’re hungry.  In many ways, they’re like toddlers.  That is, if you ignore the fact that they are sporadically violent cannibals which come in any human size or age, and lack the ability for human empathy or any other emotion for that matter.
God I hate them.
Two weeks ago I watched my family being murdered in our driveway.  My mother, father, and brother were killed by a group of men from Cheney.
Not zombies, mind you.  They were living, walking, ‘we’re all in this together,’ true blue American breathers.
People, just like me.
They were scared and looking for provisions.  The zombie presence had made everyone a little nutsy.  I was mad at the men who attacked my family, and if I should see them again, who knows what I would end up doing to them?  But deep down, I know who’s really to blame.
The zombies.
They are the reason we are all living in terror.  They are the