Guts (the original interactive zombie apocalypse survival story)

17 - Grab and Go

Buster didn't look like the sharpest tack in the box - none of them did. If anything, Buster looked big and blunder-y. The guy was as big as a moose. He'd probably draw in the undead the way blood draws in sharks. And Po - he stared at you with his strange brown-green eyes bugging out, as though he were a cartoon. It was terribly unnerving. You figure you better go alone rather than depend on any of these weirdos. As their voices begin to carry again, you take your chance.

Stealthy and fast, you pull the weed eater down from the display. There's more weight to it than you expected. It won't be easy to swing, but it's deadlier than anything else you can see, so you'll make due. You rush to find hedge clippers and water hose. Once clipped on both ends, you wrap the hose through your belt loop. Footsteps sound, giving you a start. You zoom to the front of the store. Out the glass door, you can see that the undead seem to be ignoring the store. They've forgotten that a yummy human had gone inside.

"Alex?" Paul says.

You give a cautious glance back, hoping he's not staring right at you. You just want out of there, without having to deal with any of them. Luckily, he's wandering off down an aisle in search of you.

I better go now, before the others come out, you think.

As soon as you open the door and run out - ti-ing - the bell gives you away. Strange how the tiniest noise can pierce through the silence like a siren. Of course the others now know you've gone, but more urgently, the attention of the undead has been drawn to you. You hear the bell again and grimace.

"Alex," Paul says. "Whaddya doin'? Come back in-"

"No, thanks!" You say hastily.

The guy's a moron, and his yelling will get you killed. Before he can shout again, you run. Your shoes beat against the pavement like a war drum, a sound that isn't missed by the undead. They're coming closer, clumsily shuffling along as though on a leisurely stroll. They aren't tearing after you, yet. Cars are everywhere, forgotten. Doors open, headlights on. You spot an older model a fair distance away from any undead. At last, it's time to gas up. You pop open the gas tank and shove the hose in...but it seems to hit a dead end too soon. You keep shoving, but something is blocking it's path.

Groans rise behind you, dangerously close. Your heart fails, then patters extra fas t to catch up. By instinct, you pick up the bladed weed eater and swing it right into the neck of a gruesome undead. It slices through half, and gets stuck. The undead is reaching out with blood-caked claws, not even caring that it's in danger of losing its head. You jerk a few times, but it's no good. Others are approaching in its wake; hungry, faster, and more determined. Perhaps it had something to do with the scent of your fear.

There's no other choice: you'll have to make a break for it, and the only place to go is back to the hardware store. They're weird, sure, but weird trumps dead any day. The undead has the weed eater in its hands now, caring only that it's an object blocking it from you. You drop it and sprint for the door-

But you never make it. The undead are too close and too many. They surround and devour you, before you can reach the sidewalk.