Markiplier Moments

Not Your Average Zombie Story

Aimlessly following the few whistling winds that blew by you strutted, hands tucked deep your pockets, through a dark green door escaping the dingy outside streets with only random streetlights illuminating the city. It was city that was quiet, the kind that's too quiet. Nearly wiped out of all living humans since the outbreak, with a few pieces of litter scattered along the concrete replacing people's walking feet. It was a dead night outside but behind a huge building between a couple alleys was the door leading to the last remaining active event for hundreds of miles until you reach the still inhabited cities.

An old dirt-caked sticker on the front caught the glare from a street lamp. It labeled what was inside, reading one word in corny bright lights font.

Rundead.

The hood that cloaked your face seemed to fall back on its own upon entering the hazy, club-like atmosphere. Posters of a greasy man's chubby mustached face covered the walls as well as a life-sized cutout of him standing near the arena entrance. You knew him all too well...Hans Showmaster. The reason you're here. The reason it all went wrong.

You decided not to go out right away but rather stay backstage for a bit in a dressing room. There, was classic vanity lights outlining a large nicotine smudged mirror centered with a cheap chair in front of the desk. This was much brighter compared to everywhere else but was still rather old and outdated. As solid bass drums and distant screaming of techno music blasted from the arena, you looked at yourself in the Hollywood mirror. At least one eye had the same e/c sparkle it always has and a few patches of hair still remained on your shiny, no...slimy, head. Everything else was...rather withered at this point.

You were once human. Then you were cornered bitten when a mutation epidemic broke out in the once buzzing city. Los Angeles went into chaotic bursts of gore and there are only a few humans left here; those of which are being steadily killed off by this corrupt game show.

What is the perfect zombie? You had no clue, but you were an eyeful regardless. Complete with peeling green and purple skin blending into a light shade of decay, dark eyelids-- or lack there of-- around your eyeballs and their sockets, an adorable little button nose bone above your teeth that bared in full since your lips sort of...fell off. Gangrenous digits at the ends of your fully rotatable limbs, a few protruding bones here and there and a putrid zombie scent all included as well. Bruised tissue around the yellow scar on your bicep in the shape of a jagged mouth will never heal due to no more blood flow. But hey, those cheekbones and jawline have never been sharper. You've come to accept and embrace your newly dead existence.

Laying on a trunk beside the makeup desk were some white 1980's workout gear beneath a fine layer of dust. You unfold them from their neat nest and examine them to find an unknown beige stain on the spandex top. The matching wristbands also hadn't been washed of the crusty brown blood that flaked off to the touch, probably from the last contestant who didn't make it out in one piece.

Perfect fit, you thought after trying them on your skeletal body. And somehow it worked, the red headband fit nicely around your skull and the tight, stretchy clothes snugly held your ribcage in place. No shoes were provided. Thank God for the trusty decade old, ratty converse you already had on.

Suddenly (PINEAPPLES), a voice over the intercom loosely echoed through the building. "The show must go on!" Hah, another one bites the dust.

This was your cue to head out and kick a few courses' asses.

You shook the nerves out of your hands before bouncing out of there like a boxer. A red curtain concealed what death traps could lay beyond. You'd seen it, ever since the one living human who had befriended you since your becoming was captured by Showmaster, you returned every week if not every day to try and get him back. Hans held him captive like a caged animal, quite literally. It both saddened and infuriated you to watch and have him slip away from your fingertips when you'd complete a course, back into the underground.