The zombie game

chapter 12

Joe, Ken, and the man were sitting in the back of the trunk, hunkered down. Thirty miles back, the truck had sputtered to a stop, having lost most of its gas. By then the zombies had been long gone, but they still had to fight against them if they were to come out of nowhere. Joe was feeling tired, strained, having had to carry Ken's limp body everywhere. Awhile ago, after hours of sitting there doing nothing, Ken had suddenly woken up from his coma, looking around at his surroundings and asking where the hell he was—Joe told him that this man, a former soldier it turns out, had saved them from advancing hordes of zombies that had pinned Joe and Ken down. So Ken had just sat there for awhile, his head lolling, still a bit tired, trying to have a conversation with the soldier. In the past hours, they had not had to face any sort of zombies, but outside they had heard a small roaring (an engine?) and the small, guttural moans of zombies that were coming up through the vents on thin currents of oxygen.

Joe stood up from where he stood, crouching, and walked to the front of the truck, glaring out the front flap, and looking out the window. A couple of zombies were stumbling along, arms outstretched, crimson red stretching massive grins across their sick and blotched and deformed and charred faces. Joe didn't dare make a sound for fear of one of the zombies looking at whoever had made the sound and charging the truck. For now this was the only same haven they had left.

He went back toward the ground and sat back down. “A couple of zombies are standing right in front of the truck. Lets not make any noise.” Footsteps scraping against the cracked ground filled the air outside of the truck as Joe, Ken and the soldier just sat there, waiting for something to happen. Joe took an ax that was hanging from his belt (he had received it from the soldier) and stood in front of the door, hoping against hope that the zombie wouldn't try to break down the door. He raised it above his head, pinning himself to the wall, waiting to open the door. He would waste this zombie anyway.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Ken.

“I am just gonna kill these couple of zombies,” said Joe. He peered out the window and saw both of them going in front of the door. He slowly turned the knob and swung the door open, swinging the ax around in a wide arc, and taking the first zombie in the side of the head, a mist of blood spraying from its cranium. The other zombie moaned and lunged forward, but Joe swung the bloodstained blade and took the zombie right under the chin, the sounds of bones crushing as the collar bone cracked. He took the crimson painted blade out of the chin and brought it up, smashing the thing in the center of its forehead. Blood squirted from the wound and the zombie fell to the ground. Joe shut the door and wiped his blade off.

He sat back down.

“Was that really needed?” asked the soldier.

“Yea. I just didn't want the things to open the door and try to kill us, so I had to kill them first before we were killed,” said Joe.

“Those things are stupid,” said Ken, “you know that. They wouldn't have been able to open the door to come and get us anyway.”

“Ya never know,” muttered Joe, grinning. “There could be some smart zombies around in this world, but again, like you said, that is highly improbable.” He set the ax on the floor in the truck and sat back down on the floor.

“This is getting out of hand though...” started Ken.

“What is?”

“You. You are. Going crazy, killing zombies. I have seen some of the angry glints in your eyes and, truth be told, I am beginning to feel a bit scared around you. I know you are a good zombie killer and all, but still—there was no need for that,” explained Ken.

“I just want to get the zombies the hell out of here, and kill them off, before they become more and more,” said Joe.

“They already have,” the soldier inquired. “There is no way anybody is going to kill every single zombie—it is something we will have to deal with for the rest of our lives.” Ken nodded. Joe just sat there, looking at them, starting to see the picture. He sat down and thought; am I really becoming a monster? He didn't know; he figured that in this day and age of the zombie, anyone could become a monster, fighting to protect the ones they loved, or just fighting for personal gain—which, Joe thought—was exponentially selfish of somebody to do. He was just amid his thoughts.