Ramen and Guns #PerfectDate

Chowing down

For the Wattpad PerfectDate prompt

Enough with the dinners and movies, you know what the greatest day with my friend would actually look like?

A few starter qualifications:

1) Some good alcohol

2) A lovely view of Los Angeles

3) The zombie apocalypse

      Pistol in hand she'd pick them off, aiming for their heads and chests to blow them back. Her hair would be streaked with the light of the city, the moon casting a spotlight on her targets. She'd rip off her sweater, caked in dried blood, revealing the tones of her muscles and scars. I'd be reloading her automatic weapon, kneeling behind as she beautifully scattered the brains of the undead.

      "How's your leg?" She'd ask, turning towards me, shooting right through an old zombie's head without looking, "I can see it from here, we could arrive at that old CVS by morning if we keep this up." I'd nod, in awe, and she'd drop kick a zombie who got a little to close before bridal style carrying me to the car.

      A few more shots would ring out, and I would put the automatic out the window, firing aimlessly as the engine roared. She would floor the gas, bouncing over rocks and fallen humans. She'd shout with laughter, the edge of her pink lips beginning to bleed from the cool air. With one hand she'd steer, and with the other take a swig from a Jack Daniels, as I covered the rear with bullets and a fiery will. The old military jeep we'd outfitted would be covered with metal, at the ready flamethrowers, and cute stickers of cacti and puppies we'd picked up over the past few weeks. An old lawnmower would be in the back, halfway through refurbishment for trimming our future lawn and slaying trespassers.

      "Legs doin' decent!" I'd shout, pulling the gun back in and making sure the safety was on. A cat poster to my left would say 'keep it up!' and I'd lean forward from the back, wrapping my arms around her neck in a big hug.

      Dust would fly as she made a sharp turn, avoiding a pile of crashed cars and feasting zombies. I'd lunge back and turn on the makeshift flamethrower attached to the side of the vehicle, scattering limbs and ash through the air. The smell would be pungent and nauseating, but I would be completely blinded by the way the flames danced in her eyes, giving life to her worn face.

      My leg would ache. I'd been injured, and I couldn't be sure if it was from a zombie bite. Nonetheless, she would stay with me, crazy, and fighting like tomorrow it would all be over. And it would be perfect, cause it would force us to question everything we were, and bring us together in survival in a way nothing else could.

     That evening we'd cook ramen next to corpses. She'd polish her combat boots, while I'd strum a song on an old guitar I found, still slightly out of tune.