Zombie Apocalypse 2050 - Cam Sparks, Installment 2

The itch returns almost immediately, like ants crawling across my back. I hate that. It only goes away when I’m burning zombies, but right now I could give a fuck. The smell of burning, rotting undead is pure perfume. The fuckers roast like some high school bonfire before the big game. Or after the big game. Or whatever the fuck. I’ve never been to a football game in my life. Goddamn pansies.

The flames are hot on my face. Oily smoke hangs throughout the room, billows out the open windows and the shattered door. I breathe deeply. God, that’s good.

Dar, Captain, stands to my right, coughing and waving a hand in front of his face. His sissy black soldier uniform is all slimed up with zombie parts. He’s missing one eyebrow and most of the hair on the right side of his body. My fucking luck. The only guy to make it through the attack is this asshole. He probably wants to sit down and discuss strategy.

I think about turning The Cleaning Lady on him. Who the hell would know? Just one more body on the pile.

But I don’t. Fuck if I know why.

I step forward toward the charred pile of arms, legs and ribcages. A head is moving, just a little, back and forth. I put the thick heel of my combat boot on the nose and jump up on it. It cracks like a melon, spewing greenish-black shit everywhere.

I grin at Dar, Captain. He winces, looking like he wants to avert his face. I frown. What an asshole.

“We…” he coughs, then starts again. “We have to talk about this, about what happened.”

Did I call that or what?

I move around the fire, stomping on crispy parts, shoving some into the blaze as I head for the door. “Email the minutes Dar, Captain.” I yell. “I’ll put in my two cents.”

I make it through the door, ready for another onslaught of zombies, but there aren’t any. Hell, a guy can hope. One thing about zombies, they’re not long on stealth. Would a zombie hang back to surprise a guy after his buddies got fried? Hell no. He’d rush into the blaze just ‘cause he smelled blood.

Dar, Captain emerges behind me. “Cam, seriously. How did they get so close to us without us smelling them? If we don’t find out-”

I shove the butt of The Cleaning Lady into his nose. It bursts like a tomato, and he drops like a rock. His limp body tumbles down the steps into the bunker of burning zombie death.

“How do they smell now?” I yell. I step forward and think about giving him a real dose of hellfire. He deserves it. He doesn’t know dick about zombies, and he killed eight other Quellers of Hell with his meeting. Of course, none of them was worth a damn, either. They didn’t know the first fucking thing about zombies, either. Nobody does. Except me.

And Virgil. That beanpole knows a thing or two. Where the hell is he?

I look around, then start toward Virgil’s house.