All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse

by Various Authors

  “Julian…” Franklin speaks almost in a whisper. “Go to your office and close the door.” Franklin watches as the man spins about comically like a spy in a low budget movie. The man darts past the group staring intently at the tablet. Franklin follows the man switching from camera to camera. As Julian makes his way to his office Franklin taps a few keys on his desk. He has routed his voice through to the speakers in the manager’s office. Once Julian enters the office and closes the door Franklin speaks. “Julian I know this is hard to believe.” He tells the man. “Look at your monitor in the office. Check the quadrants outside the front door and look at those people.” He can see Julian lean forward to look at the much smaller desktop monitor. The man recoils in horror at the sight. “Don’t panic Julian you are a good leader. I can’t do any more for you.” Franklin sighs loudly. “I have seen some horrible things today my friend. Franklin unburdens himself finally. “I think it hit the city first then spread outward.” Julian nods up at the camera. “Those who are infected will kill you, trust me I’ve seen it Julian.” He continues. “News reports says you guys need to get out of sight, stay low and be quiet.” Julian stands by his desk trembling. “What about every … everyone else?” Julian says choking up. Franklin is lost in his own thoughts and does not hear the man is pleading with him. He looks back over the monitor. The feed from the store inside City Hall is still running. He sees shapes moving in the smoky air. Most are on fire but they continue to mill about oblivious to their burning flesh. The Downtown location is teaming with the undead. However, the inventory room is free of zombies, and he can see the young man and woman left there. They are naked and entwined in each other’s arms. A smile parts his lips; He always thought they liked each other. The Lincoln Park store shows no signs of life. In the Eastern Chicago University store, Franklin hones in on one zombie in particular. Yen stumbles about her place of employment. Her GUC polo covered in gore. “Franklin.” Julian’s voice jars him back to the here and now. “I asked you about everyone else Franklin.” The man appeals with him for an answer. Franklin lowers his head. Suddenly the weight of the day quadruples and the force of gravity weighs in on him. Before he can answer, the monitor goes black, falling silent as the power to the building goes out. Franklin is now alone in his sensory deprivation tank of an office. Its pitch black save for the two glowing red emergency lights over the door. He places his hands in a steeple before his face. Finally, alone, Franklin Wells slaps his forehead. A stark growing realization sets in, taking root in his mind. “Shit I’m in Chicago,” he cackles into the darkness. A hollow metallic “thumping” sound resonates through the dark void. The racket from a few dozen-fists beating on his office door begins.

  Jamal K. Luckett

  I am a family man by day and zombie enthusiast by night. I have been in love with zombies for many years. I did not just hop on the recent Hollywood driven mass-market love zombie bandwagon. My alter ego has been in love with the undead since the first time I saw Night of the Living Dead. My love of all things zombie led me to my first foray into Resident Evil fan faction to finally becoming a published writer. My previously published works have all been short stories published in various anthologies. My stories starting with my first published story “Yesterday’s Hero” are for sale on Amazon. “Dry Rot” is a tale I wrote about a zombie outbreak in an early American leaper colony. It was included in an anthology entitled “So Long, and Thanks for All the Brains.” Then there was “For Who the Bell Tolls” And “Helping Hand.” Both of which appeared in “Feast or Famine” an appropriately named zombie themed anthology. At any given point, I am always working on a new zombie themed story or tending to my blogs or Facebook pages. I have a blogs where I post a zombie themed serial as well short stories I have written to amuse my wife. You have not heard the last of me yet.

  http://morguekeeper.blogspot.com/

  www.facebook.com/TheLivingDark

  http://the-living-dark.blogspot.com/

  All the Pretty Birds

  By Brice J. Chandler

  “You saw how it happened, how it began!”

  Oz was too busy drooling blood to bother peering up through his swollen eyes towards the voice. What was that anyway? A question or an accusation? He couldn't even tell if there was really someone there, or if it was some fucked version of his own inner voice. “You fucking disgust me. I should just let them have you,” the mystery voice rose octaves. Oz heard something topple over – a chair maybe – before a hand slammed into the back of his neck and jerked him to his wobbling feet. He definitely wasn't being interrogated by his own inner voice, not unless his subconscious was some sort of bad ass. The person shoved his face against a window.

  “See them?”

  He did, barely. Some sort of protest – no, a riot. People waved homemade signs with rainbows crossed out. They burned flags and held up small books. They shouted and fought with another, smaller group of protestors. There were overturned cars on fire, and garbage and threats fluttered through the air, but no police force disbursed the mob.

  Oz didn't know what was going on. He couldn't even remember where he was.

  “I could end this. I could let them have you. There's no way I believe what you're saying. No one is going to buy that story.”

  That's right. He was telling the brute the story, the one of how it all began.

  * * *

  “No, there's no way I’ll believe that story. O'Chicken Bites are not made with sludge.” Dalton chomped down on the grease loaded morsel.

  “Right here.” Oz held up his camera for his friend to examine. “Watch this video and prepare to kiss my ass.”

  “Keep up with that kind of mouth and see if you get anything remotely close to that anytime soon,” Dalton said and pushed his glasses up before tracking the screen in his boyfriend's hand.

  “Don't become so defensive. I was just kidding, but you really need to see the crap you're putting into your body.”

  Dalton raised his eyebrows – he was practically raised on fast food – or what his significant other referred to as slop. Regardless, he continued to watch as a man walked through a factory with what was obviously a hidden camera.

  “The sound is terrible,” he said and tilted his ear closer to the speaker.

  A voice asked, “What's this gunk?”

  A worker in a haz-mat suit answered, “It's the nugget sludge bro. Do you work in this department?”

  “Doesn't that symbol on the side means it's hazardous for humans?”

  Dalton shook his head and paused the video. “This doesn't mean anything, for all we know its fake.”

  “Listen, I'm going to save your life,” Oz said before he snatched a half-eaten nugget out of Dalton's fingers – Oz couldn't understand how the man could simply nibble on food whereas Oz devoured his meals. Before Dalton could protest, Oz cocked an eyebrow and tossed the nugget over his shoulder and out the open car window without even looking.

  “What the hell? Don't mess with my food.”

  Oz knew that an argument would likely erupt, in fact, he accounted for it when he envisioned himself throwing the nuggets out the window before they had even ordered; although, in his fantasy, the act had turned out far better. The argument itself however had blown up worse than he had predicted, and it wasn't over yet. Dalton had regressed from the intellectual scholar Oz loved to a pouting teenager nibbling on his fries and staring out the window. His only response to any questioning was, “I'm not angry. I just don't feel good. That's all.”

  “Look, I'm sorry. I should have approached that differently.”

  “It’s okay.”

  That was how Oz found himself observing a group of birds tussling over the tossed nugget.

  “Wouldn't a bird eating a sludge nugget... I mean an O'Chicken Bite, be some form of cannibalism?” Oz asked.

  “They wouldn't eat it,” Dalton sneered.

  “Well a birdy royal rumble just took place over the bite I tossed and now the winner is trying to swallow it whole.
..” he was going to say more, but his thoughts slipped away as he watched the bird flutter on the pavement. Its stick legs kicked while its wings thrashed the ground. The struggle didn't last long. It was over before Oz could even open his door. One leg slowly pedaled until it came to a full stop.

  “It's dead.” Oz whispered.

  “What?” Dalton pushed his glasses up before stretching across the seat. “Don’t mess with it.”

  Oz nudged the bird with the bottom of his flip flop. Its limp body rocked forward and rolled back with his shoe making him flinch. “Jeez. I told you that shit could kill you.”

  “Are you sure it’s dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dalton had joined him outside to stare at the recently deceased. “Well, I guess there’s not much we can do for it now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”

  Another bird darted past them to snatch the remainder of the nugget. Several others scrambled it back down before it could take off. They tussled with the morsel next to the rapidly cooling body of what was quite possibly a distant cousin.

  “Jeez,” Dalton mouthed. “You’d think we tossed them an O’Fry.”

  The dead bird fluttered on the ground. It hopped to its feet and studied the surrounding before scrambling into the fray.

  “I guess it was just taking a break,” Dalton mouthed as both men watched, enthralled at the reanimated corpse.

  The bird ignored the O’Chicken Bite, hopped onto another feathered opponent, and began pecking at a feverish pace. It tore feathers and flung eyeballs. It left three heaps of dead fowl in its wake before snatching hold of rumble winner’s leg before it could fly away. It pulled and shook like a dog Oz had once seen do to cat. The bird ripped the would be champ’s leg out from the socket. The wounded finch made haste past Oz and Dalton. The mad bird followed – or attempted to follow. It rocketed towards the two men who flinched and parted from its path, but the bird was like some fighter jet caught in another’s jet stream. It tumbled into Dalton’s leg, and he instinctively kicked it off with a string of curses and yelps.

  Undaunted, the bird rolled and tumbled to its feet, shook its head, and slammed its beak into another of the wounded – a robin. It dug into the bigger bird and flung about meat and blood and ruffled its feathers as if it were enjoying some demented bird bath.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Dalton whispered.

  Oz, now conscious of his open mouth, shook his head.

  The bird turned and stared at the men but showed no further interest beyond observing.

  “It’s staring at us,” Dalton whispered.

  “I can see that.”

  “Should we do something?”

  Oz started to answer, but stopped when some of the birds that had been slaughtered joined in the blood bath.

  “Zombie birds,” he mumbled. He expected to hear Dalton reprimand him to not be so ridiculous, but his partner was no longer paying attention. Instead Oz joined him in surveying the chaos that surrounded them. The madness that was consuming the birds had spread across the O’Chicken’s & Fuel parking lot. Birds fell from the sky in tumbling balls of battle. They crashed into screaming bystanders and cars.

  Half eaten zombie birds apparently had short attention spans because they stopped mid meal with a screech and went to chase down the next potential victim.

  “We need to get out of here,” Oz said and nudged Dalton toward the car. “I’ll drive.”

  Oz fought back a yelp of fear when the handle slipped from his hand and the door failed to open.

  “Shit,” he said and peered through the closed window before spotting his Cardinals keychain hanging down. His dad had given it to him after he had come out. His old man hadn’t been much of a talker – especially not with his emotions – but it was as good as any ‘I support and love you, even if I don’t agree with your decision’ as he was going to get.

  “Looks like I locked the keys in there,” Dalton muttered.

  “Yeah, my phone too,” Oz said and scanned the chaos. A woman was turning sailors’ faces into beets with a string of curses. Apparently, not only had a group of zombie birds shit all over her but they also flung bird entails and feathers in her hair. She looked as if she had been tarred and feathered minus the tar, but add ridiculous amounts of blood.

  “How could birds bleed so much?” Oz looked up to notice dozens of buzzards circling and being swarmed by an even greater number of smaller birds. “Holy shit.” They were alien war ships being boarded by smaller by aircraft. Blood and feathers rained down with smaller bodies until the large angels of death crumpled under the added weight and spiraled to the ground.

  “Look out!” Oz shoved Dalton aside as one heap bounced into the pavement where they had been.

  “We’re going to have to go in there,” Dalton shouted over the chaos.

  A large bird had smashed in a windshield at a nearby roundabout, and the car had ricocheted off of two others before plowing into a power line pole. Now its horn screamed out, and Oz imagined the driver resting his head on the steering wheel. But he was pulled out of the daydream by Dalton waving and pointing his arm towards the restaurant. “We’ll see if anyone will let us use their phone and call someone.”

  Oz scanned the open blacktop parking lot that wavered in the summer heat. Dozens of people stumbled about and bumped into each or vehicles with barely a muttered apology or curse as they watched the spectacle through their camera phones. He realized that it would be easy to slip past them and head straight into the restaurant that he despised – as long as they didn’t run into a group of gawkers milling about with their eyes glued to small phone screens while they recorded or texted, or even socialized with everyone across the world, everyone except those standing right next to them.

  Dalton waited for him to acknowledge. He always waited for Oz to make the decision. The man just wasn’t a leader – not that Oz felt that he was leader quality. Where to eat or what movie to watch, vis a vi hold up in a shit restaurant from zombie birds or just break out the fucking car window and go home. Chances were that the bird apocalypse wouldn’t outlast his wallet, and he really didn’t have the extra money to go around busting out anyone’s car windows, let alone his own.

  “Okay. Let’s go,” he said and leaned forward. He hoped that his accelerating heart beat didn’t translate into a quicker pace. He didn’t want to worry Dalton more than necessary, since the man was his senior and obviously at risk for clogged arteries from all the .

  Those fears where for naught as the man zipped past him. His legs moved in quick choppy steps. Dalton wouldn’t run, but those fast little strides made him hell to accompany on their daily walks. “You’re never going to burn off those calories unless you’re willing to work up a little sweat,” he would say. Oz just shook his head and hurried behind.

  He noticed the little one legged finch hiding by their car tire. Dalton was nearly to the building now.

  “C’mon little guy,” he said and crouched down next to it. Intuition must have kicked in along with primal instincts, because the bird obviously knew the real bad guys from the people just wanting to help. It hoped into his cupped hands before he dashed towards the building and Dalton.

  Once inside, the crisp air conditioning chased the little bird from his hands.

  “Hey! You can’t bring that in here,” a shift supervisor said. “No pets allowed.”

  “Well, it’s not a pet so…” Oz started to respond.

  “Not even service animals,” the supervisor whined.

  “What?” he asked. “Really? What kind of place is this that they don’t even allow service animals?” Oz glanced over at Dalton. “Look, it’s just a wild bird that needed help. Haven’t you even seen what’s going on out there?”

  “You tossed it in here,” the manager retorted. “Now I’ve got a loose bird in here that could contaminate all the food.”

  Some of the customers watched the pandemonium outside with indifference. Most swiped fingers across d
evices of various sizes while they mashed into, stretched, and tore apart chicken sandwiches or turkey burgers (for the more health conscious). Mayonnaise and tomato juice oozed down lips and chins. Chunks of bread and flakes of lettuce tumbled onto shirts. They were only starting to look up from their personal monitors and become aware of the spectacle outside.

  “This crap is already contaminated. Haven’t you seen what’s going on outside?” Oz swept his hand back to the window and glass door. “It all started when a bird ate an O’Chicken bite I threw out the window.”

  That caused a stir of attention to the men as well as the bird fights outside.

  The manager sighed and handed them an incident report. “Alright fill this out then.”

  Dalton made quick work of the form and handed it to a woman named Shelia as more people rushed in from the fray, some covered in bird droppings and bile. The woman who had been doused in buzzard blood was helped in and, wasting no time, hurled on the floor. That action was rewarded with a piercing scream from a cook in the back. Renaldo the manager, or at least his name tag stated he was Renaldo, (it also claimed he was happy to be of service when he was clearly not) was distracted by more urgent matters and shuffled over to the woman.