Friday, November 25, 2016
Worlds Greatest Zombie Slayer
My name is Donald Spencer Piccadilly, and if anyone is reading this, I'm already dead. I’m worm food, I’ve traveled over the rainbow. I’m six feet under.
You get the idea. Technically, I'll be laying in the bed I plan to be in when I swallow a bottles worth of pain pills I got for an impacted wisdom tooth last year, but it all amounts to the same thing. I know this may seem strange in such a time of renewed hope and opportunity as we now live in, but you see, that's kind of the problem. I guess I'm not making a whole lot of sense. That's probably because I started at the end of the story. So let me try this again from the beginning.
My name is Donald Spencer Piccadilly, and when the zombie apocalypse struck, I was ready. Don't for a second think I was some kind of hard core, bad to the bone bad ass or anything like that, at least not yet. How many macho guys you know named Piccadilly. No, I was just a overweight nerd that still lived with his parents at twenty-five, but I had seen every zombie movie ever made. I'd seen every TV show, played every video game and read every book or comic ever created on the subject. I knew it was possible. So ever since I graduated college, I started stockpiling things that would be useful when it finally happened. If it didn’t, then when a natural disaster of another sort occurred. My family would be ready. I took 30 bucks a paycheck and purchased supplies. I had food, building supplies, ammo, guns, any supply a home prepper would have. So for almost 4 years, I had built a nice stockpile.
The outbreak I saw started as I was ordering a hot dog outside the ball field at a high school football game. A guy came shuffling up with ripped clothes and grunting and started biting people, I was the only one that didn't panic. It was something I had always known was going to happen eventually. I ran away while everyone else moved in to help. As I pulled out of the parking lot in my old dented pickup, I saw the people that had been bitten turn on the ones that came to help them. It was a bloodbath.
Didn't these idiots know how this sort of thing worked? I made a quick stop by the neighborhood grocery store and bought a couple carts full of canned goods. Sirens screamed in the distance when I was throwing the groceries into my truck. I hurried home and locked all the doors and windows. My dad and I both liked guns, so I grabbed all the weapons we had. I then placed them at key locations around the house. Next, I used the stack of old lumber in the basement to board the windows. I then filled ever available container with water.
I was rather proud of myself. I already had a safe place to hide while everyone else was just starting to realize what was going on. When I had done all of this, I realized it was a couple of hours past the time my parents normally got home. I felt sick. No, it was worse than that. Somehow I knew the zombies had got to them. It was devastating. I just sat in the living room and waited for hours. The longer I waited the more the news reported the worst. I turned the lights off and the tv down to just a whisper.
It got dark outside, and I heard people screaming nearby. I kept peeking out a crack in one of the boarded windows and saw dozens of zombies shuffling down my street. The way they moved and their moaning and grunting was exactly what I'd always expected, but it still scared the crap out of me anyway. I didn’t think anything could prepare someone to sit, watch and worry, while the world crumbled around them.
Right at that moment, something thumped against the front door to my house. The doorknob rattled, and then I heard a soft scratching sound. I crept slowly up to the door and peeked out the peephole. My mom and dad had finally come home.
But both of them were zombies. I couldn't stand the thought of either of them leading lives as mindless undead, so I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed my dad's shotgun, threw the door open, and blew both their heads off. Then I closed the door and hid in the dark as other zombies tried to get inside, drawn by the sound of the shotgun blast. They broke the glass out of most of the windows and pried at the boards, and I'm pretty sure I peed myself. I sat in the dark clutching the gun thinking I was alone now. The sound, the sound was the worst, but eventually the mob gave up and shuffled away.
I stayed in the house for the next 4 days without even looking outside. I worked on making a list of everything I had and what i may need. Water went off sometime on the 2nd day. Mid day of the 3rd day, the tv went black. The next morning, the power went out. I guess utilities were gone now. I didnt mind. I had a generator and 50 gallons of gas on hand, and I doubted it would be hard to find more gas. I had alot of bottled water. So no worries there. I figured most of society was gone now. I haven’t heard a scream for a since the 3 day of the apocalypse. I prepared to make my first trip out into this new and dangerous world.
The next day I made a run to the local hardware store for some supplies to better fortify my house. I pulled the remains of my parents to the sidewalk. As I'd always suspected, the zombies were less active during the day. I still had to put a few down, but it was easier in the light of day. The zombies aren’t smart, and they were so absurdly slow. Remember this is coming from a fat guy. I think that was when I started to enjoy killing them. I was still upset about my parents, but it had already started to fade. There just wasn't time to mourn loss in a zombie apocalypse. It sort of just came with the territory.
I grabbed the supplies and turned my house into an impenetrable fortress. I built a small deck on the roof so I could sleep outdoors when it was hot. I even built a little stand up there where I could snipe wandering zombies if I was in a sporting mood. Time moves relatively smooth when you have things to occupy your time. Things continued this way for weeks. I added to my house's defenses, looted guns and ammo, stocked up an insane amount of food and water, plus I killed a whole lot of zombies. It was great. I was the happiest I'd ever been.
I know what you're thinking. What kind of sick wacko freak would be happy after so many people died? After the whole world ended? Well, the truth is I didn't think about it much. You see, I never had a place in the old world. I was an ugly, overweight nerd with no real friends. Even my parents thought I was a disappointment. Twenty-five and still living at home, with a dead end job with no plans to better myself. Hardly a day went by that one of them didn't make a comment about me getting a different job or moving out on my own. And the extended family was even worse. None of them realized constantly putting me down ensured I never had the self confidence to make something of myself.
Then the zombies came, and nobody was there anymore but me and them, and I finally discovered what I was good at: killing the shuffling rotting freaks. I alone made my house a castle that could withstand assault. I hunted and salvaged food, clothing and shelter. I did it all while killing the undead. I soon began to think of myself as the world's greatest zombie slayer. Nobody could dispute it, so why not?
I killed hundreds just from my rooftop perch, but soon that wasn't enough. I had to find more creative ways to take them out. I once found a dump truck with plenty of gas in the tank and the keys still inside. I went on a little highway rampage, mowing the devils down like weeds, and by my count, at one point I killed thirty zombies in about seventeen seconds. I am a one man army.
My best zombie kill ever was the old warehouse. I doused an abandoned warehouse with gasoline, then ran around with an air horn attracting the attention of as many zombies as possible. I led hundreds of them into the warehouse, hid in a cubby hole by the door, and when an opportunity presented itself, I ran back outside and locked them in. It was then a simple matter to set the whole building ablaze and watch it burn down around them. I was the master of my domain.
I was in heaven. So how did I get from that point to where I am now, about to kill myself? I suppose anyone reading this knows the truth of the zombie apocalypse, so I guess the answer is fairly obvious.
It all went to hell when I was making a run to loot a downtown gun store. The street was more congested than I would have liked, so I crept across as silently as possible, taking a few of them out with a machete to the brain to avoid drawing undo attention. I found all kinds of good stuff inside, including a few grenades I couldn't wait to try out, so I filled my duffle bag quickly.
When I went back outside, a few dozen zombies had surrounded the entrance to the store. It seemed like a great time to use one of the grenades, so I fished one out of the bag and grabbed the pin.
At that moment, I realized. I enjoyed the killing. I killed for killing sake. I enjoyed it way too much that any sane person should. I had stepped over the red line, and instead of killing for defense or even survival. I was killing for fun.
I fell to my knees, my weapons forgotten. A sense of the most complete helplessness washed over me. . I realized they had never been zombies at all. Not really. Just targets. Just me lashing out at to feel superior. Others were looking for other survivors. Others were trying to bring back civilization. I was playing the most intense game of zombie killer. I didn’t scan the short wave or ban radio for any signs of life. I didn’t scan the area of survivors. I didn’t go looking for others who might need help. How many could I have rescued who were fortified in place or stranded on roofs, while played zombie safari.
It was that moment when the guilt hit me. I thought of shooting the zombies from my rooftop. I thought of the dump truck rampage; thirty zombies in seventeen seconds? Dear God, what had I done? I thought of the warehouse burning with hundreds inside. I burned a secure strong build warehouse down just to see how many kills I could get. I thought of my parents. Sure one less zombie in the world gave humanity a better chance of coming back, but if I used that same time looking for a survivor or helping others, the zombie could have waited. I didn’t have to go the long way home from trips, but I did just so I could get in a few more kills. I forgot or ignored that the first few weeks after a outbreak was critical to find survivors. My realization came too late. Months too late. It has been if my counting wasn’t off, one hundred and 5 days since the bite at the football game.
Tears poured from my burning eyes. My world was shattered. I went out the back, and sneaked and dodged my way home. I didn’t kill a single zombie on my return trip. So that's my story, and why I felt compelled to end it. I hope you don't think too little of me. I didn't know what I was doing, though even as I write the words, I know it's a poor excuse. So here's one last kill for the world's greatest zombie slayer.
I'm not a zombie, of course. But does it really matter, I mean really. I just finished a nice big meal. I’m going to lay here, let it digest, and think about what I’ve done. Then when I get tired, pop a bottle of pills and go to sleep. I hope society can overcome this setback, despite no help from the worlds greatest zombie slayer.