he going to do? Tell the living people to leave the living dead people
alone? He had already killed several of them, who was he to tell them not to?
As he stepped outside though, he realized that they were not
after zombies. Hiding and crouched down behind a car was a single black man.
“Hey nigger,” one yelled. “We got sumthin’ to tell you.”
“Yeah boy,” the other chimed in. “Come on out now. We can do
this all civilized. Or not.”
The two men laughed as Jeremy watched on in horror.
“Hey boy! My buddy’s talkin’ to you!” the first one yelled.
Jeremy could see that Bubba #1 was holding a hunting rifle
in one hand and a half-empty bottle of bourbon in the other. Not a good
combination for a bunch of racist hicks. These were the kinda guys that gave
southerners a bad name as dumb, white-trash rednecks.
The guy behind the car did not budge and Jeremy didn’t blame
him. He knew they didn’t want to just “talk.” Bubba #2 was holding a
camouflaged shotgun. Things could go very badly, very quickly. So, Jeremy did
what any sane person would do in that situation.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
The words spilled out of his mouth before he could even
think of an appropriate response. The three bubbas and even the guy behind the
car all looked at Jeremy as if he was the crazy one.
Tough crowd.
“Go back inside rich boy,” Bubba #1 said. “This don’t
concern you.”
“I don’t live here,” Jeremy answered. “Why don’t y’all leave
him alone?”
He thickened his accent a little to try and create a
language bridge between them. It seemed to work as they pondered it for a
moment. But Jeremy realized these were not the bridge building type of men when
Bubba #2 pumped a round into his weapon.
“Don’t think we’ll be doin’ that. Now go on and git back
inside. Go on now,” he said very calmly.
It was the unsettling kind of calm. The kind you feel right
before some serious doo doo is about to hit the fan. Jeremy looked over to the
black guy. The guy looked directly back at him.
“Just go,” the man mouthed.
It was at that point where Jeremy began to feel the rage
build back up in him. The same rage he felt at the supermarket and in his
driveway. This was not right. He could not let them do this. The rage began to
seep into his bloodstream, his muscles tightening, and his jaw clenched.
Zombie apocalypse or not, this is wrong.
The only problem was this: they had guns. He had a
screwdriver.
Screw it.
“Y’all are gonna have to leave. Now,” Jeremy said, just as
calmly as Bubba #1 had.
Bubba #2 fired his gun into the warm night’s air. All three
men began to let out whoops and hollers. Bubba #1 took a swig from the bourbon.
“Woo doggie! This boy has some balls,” he yelled out.
And that was when they heard the moans.
Oh, shit…
The gunshots and noise had attracted the dead. Moans and
groans came from every direction. Perhaps the neighborhood was not as empty as
Jeremy had thought. The bubbas were locking and loading, getting ready for the
oncoming dead attack. Driver Bubba got out of the truck and was holding some
kind of long barreled revolver. Jeremy noticed the guy behind the car start to
stand up from his hiding spot, but still staying low enough to the ground in
case the rednecks turned their attention back to him.
The first of the zombies began to shamble out from every
direction. Ten of them, easy. And more were beginning to trickle in. Jeremy was
right. This neighborhood was not empty at all.
“Alright boys,” Bubba #1 shouted to his friends. “Let’s kill
sum zombies!”
Before they could fire a shot, a new sound filled the night.
Not a moan or grunt that was accustomed to the living dead, but this time a
piercing shriek. It was a higher pitch, raspy, and sounded forced through
decaying vocal cords. This was something else. This was something new.
Something worse.
The rage that Jeremy had begun to feel just moments ago was
long
alone? He had already killed several of them, who was he to tell them not to?
As he stepped outside though, he realized that they were not
after zombies. Hiding and crouched down behind a car was a single black man.
“Hey nigger,” one yelled. “We got sumthin’ to tell you.”
“Yeah boy,” the other chimed in. “Come on out now. We can do
this all civilized. Or not.”
The two men laughed as Jeremy watched on in horror.
“Hey boy! My buddy’s talkin’ to you!” the first one yelled.
Jeremy could see that Bubba #1 was holding a hunting rifle
in one hand and a half-empty bottle of bourbon in the other. Not a good
combination for a bunch of racist hicks. These were the kinda guys that gave
southerners a bad name as dumb, white-trash rednecks.
The guy behind the car did not budge and Jeremy didn’t blame
him. He knew they didn’t want to just “talk.” Bubba #2 was holding a
camouflaged shotgun. Things could go very badly, very quickly. So, Jeremy did
what any sane person would do in that situation.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
The words spilled out of his mouth before he could even
think of an appropriate response. The three bubbas and even the guy behind the
car all looked at Jeremy as if he was the crazy one.
Tough crowd.
“Go back inside rich boy,” Bubba #1 said. “This don’t
concern you.”
“I don’t live here,” Jeremy answered. “Why don’t y’all leave
him alone?”
He thickened his accent a little to try and create a
language bridge between them. It seemed to work as they pondered it for a
moment. But Jeremy realized these were not the bridge building type of men when
Bubba #2 pumped a round into his weapon.
“Don’t think we’ll be doin’ that. Now go on and git back
inside. Go on now,” he said very calmly.
It was the unsettling kind of calm. The kind you feel right
before some serious doo doo is about to hit the fan. Jeremy looked over to the
black guy. The guy looked directly back at him.
“Just go,” the man mouthed.
It was at that point where Jeremy began to feel the rage
build back up in him. The same rage he felt at the supermarket and in his
driveway. This was not right. He could not let them do this. The rage began to
seep into his bloodstream, his muscles tightening, and his jaw clenched.
Zombie apocalypse or not, this is wrong.
The only problem was this: they had guns. He had a
screwdriver.
Screw it.
“Y’all are gonna have to leave. Now,” Jeremy said, just as
calmly as Bubba #1 had.
Bubba #2 fired his gun into the warm night’s air. All three
men began to let out whoops and hollers. Bubba #1 took a swig from the bourbon.
“Woo doggie! This boy has some balls,” he yelled out.
And that was when they heard the moans.
Oh, shit…
The gunshots and noise had attracted the dead. Moans and
groans came from every direction. Perhaps the neighborhood was not as empty as
Jeremy had thought. The bubbas were locking and loading, getting ready for the
oncoming dead attack. Driver Bubba got out of the truck and was holding some
kind of long barreled revolver. Jeremy noticed the guy behind the car start to
stand up from his hiding spot, but still staying low enough to the ground in
case the rednecks turned their attention back to him.
The first of the zombies began to shamble out from every
direction. Ten of them, easy. And more were beginning to trickle in. Jeremy was
right. This neighborhood was not empty at all.
“Alright boys,” Bubba #1 shouted to his friends. “Let’s kill
sum zombies!”
Before they could fire a shot, a new sound filled the night.
Not a moan or grunt that was accustomed to the living dead, but this time a
piercing shriek. It was a higher pitch, raspy, and sounded forced through
decaying vocal cords. This was something else. This was something new.
Something worse.
The rage that Jeremy had begun to feel just moments ago was
long
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