Zombie Ocean (Book 3): The Least by Michael John Grist Page B
Authors: Michael John Grist
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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national dive meets in the news, though it was too much to actually watch the dives or look at the water.
One day about a year after the accident, Amo finished his first comic since the coma, and showed it to him. It had an image of zombies piling up on top of each other in Times Square at the end of the world, all of them straining for some hidden meaning in the clouds above. It matched perfectly with how Robert had felt for so long, crushed by a dream he would never reach.
Seeing it, he realized he'd finally hit acceptance.
His loss still hurt, and perhaps that was never going to change. He would never dive or walk again, he might never even have a normal life again, but now he had a friend who understood. Looking at that hopeless comic and all those hopeless zombies straining for something that nobody understood, he wept for his own lost dream, and said his first true goodbye to the man he'd once planned to be.
It was progress.
The next day Amo pushed forward even further, taking a beautiful girl called Lara on a date. Robert cheered for him via text message. They were both pushing out the boundaries in the face of pain and fear. It was late that evening, while Amo was on his date and Robert ran the Yangtze darkness alone collecting purple shovels, toy plastic tools and garden fencing, that the zombie apocalypse struck and killed just about everyone in the world.
FLIGHT
6. APOCALYPSE
There was no announcement echoing through the Yangtze Deepcraft, no Paul Revere figure galloping through the shadowy shelves calling out the warning:
"The zombies are coming, the zombies are coming!"
Instead Robert's warning was a server failure which kicked him out of the mod completely.
For a few moments he watched as the screen reverted back to the boot page. It happened sometimes, so he wasn't alarmed. He'd lose his streak of 76 delivered items, but it wasn't the score that counted, rather the process.
He clicked through, and while the list of available mods loaded he looked at his cell phone. Most recent was the message from Amo, sent hours ago while he was hunkered down in the toilet of some fancy New York restaurant in the middle of his date, getting crushed by the post-coma pain.
Robert, or Cerulean as he often thought of himself now, had replied with the most motivational message he could think of.
I'm in the darkness, running. I just stood with Blucy for twenty minutes, doing nothing. The air is cool and the corridors are long. You're here with me, Amo. We're running this thing together. Our diviners are firing off like crazy, and we're getting it all. Potato dolls, plastic mop handles, Leatherman wrenches, whatever it calls for, we get it.
We can't be stopped. We're in this together. Breathe clear and get it done Amo. This thing is not going to take us both down with it. You out there and me in here, we have this.
It was ridiculous for running in the virtual darkness to matter or count for anything, but it did. It was a kind of unity between the two of them, a statement that they were in it together.
Amo's reply had been:
Sorely needed that. Thank you. Slumped in the toilet freaking out. I'm going back in!!
In his bed, in his basement in Memphis, Tennessee, Cerulean smiled. You kept pushing. He was about to log back into the Deepcraft server when his phone abruptly rang with a piercing klaxon whine.
He lifted it to switch the alarm off, but there were no icons on the screen. Instead the whole display was flashing red, and a few seconds later a message in large white flashing letters filled the screen.
SEEK QUARANTINE!
He blinked. What? It flashed three times then was replaced with another message.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
"I know that," he muttered, tapping at the screen and power buttons to over-ride the klaxon, "it's a virus."
THIS IS NOT A VIRUS OR A MALFUNCTION.
The phone went on, though the klaxon finally stopped.
THIS IS THE UNITED STATES EARLY WARNING SYSTEM, BUILT
One day about a year after the accident, Amo finished his first comic since the coma, and showed it to him. It had an image of zombies piling up on top of each other in Times Square at the end of the world, all of them straining for some hidden meaning in the clouds above. It matched perfectly with how Robert had felt for so long, crushed by a dream he would never reach.
Seeing it, he realized he'd finally hit acceptance.
His loss still hurt, and perhaps that was never going to change. He would never dive or walk again, he might never even have a normal life again, but now he had a friend who understood. Looking at that hopeless comic and all those hopeless zombies straining for something that nobody understood, he wept for his own lost dream, and said his first true goodbye to the man he'd once planned to be.
It was progress.
The next day Amo pushed forward even further, taking a beautiful girl called Lara on a date. Robert cheered for him via text message. They were both pushing out the boundaries in the face of pain and fear. It was late that evening, while Amo was on his date and Robert ran the Yangtze darkness alone collecting purple shovels, toy plastic tools and garden fencing, that the zombie apocalypse struck and killed just about everyone in the world.
FLIGHT
6. APOCALYPSE
There was no announcement echoing through the Yangtze Deepcraft, no Paul Revere figure galloping through the shadowy shelves calling out the warning:
"The zombies are coming, the zombies are coming!"
Instead Robert's warning was a server failure which kicked him out of the mod completely.
For a few moments he watched as the screen reverted back to the boot page. It happened sometimes, so he wasn't alarmed. He'd lose his streak of 76 delivered items, but it wasn't the score that counted, rather the process.
He clicked through, and while the list of available mods loaded he looked at his cell phone. Most recent was the message from Amo, sent hours ago while he was hunkered down in the toilet of some fancy New York restaurant in the middle of his date, getting crushed by the post-coma pain.
Robert, or Cerulean as he often thought of himself now, had replied with the most motivational message he could think of.
I'm in the darkness, running. I just stood with Blucy for twenty minutes, doing nothing. The air is cool and the corridors are long. You're here with me, Amo. We're running this thing together. Our diviners are firing off like crazy, and we're getting it all. Potato dolls, plastic mop handles, Leatherman wrenches, whatever it calls for, we get it.
We can't be stopped. We're in this together. Breathe clear and get it done Amo. This thing is not going to take us both down with it. You out there and me in here, we have this.
It was ridiculous for running in the virtual darkness to matter or count for anything, but it did. It was a kind of unity between the two of them, a statement that they were in it together.
Amo's reply had been:
Sorely needed that. Thank you. Slumped in the toilet freaking out. I'm going back in!!
In his bed, in his basement in Memphis, Tennessee, Cerulean smiled. You kept pushing. He was about to log back into the Deepcraft server when his phone abruptly rang with a piercing klaxon whine.
He lifted it to switch the alarm off, but there were no icons on the screen. Instead the whole display was flashing red, and a few seconds later a message in large white flashing letters filled the screen.
SEEK QUARANTINE!
He blinked. What? It flashed three times then was replaced with another message.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
"I know that," he muttered, tapping at the screen and power buttons to over-ride the klaxon, "it's a virus."
THIS IS NOT A VIRUS OR A MALFUNCTION.
The phone went on, though the klaxon finally stopped.
THIS IS THE UNITED STATES EARLY WARNING SYSTEM, BUILT
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