zombies ate my neighbors

Night Terrors

2011-05-11T10:22:00.000-07:00

It was his first night in Texas and Sergeant First Class (SFC) Ernest Palmer could not sleep due to nightmares.

He had made remarkable time, having crossed the state line and even passing through a few small towns before nightfall, despite his ruined left leg. He had last treated his injury during his return to Bleak Street. He was now, however, unsure of its condition. For this reason, SFC Palmer travelled the last 200 miles by motorbike.

Stepping off his -cycle, Palmer felt he would never again walk without crutches. He somehow stumbled into an unlocked home and laid to rest his tired body.

- - -

In his dreams, Palmer was alone in an old, dusty classroom, seated uncomfortably in an old wooden desk chair. Projected before him on a peeling classroom wall was time-lapse footage of a decaying elk carcass. Coiled up and broken, it quickly fell apart; melting, reanimating, melting, reanimating. Disintegrating. Palmer remembered its eyes and how they decomposed differently than the other parts.

It seemed to be happening so quickly -- but so slowly that Palmer began to feel woozy. But this was the same feeling he'd felt all along. He had forgotten why he was sitting in the classroom.

The projector hummed louder and louder until the sound became a helicopter, a train, a helicopter and a train. He was surrounded by such an unbearable measure of sound until he burst.

- - -

Sergeant First Class (SFC) Ernest Palmer awoke in the morning to find his regurgitated dinner lying in bed with him. He wiped himself clean and slumped to the front door.

You have 5 minutes remaining.

2011-05-04T02:42:00.000-07:00

courtesy of Dr. Katy Kao of Texas A&M University

(500) Minutes of a KRRQ Deejay at f.y.e. Spent Listening to Jay-Z, Out of KFC and Watching Everyone Outside Getting K.I.A. and LingOL

2011-04-28T15:26:00.000-07:00

“… This is not a zombie story, but it is a story about zombies.”

Ha! My bad, dawg; couldn’t help it, you dig? I always been a real, uh, avid, uh, film buff, you know, and uh, plus I was lookin’ at all those posters an’ shit. Couldn’t help m’self.

Ahhh…

Damn, we really been here this long? I mean, you could tell, right? We gone through all the first Rap & Hip-Hop bin, artists A-L and we lookin’ at the posters for bout the tenth time an’ I can’t even get a hard-on lookin’ at the one wit the girls pullin’ down they shorts in the back of the truck and says Haul Ass on it. It’s like impossible to be jackin’ it right now. Shih, why ‘m I tellin’ you, though? You know it, bo-oyyyy. Ha, ha.

Aw, shit, just tryin’ to keep my sense o’ humor, you know, uh, in these dark times. That’s some crazy shit though out there though. Rather be in here than out there, that’s f’ damn sure. Seen that movie Dawn o’ the Dead? Oh, I guess the new one, I don’t know, I didn’t know they was a old one. Man, I saw that movie when it came out and I mean, shit, man, the zombie apocalypse ain’t nothin’ like that. I mean, yeah, we be in a mall an’ all but in the movie they get to walk around an’ do all the shit in the diffrent stores, y’know, watch the TVs, eat the food, they even get to use the goddamn shotguns in the stores, you know it? I mean, this mall ain’t even got shotguns. What I was sayin’ earlier was this little store you got here, I mean, it ain’t even got like fuckin’ internet access an’ shit. I know! Huh.

Oh, well, yeah, and this bullshit out there. Shit, truth be told, man, I don’t even know what I be doin’ out there if I had shotguns, you know? Not every black man know how to buss a cap in a motherfucker’s ass. Or, yeah, you right: motherfucker’s head. But yeah, I don’t even own a gun. Oh, shit, boy, yeah you got me. I mean, I don’t even have one, you know? I ain’t ever had one. But like I be sayin’, you know, I ain’t ‘ever done that shit, man. This town ain’t that big, I mean, yeah, it’s big but it ain’t that big, you don’t see that shit ev’rywhere you go. Pssh, man. You know, man, this is some shit we’re in, you know, but...

Yeah, I know. You right, you right, this is… yeah, this fuckin’ sucks. But man, you know… I think it might help if I tell you here and now bout, like, this stuff I been thinkin’ bout lately, and it relates to our situation, a’ight, that shit out there and that whole What Could Have Been shit, you dig? I mean, we stuck here, we got time, trust me, so hear my ass out.

See, thing wit me lately is… well, hold on, ‘k, see, the other day I was goin’ get lunch o’ some shit an’ I’m listening to the radio an’--well, no, what I was gonna say was--I’m not listening to KRRQ at that particular moment in time, ‘k, I’m actually checkin’ out NPR. I mean, hey, I listen to NPR, shit, I pledge to that shit, a’ight? Seriously, so I… you know, they talkin’ bout the economy an’ all that, a’ight, an’ how Obama this an’ Republicans that an’ Charlie motherfuckin’ Sheen an’ “winning” an’ ‘at shit an’ things ain’t as good as they was a long time ago an’… all that. A’ight, so I got to thinkin’, you know… like, aloud… ha, ha, yeah, seriously, it was like a, uh, Cops episode ‘cept wit a black man doin’ the talking. Ha, yeah, that’s right, you right, you right.

Well, you know, I know this is prob’ly pretty relatively unimportant in the big picture, but I sorta taken a look at my life, my choices, you know, what shit brought me here, you know. I used-a think I made a few mistakes, chose the wrong school, the wrong, uh, career steps, that kinda thing. I even so far to say I musta chose the wrong things I wanted-a do wit my life, my goals, my wishes, that shit, you dig? Stuff you can’t actually be blamed for choosing, can’t actually be wrong for choosing, yeah? Now, had I known all that shit wit Poor Tony and Mario was gonna happen a coupla years ago, a’ight, I can’t promise I woulda made the same decisions that got me here. I mean, yeah, I love that whole, you know, and-if-I-hadda-do-it-all-over-again-I-wouldn’t-change-a-single-thing kinda shit, I love it, yeah, you right, you right, but shit, let’s be real.

I mean, ‘xample, fr’instance. I’m pretty much limited, uh, financially as to what I’m able to do wit my life. You know, what’s realistic for my ass. I ain’t rich, my name ain’t Dwyane Wade, ain’t Denzel, shit, boy, it ain’t even Montel. ‘K, so needless to say, my shit’s limited. I don’t make very much bank over at the station. Right now. I’m not whee I wanna be right now--and I know, this is some fucked-up shit to be talkin’ ‘bout right now--an’ all, but we ain’t got much else-a do, an’ we halfway through most o’ the good music, so, trust me, this is goin’ somewhere. They thinkin’ ‘bout closin’ the station, you hear me? Course now I shouldn’t even be worryin’ ‘bout that shit. That shit ain’t the point, though.

Yeah, an’ what I got goin’ on with Brandi. Yeah, Brandi, the one I tell you ‘bout earlier. One spells her name just like--yeah, yeah! Saw that girl on TV just the other day, and I mean, daaaaaaaaaaamn. Ha, ha, yeah. Nah, but seriously though, I was thinkin’, man, if I could somehow keep the station from closin’, keep my job and--hear me now--move up a lil’, say, to say like music director, some shit, ‘k, ‘k, and wait--dig this, brother--keep things goin’ th’ way they is wit Brandi. Boom! If I can keep all that goin’, boy, I be set. An’ really, if I just get Brandi, then this all be good enough for me. After all this shit, all this shit goin’ on out there--fuck! D’you see that shit? Yeah, I saw it, d’you see it? God-damn.

Well, a’ight, but you know what I’m sayin’, right? I mean, I ain’t no wordsmith, boy, I ain’t no Kanye-West-voice-o’-my-generation shit, a’ight.

Shit, put on Cee Lo, I give a shit. Ain’t no one around here gonna tell us “Fuck You” can’t be played here. Huh? You dead motherfuckers care if my boy put on Cee Lo?

Ha, ha, nah, man, I don’t think they mind.

Now where was I wit all that shit again? Ah, ne’er mind. Man, I’m-a try to put up one o’ these posters up in the restroom back here, lil’ quiet time, I be a few minutes, you dig?

Care Packages

2011-04-19T22:25:00.000-07:00

This entry is a continuation of this storyline:
http://terroronbleakstreet.blogspot.com/2009/09/reminiscence.html

Click on the images below to view the pages of the script in a separate window.

It's how they do it in the movies...

2011-04-12T23:07:00.000-07:00

This entry follows after The Real World

Tractor Shirt

2011-04-05T22:13:00.001-07:00

*NOTE: This entry was written by Norm. Ignore the publisher tag.

The first thing is me climbing up and leaning against the railing, trying to navigate these bars. Then she comes into the room trying to console me. Her excuse is that I’m tired and maybe sick. She whispers to me:

--Shh, shh, you’ve got a cold, honey.

And I’m telling her I’m not tired or sick but as usual she doesn’t listen. I still like her though. The other day, she gave me this awesome banana stuff out of a jar and then--get this--she didn’t even get mad when I rubbed it all over our faces.

--Shh, shh, it’s okay.

Even as she’s shushing me I hear all of this commotion coming from the halls and the kitchen. If she wants me to sleep, she should tell the others to be quiet. One of the others is always in the room with the mirror and the white tile floors, talking about shit and goddammit and clutching his bleeding chin. The others, who seem to be proxies or something, are always yelling at each other. At this time of day, everyone is running around and talking fast and loud.

Except me. I’ve got this. But the funny thing is that I’m not even making any noise and she’s trying to calm me down. I keep telling her she’s got the wrong guy but she won’t listen.

It’s hard to stay mad at her though.

The next thing is I’m in the room with the most windows, which is the second-brightest room in the house and I squint and I think I’m already falling asleep again. I lead a pretty complicated life. But I’m excited because I’m in my tractor shirt today! YES! You KNOW it! The tractor shirt always gets compliments from my colleagues, especially the ones in pink, which I like but don’t know why. They’re so nosy and always screaming their heads off. I still like them though. If I'm wearing my tractor shirt, today's gonna be a good day. The small grey box on the counter is on. This is the television, and I love it. There are lines moving up and down the screen and behind the lines is someone else talking, I think, to me.

--Some development at the school where, this morning, officials say a snarling man entered the school property and assaulted seven people. Those seven are currently en route to medical facilities. Reporter Brady Winfield has more on this. Brady?

I have no idea what any of this means. The screen changes to someone else talking to me. I don’t exactly understand the television or what any of it says means. But I love the television. And apple juice.

I call for one of the proxies to come and explain to me what’s going on inside the television. Both of them enter and are for some reason begging me to please be quiet. I keep telling them I am in total control. They are the loud ones. I wish I did not have to put up with them. They are ugly and loud. They smell and they have red dots on their faces. I ask them to tell me what’s going on, but they only talk to each other.

--I’m telling you, this is it! Just like in the movies!

--You’re such a loser.

--Tell me that when your intestines are eaten out, dickbreath.

--Ew! Mom, Stephen called me “dickbreath”!

--But that’s what happens when you--!

--STEPHEN, DON’T SAY ANOTHER WORD!

--Aw, geez.

Again, I realize none of this makes any sense. This is who I live with: losers and dickbreaths.

Then I wake up. I’m in the backseat, again. I never get to sit in front! Well at least I don’t have to be quiet about it.

--Shh, it’s okay, honey, we’re almost there.

--Little guy wants to sit up front. Come on, lemme hold him up here for a minute.
--No, Frank! Remember when you let Miranda try to drive when she was two? Do you want that to happen again?

--Aw, Beth, not that again.

--Frank, I just--!

--Hey, Dad, if the zombies come to our house, we need to be ready. Where do we keep the grenade launchers?

--Stephen. Frank, talk to our son.

--My son? Whoa, whoa.

--Dad, seriously.

--Steve, we don’t have any grenade launchers.

--But, Daaaaaad!

--We have sawed-off shotguns though.

--...

--Steve?

--Awesome! YES!

--Good going, Dad.

--Oh, quiet, Miranda.

--Frank, this is the part where you tell me we don’t really have sawed-off shotguns.

--Okay, yes, I admit it. They’re not sawed-off.

Carpooling sucks, I admit it. I’m already starting to fall asleep again listening to them.

--Stephen, honey, I promise, there aren’t any zombies. Frank, he’s been watching midnight movies again.

--He uses Netflix after hours!

--Shut up, dickbreath!

--Stephen! Don’t say that word again.

--Yes, sir. But I do not use Netflix after hours!

--Do too!

--Do not!

--Oh, that’s right. I meant Redtube.

--Shut up!

--Frank, what’s Redtube.

--Well, Beth, honey, it’s this really nifty little...

--Dad.

--Oh, right, um, nothing. Christian shopping website.

--Oh, how nice.

--Yep.

--Mom, it’s--!

--Quiet, Miranda. Redtube is a Christian shopping website. And that’s final.

I have got to quit taking so many naps. I can’t do this everyday, what with my workload. For example, I missed lunch! I just get so worked up sometimes.

I’m in a room filled with heads and bodies. It is a crowded room and bright. There are beeping sounds and people in long white coats. Quiet sad-looking people walk around in giant bibs. Their bottoms are visible when they walk past. I go commando all the time without warning whenever I’m at home and they think it’s funny. So I can’t help laughing now but apparently I’m the only one who finds this amusing at all. She is holding me and shushing me again.

--Shh, honey. Frank, what are they doing?

--They’re taking a look at her. It’s so strange, they thought that…

--What?

--They thought that she was… gone, but… she’s showing some good signs now.

--Oh, thank the Lord.

--Yeah.

--Oh, my--

I’m still laughing myself silly when the big white doors at the end of the hall open up and a group of people all in green rush through pushing what I think is a very thin and uncomfortable-looking bed. On wheels. I know what you’re thinking: Awesome! They’re making all kinds of noise which I find unappealing however.

--Shh, honey, it’s okay. Frank, oh, my God, is that--is that--?

--Hey, where are you going with my daughter?

--We’re sorry, we’re so sorry, we’re--!

--Frank, what are they doing--?

Suddenly I’m pushed up when she stands up, which I find startling. I let everyone know how I feel about this.

--What’s wrong with her face? Doctor, what’s wrong with her?

--Doctor, vital signs up again. She’s coming back.

--She’s already back, you idiot! Where are you taking my daughter? Miranda! Miranda!

--Sir, please excuse us!

--Sir, please!

--Doctor, patient shows no heartbeat but is responding to--

--Get her out of here, can’t you see this is her family?

--For Christ’s sake!

--Frank!

--Hang on, I’m going with them!

I’m in the front seat, facing through the giant front window. She sits in the pilot’s seat with the circle in front of her. She clutches the circle tightly. She doesn’t say a word. I start to tell her I’m sorry today has been so rotten.

--Shh, honey, it’s okay.

As usual. I still like her though.

The Woods

2011-03-29T22:03:00.000-07:00

Loud noises. Throbbing head. Something furry on my chest. And something…sticky? I opened my eyes to find the pug staring right back at me and licking my face. “Ugh, get off me you shit!” I said while taking one hand and throwing him off me. The pug skid down the floor with his paws and let out a whimper. It slowly crawled back to me, eyes wide and wary. I didn’t even give it the time of day, I just got up and walked past it.

I looked around me and found that I had no idea where I was. Only trees surrounded me. This was not good, I hated being lost for two reasons: 1. I had a terrible sense of direction and 2. I felt like a small child who needed his mother’s hand to guide him along. Why the hell was I out here in the first place?

I started looking around me and noticed that I was outside a small house, but there were no other houses nearby. Actually, calling this a house was a mistake, it was more of a cabin. Like one of those places where little kids got touched inappropriately. I wonder if that just happened to me.

I looked at my clothes and instead of finding white stains, I found deep red ones. Suddenly, I remembered what happened to me. The crazy thing who attacked me. The guy who looked like me. And how he bludgeoned me with my own flashlight.

“Howdy,” a voice behind me said. “I take it your wide awake now?” I turned around and saw the guy, but I didn’t reply back to his remark. I just kept my distance in case he decided to pull another whack job on me. “You should probably sit back down, you took quite a blow to the head,” he snickered.

“Yea, that you did! What the hell was that about?” I replied. “Oh, I don’t know, I just figured you’d be less cooperative to follow me if you were still conscious,” he said. Humans are quite a rarity, I wanted to make sure I could, ahem, save you.”

“Who…who are you?” I said warily. “Mother and father call me Pierre, but you can call me Perry. And not that I care, but I take it you have a name?” The so-called Perry said “…It’s Artem,” I said. “Hehe…cute name,” Perry replied. I ignored the comment and asked “Where are we? Why did you bring me here? And what was that thing that attacked me?”

“My, aren’t you antsy. Well, I can’t answer all your questions, but I can tell you that there are more of that thing that attacked you. They’re everywhere. In fact, you and I are probably the only human beings in a 100-mile radius. So that means you should probably stick to me. You know, survival in numbers,” he said while holding a smirk in his face.

Stick with him? I’d rather go shoot my own foot off. Which is coincidently the same thing I would do if I ever got drafted to the army. There was just something that grates about him. Snobbish prick. “Go fuck off, I’m not sticking with you. You just beat me down with a flashlight and you want me to follow you?” I said

“Well, to be fair, I did save your life. You owe me a life debt. And to repay it, you have to follow me wherever I go Arty,” Perry said, in his condescending tone. “What!? I don’t owe you anything,” I exclaimed.

“Oh really? If my memory serves me right, I got you out of a one way ticket to someone’s gullet. And plus, I knocked you out cause you’d have raised such a commotion, you’d have attracted others. So that’s two life debts. Also, you could say you owe me two-and-a-half life debts since I tried to treat your wound. But I’m not a doctor, so the wound stays. I only dampened it with some ripped clothes,” said Perry

Wound? I looked all around my body and then noticed a large red patch on my left arm. It spanned from my forearm to my wrist, glistening in deep crimson even though a make shift patch of clothing was covering it. The wound screamed “Needs to be treated asap”.

“Oh shit…,” I muttered. I wasn’t a genius, but I knew a cut drew in multiple diseases. Rabies could be contracted from a bite. Infections came from open wounds, which contracted into so many diseases. I once saw a documentary on gangrene on tv. I couldn’t eat for the next week.

“Hmm, I’d look into that if I were you,” Perry said. “That creature got a good slashing on you. But I think we’re drawing away from the real point. I saved your life. Twice and a half times. But I’m a generous guy, so I’ll only take one life debt.

“So with that life debt, I want you to follow me. I need a helper to survive through this. And if I’m not mistaken, I’d guess survival is pretty high up on your list too, so this’ll only help you.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. I just got saved by the world’s number one jackass. And to boot, I could start contracting some crazy shit on my arm. God knows what that thing has. What made it worst was that he was right. Being with somebody increased your odds of living. And I liked the idea of being alive and what not.

“Oh,” he interjected, “I presume that pug that you‘ve been oh so nice to is with you? “Well, I call that he gets to be with us. Three’s a party you know.” I had forgotten about the pug till he mentioned it. The pug was just sitting there, panting and staring off into space. Dumb animal. How did it even follow us?

“If we don’t leave soon, I’m gonna have to start calling you stumpy, “Perry laughed. “Let’s go find some help. Preferably someone with experience with medicine. We’re going be total bffs by the time this is over,” Perry chirped. “He just said bffs. Fuck me.

If the moment came, I was going to use Perry as bait for the creatures to bail myself out. He just became my get-out-of-jail free card. I didn‘t have to outrun the things if they came. I just had to run faster than Perry. “Where did you have in mind?” I said.

“Toward Louisiana. I’m not fond of being in Texas,” He replied. “I didn’t question him further on his decision, I just wanted to get out of the woods and find something or someone to treat my arm. It was starting to turn an even brighter red through the jury-rigged patch .

Perry started walking off and I started following. He seemed to know where he was going at least. The pug followed on my heels. Following captain dickhead, we got out of the woods.

Don't Make a Sound

2011-03-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

     Another zombie loses a foot and falls to the ground, tripping up two more on its way down. Such well placed traps slow down the horde that needs to be given the slip before heading home to Bleak Street. Fortunately for Jason, traps are his specialty, and he made a lot of them.
     Trap making is a handy skill for outdoorsmen like Jason when it comes to getting natural food. One can hunt for game, but guns are very loud and zombies have unbelievably keen hearing. Jason’s traps are silent, good for catching game, good for catching the walking dead. It’s too bad the game hunts back now. Jason is a 26-year-old master of the outdoors. He may be a little young to be a “master”, but his boy scout experience, rock climbing expertise, hunting every season of the year, and the five years he spent predominantly alone in the wilderness provided him enough experience to entitle himself so. Jason knows how to survive and there is no better time to have that knowledge.
     Jason sprints down a wide alley, his special alley, nearing Bleak Street. Not much farther now. Just a few fences to jump and he’ll be in time for dinner with his sweetheart, Jennifer.

   The zombies turn into the alley as soon as Jason reaches the opposite end. Jason stops and turns. It’s time for the fireworks.
     Jason’s first trap is sprung, a simple trip wire. Zombies tumble on top of each other. It’s nothing special, but it forces the zombies closer together as they lumber through the alley.
     The horde advances halfway through the alley. Trap number two is sprung. Trash cans full of gasoline fall over, causing a flash flood of the flammable liquid to fill the alley. They don’t notice. They just keep walking.
     The horde is three quarters of the way through. Jason’s turn. He pulls a raw steak from his bag and shoves a fuse into it. After lighting the fuse, Jason tosses the steak on the ground and runs to the nearby fence.
     The zombies are on the meat like wild dogs. Jason is pleased to see how easily they take bait. As nimbly as a cat, Jason climbs the fence and sits on top, watching and waiting.
     Gasoline trickles through the zombies’ feet. It finally makes its way to the raw meat on the ground. The meat with the fuse in it. The fuse that continues to burn.
     The gasoline ignites. Zombies light up like dry wood. The flames rise to trigger the next trap. Right above the flaming heads of zombies awaits a net lined with homemade bombs. The fires snap ropes and the net falls.
     Eyes pinned on the alley, Jason waits on the fence. Suddenly, a surge of heat knocks him off and into a backyard. From his back Jason hears a chain of explosions and sees the flames of his labor burn the buildings on either side of the alley. Groans from the horde of zombies fill his ears.
     Grinning, Jason gets back to his feet and pulls his head up to look over the fence. Time for the finale. This one will take care of any undead who managed to avoid the gasoline or are on their way to investigate the shiny lights and loud noises.
     Jason pulls a homemade detonator out of his pocket and presses the button. Everything that could support the buildings on each side of the alley explodes. The buildings crumble and fall, crushing everything around them.
     The show is over. Jason makes his way home to Bleak Street jumping fences and running through backyards.
     Finally, the last fence is jumped. Jason looks both ways down the deserted Bleak Street, just in case, then runs home.

     Jason had finally finished completely boarding up the house, or at least the first floor, the day before.  To get inside of his own home, he has to pull out the hidden ladder and climb up to the second floor. Dry and dirty, all he wanted was a bath and some quiet time, but there is just never time for that anymore. Too many zombies hang out outside these days. Not to mention it's incredibly difficult to board up a house without attracting any attention to it.
    Jason walks into the kitchen.
     "Jennifer, I have food," Jason says.
     Jennifer, Jason's 27-year-old beauty, walks into the kitchen. Why this young fashionista is attracted to fashion's opposite is beyond him.
     "All right! What have we scavenged up today?"
     "It's actually not bad stuff." Jason smiles with pride.
     Jennifer smiles at Jason. She often wonders how many men are as handy as him. He can use guns, make bombs, hunt, scavenge... what else could there be?
     "The crowd got smaller today, too."

     Nightfall. The scratching is loud tonight. Jason and Jennifer are upstairs in the bedroom, still awake. It's not late enough to go to sleep. Reading has become a hobby for the two.
     Jennifer gets out of bed and looks out the window. Something catches her eye. An elk is grazing in the back yard.
     "Jason, look. It's a deer."
     Jason rolls out of bed and falls to the floor. He then crawls over to Jennifer's feet.
     "Huh?"
     Jennifer points.
     "Over there. It's a deer."
     Now on his feet, Jason looks out the window.
     "No, that's an elk. What the hell is an elk doing here?"
     Jennifer runs out of the room and down the stairs.  Only mildly entertained, Jason slowly follows. Jennifer is downstairs now. She rushes to the window to look at the elk. She peers between boards to see it has moved to the corner of the back yard and continues to graze. Jason arrives next to Jennifer and looks outside.
     Suddenly, three zombies run out of the shadows and grab the elk. Jennifer screams. Jason knows the elk's fate and quickly turns Jennifer away from the window. Unfortunately, Jennifer's scream was a little louder than he wanted. Jason expects more zombies to show. The house is boarded up, but can only take so much pressure from invaders.
     Jason whispers to Jennifer,
     "Don't make a sound."
     Nothing happens. The scratching continues as steadily as before.
     Finally, something happens. Jason and Jennifer listen as heavy footsteps move along the side of the house. They follow the footsteps as they continue.
     Jennifer sneezes!
     Jason quickly turns and stares at Jennifer, angry and shocked. Jennifer is wide-eyed.
     A voice from outside,
     "The hell?"
     More footsteps. The zombies out front must have heard. The heavy footsteps run away. The sound of a large person jumping a fence can be heard.
     Jason and Jennifer slowly move back upstairs, excited that there is definitely another survivor nearby.
     "I hope he gets away," says the ever-caring Jennifer.

Life Cycles.

2011-03-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

She looked down at her watch. It read 9:42. Given the amount of light outside, she knew this meant PM, however, her watch read 9:42 for the past ten times she had checked it. She only knew this because a single beam of light that came from the nearby streetlamp had streamed in through the basement window. It was wide enough for a small animal or child to crawl in, but probably not herself. She was okay with that, though, because she had no intention to go outside in the near future. If there was any future at all.

Her name was Sprout. Her nick name, anyways. Just barely hitting five foot was enough reason to call her this. And she doesn't answer to anything else, either. It started at school, when a particularly mean boy would call her this, and all the kids that didn't know her thought it was her real name. For the most part she ignored him, until other kids called her Sprout without any rude intentions, and then it stuck. It was also at school when things started to end.

During lunch in high school, there were several places to eat, to relax, to talk with friends. Sprout was by herself today, for no particular reason. Usually she enjoyed the company of a select few, but it seemed like a good idea to eat alone. About ten minutes into lunch, something happen. The people around her caught wind of something, and they ran to the courtyard. She looked at her sandwich, and sighed. She followed the others to the courtyard, and at first it didn't seem like much. Everyone stood still as they watched someone from across the road run towards the school, and a little further than that, someone running behind them. At first the yelling was faint, but then it grew louder. It was frantic, and also a little hard to discern because it sounded like the person was crying at the same time.

"Help me, please!" he pleaded with the teenagers, who stood still in amazement. Some talked amongst themselves, a couple of them left, some mocked the man, and others were genuinely scared. Sprout wasn't sure of what to make of it. It wasn't until he got closer did they notice that the man was bleeding. A girl ran towards the office, notifying the faculty. The principal, secretaries, and the girl ran back outside. The principal had to squint to see, then immediately recognized the potential danger of the two strangers heading towards campus. The bleeding man hesitated as he made it to the intersection, and weaved his way through traffic, while the other didn't even stop. A car ran right into him, and he fell on the ground hard.

"Go back to class!" The principal demanded, as he made his way to the street, but no one listened. Everyone followed him to the street. The driver got out of his car, and looked at the man he hit. The body was twitching, but the look on his face was nothing like he'd seen before. There was no fear, no sense of pain. The man that was already hurt slowly made his way back towards his attacker. He was gone, that was for sure. The other students kept clear of the injured man. He was staring at the ground, then slowly looked up at the principal.

"Come with me, we'll get you cleaned up." the principal urged. He started to turn around and walk back, but the man grabbed his arm and pulled him back forcefully. The principal looked in the man's eyes and only saw anger. He was not the scared man running for his life anymore. In an instant, he swung at the principal, who fell on the car, and rolled off the hood. Some of the students screamed, but they all ran back towards the school. Unconscious or dead, the man left the principal and started running after the students. He grabbed one blonde girl, and bit a chunk out of her shoulder. She screamed, the pain shooting through her nerves. She fell to the ground, holding her shoulder with her other, tears and mascara streaming down her cheeks. Sprout looked back only once to see the man attacking another student and noticed as the blonde girl's attitude was changing. She got up and began running after other students as well, a hungry look in her eyes.

Sprout lived in a neighborhood right across the school, so instead of going back to class she simply ran home. She had a house key in her pocket because her parents worked during the day. A spare was kept hidden in the rocks that surrounded the flower bed. She took the spare as well, not wanting anyone to get in that might happen upon the key. She locked the doors and all the windows, and closed the curtains and blinds. She turned on the television while she ran around the house, leaving it on the news station. As she grabbed anything she deemed important, she heard the woman on the screen say, "A new virus strain has come up, and it is extremely deadly. As far as symptoms go, any person with the virus exhibits cannabalistic tendencies, extreme anger, no sense of pain or fear, and no fatigue. The virus is passed along when infected bodily fluid, such as blood or spit, comes in contact with the blood from a noninfected human, such as when being bitten. It is unknown whether the various is transmutable to animals. The virus is not airborne. For now there is no known cure, and scientists are working in a frenzy to come up with a vaccine. It is recommended that you evacuate the area immediately. There are military bases set up on the outskirts of the city. You will be required to pass a medical exam. All infected humans will be quarantined."

Alone, and not having a car, Sprout couldn't evacuate even if she wanted to leave the house. She made several trips from the kitchen, her bedroom, the medicine cabinet, to downstairs in the basement. She had deemed it the safest place in the house, but wasn't really sure of it capabilities to protect her from zombies. Zombies. It was strange to think about. That kind of thing was only in books or movies. It wasn't supposed to be happening to her. She went back upstairs once more to try to call her parents. Neither one had answered, so she called the work number. No one answered that either. A sinking feeling filled her stomach. Her eyes began to water as she locked the basement door and walked down the steps.

She'd brought all the canned food she could find, as well as things from the fridge that wouldn't spoil too quickly. She brought a can opener, and a spoon, and all the bottled water. Blankets covered the floor, as well as several pillows, and a stuffed bear her father gave her years ago. A first aid kit was laid against the bear. The basement itself contained an assortment of things collected over the years of its existence, dust being one of them. There was a cabinet where Sprout's dad kept his guns he used for duck hunting. This would be the most valuable asset of all.

Time crawled by as she paced the floor of the basement, occasionally laying down, hugging her bear and crying. She glanced at her watch, it read 9:42. She never heard the car engine pull up nor did she hear the phone ring. Her parents weren't coming home, and she tried to ignore this fact. Were they hurt? Did they leave her? Or maybe they were unable to leave the office, hiding as well. The crickets weren't chirping like they normally had outside her bedroom window. Even they knew something wasn't right in the world. She walked to the small window in the basement. There was a crate she used to be tall enough to look out of it. In the middle of the road she saw someone walking. Stumbling, really, in a slow manner, almost uncomfortable with the act of walking. It seemed to sniff the air, and in that moment Sprout realized the person had to be infected. She stepped down from the crate, and stared hard at the gun cabinet. She looked at her watch. It read 9:42. She walked towards the gun case and pulled out one she knew her father kept in good working condition. She only knew how to do two things: take off the safety and pull the trigger.

The Black Tuxedo

2011-03-08T22:00:00.000-08:00

A note to the reader:
I encourage you to click on the hyperlinked text in this entry. It will help to link this story to the other characters on Bleak street. Of course, don't forget to rate and comment.

***

With only a few more miles between himself and the state line, Sergeant First Class (SFC) Ernest Palmer turned back. He had been travelling for close to a week -- by bicycle or motorbike for half the trip, by foot the other half. It was imperative that he get the hell out of Louisiana while he could, but what was waiting for him in Texas he couldn’t remember.

One of the catches of the Z-Day, Palmer noted, aside from the walking, starving, feral dead, was his sudden forgetfulness. Days went first. Then went names, faces -- not that he had very many acquaintances. It was as if his old life was slowly being erased and he was stepping into a new one. Most would view the zombie apocalypse as an end of times; end of life. Depression. Solitude. Suicide. But Palmer sensed a second chance -- stepping across the Louisiana/Texas border would equate to stepping into his new self.

SFC Ernest Palmer turned back because there were still some things that weren’t ready to be erased. Things he knew he wanted to have with him for his next life, and some things, maybe hidden somewhere deep in his subconscious, that he knew he couldn’t yet release. Battling the hot Louisiana sun and the unforgiving pain in his feet, Palmer began his journey back to Bleak Street.

Bleak Street had changed. What used to be a shabby neighborhood with a couple dozen deadheads was now a string of abandoned houses, boarded up. Palmer assessed no signs of life, except for the large crowds of zombies, if they can be counted. Anyone still hiding out here would have to be a damned fool.

In his first attempt to escape Louisiana, Palmer learned to fear packs -- too many to take down, and too many to run from. Never get too close, and always have an exit. He remembered the first few days, and how much he enjoyed them. There were no groups, they had no awareness -- something they must’ve picked up just recently -- it was so simple to kill them. On an easy day, a fella could kick back with a six-pack and unload from his front porch. Today was not an easy day at all.

Palmer worked out a path in his head -- he would have to come around the back of his house to avoid any zombies. This meant he’d have to jump Donny’s fence, and he wasn’t so sure he’d be up for that. As to not tire himself, Palmer moved no faster than a brisk march. He passed almost too close to a trio snacking on an elk, stripping apart vital organs, fluids bursting out, and thought it strange to find such an animal out in the neighborhood, when, as if by coincidence

a SNEEZE from inside the house at his side, immediately followed by a hush.

Palmer swung around and opened his mouth, perhaps a inch too wide: “..the hell!?”

It was the first thing he spoke in days, maybe weeks (how should he remember?), and it cost him. At first he heard some shuffling and whispers, until everything was drowned out by the sounds of the approaching undead chorus -- a brutish cacophony of moans, screeches, panting. The elk trio spat what rotten gobs of blood they sucked and moved in with the crowd. Palmer kicked off the ground and strained a sprint towards his house on Bleak Street. With a wall of zombies behind him, the only exit was forward.

The zombies couldn’t run more than a forced shoving motion, but the real danger was Palmer’s racing heart, and the increasing number of zombies he alerted as he trudged by.

He had to slow down. There was no air. Grumbling to a halt, Palmer leaned his hands on his knees, bent over and huffed for breath. Against the backdrop of thirty-odd zombies, he raised his head and met Donny’s fence.

F*ck fences.

He struggled a few hops to catch the top of the fence until he caught, hands raw. As he lifted his weight off the ground and over the fence, he felt a tug. They had him. His left leg. Palmer then decided that he would make it over the fence with or without the leg. With all his effort, Palmer flung himself over the fence.

The impact crushed his left ankle -- a searing pain darted up his leg and out of his mouth in a howl. He tried to stand, limping, hopping on one foot. His chest and head both shook from the fall; nonetheless, he kept hopping towards his back door.

It’s broken. Palmer sifted through the little box he found on his front porch and did what he could for his ankle. He wrapped himself up with nothing more than a flimsy splint and the security of antibiotics to fight infection.

The note:

“Maybe we’ll see each other when all of this is over.”

Palmer folded the note and tossed it into the box.

The zombies had made it over the fence, or around the fence, or somehow they found a way to slam on Palmer’s front door. It was all too familiar. Palmer chuckled to himself when he saw the bullet-sized hole in his front door. Had he forgotten?

He was almost ready to leave Bleak Street forever. There was only one thing he needed to do. Palmer entered his simple bedroom and opened the sliding door of his closet. A change of clothes would do him good. He sifted through his hanging clothes until he reached his old military uniform. It was weathered, but he knew it would still fit him.

He contemplated packing an extra set of clothes, and almost did, until he found it -- an artifact from his past. A BLACK TUXEDO. Lifeless, covered in dust, covered in neglect.

SFC Ernest Palmer had never really been fully married, but he had that black tuxedo. Still there, all the way at the back of his closet.

He closed the closet; not forcefully, but stolid. Then he went to his kitchen and found a bottle of whiskey.

There was only the light of the moon. No more streetlights; they went with the electricity. SFC Palmer was dressed in his old uniform at the house where he heard the sneeze.

He had made a pact with himself not to speak again on Bleak Street.

Unless he was spoken to.

No. Perhaps, not even then.

Palmer moved in closer to the house, still getting used to his busted ankle. How long could he last with one good leg? He was quieter than before, although there were no zombies around this house anymore -- must’ve all run out after him.

Now Palmer got in close to the house and listened:

“I think it was a wake-up call.”

“How do you mean?”

“There are people on Bleak Street.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well. There are others out there. There’s a chance for that.”

A beat.

“You’re right about leaving. Maybe you’re right. We’ve got nothing left here. We need to look for others. We need help. We need to just get away from Bleak Street.”

There were two of them. Man and woman. They were young, just out of college?; Palmer saw that. They continued talking, something about working with others, how much better off they could be. Despite the lesson on strength in numbers, Palmer wasn’t paying much attention. He had already left before they mentioned Texas. It didn't matter much. They would never find the help needed to cross the state line.

On his way out, Palmer crossed a playground where he found two dead humans. Both shot in the head. They were a couple, girl and boy.

For an instant, Palmer saw them as bride and groom. She was in a pure white wedding dress, but the boy wore an old, dusty, black tuxedo.

SFC Ernest Palmer spat on the corpses and left Bleak Street for the second time.

***

Reminiscence.

2011-03-01T22:02:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this to You, in the the event that you manage to find this note intact, and found everything to be extremely helpful. As a pharmacist, I find it my moral duty to share these things with You....even when it seems that the entire world has gone mad. I don't know more about this than You do, but maybe we'll see each other when all of this is over.

Pharmacist or not, I thought, you gotta be batshit insane to take the time to put together aide kits while you oughta be runnin' for dear life.

It was probably....fuck, I dunno. I've been on the road for so long now that I don't even know when the madness began. I can't even remember what I was doin' when it all started. Or, when it finally got to my end of the map. All of this coulda started days before it finally spread to the east. Hell, it mighta started here and now it's spreadin' to the west..

Anyways, I don't have time to be thinkin' about those things.

I spent the last few nights in a tree that was good for climbin', and as it turned out, sleepin' too. I'd parked my motorcycle right next to it. I was pretty sure no one was around here, and even if they were, they prob'ly weren't alive. When I came down one mornin', I found this little box on the seat. Had some bandage wraps, a little bottle of peroxide, a few pills, and that note in it. The handwritin' was a little sloppy...not sure if they were in a rush, or if that's their normal style. Guess they figured that since things are a little crazy, they can just take all they need, 'specially since they worked in a pharmacy. That's the kinda place I'd go pick through first. Well maybe I'd go and get me a handgun first...if I didn't already have one.

Anyways, that person can't be too far.

As for personal belongings, I got the motorcycle, that box and note, a couple o' pocket knives, some bread and chips, the gun, and a bit o' ammo. The clothes on my back. Some money too, but that's only good if you find someone who's still tryin' to make 'em some in all this mess. And that's not likely.

Right now, I prob'ly had to shoot three or four o' those things, not sure how many I just passed on by while ridin' this bike. Not sure if I actually killed 'em or just slowed em' down a bit. Not sure if I really wanna know that answer.

A little while later the tree decided I'd worn out my welcome, and I felt the same way. I pat the bark and wished the tree well before I set off. Not sure how long I was on the road, but it wasn't before long I found myself runnin' into trouble. I passed a couple o' houses, noticed some o' them little boxes set on the porches. Either those folks are long gone or too scared to even open the damn door. o' course, I felt obligated to make sure nothing goes to waste, and took the boxes. Each one had a note, a little different than the last, but pretty much said the same thing. It gave me a strange feelin' to know they'd made it all the way out here...the strange kinda feelin' when you are glad and worried at the same time. Glad 'cos there might be someone else to talk to besides that tree, but worried that I'd stop seein' them boxes and I'd never get to thank 'em for puttin' 'em there. That strange feelin' was quickly replaced with a tense one 'cos just a little ways up I noticed someone or somethin' slowly walkin' towards one o' them houses. I slowed down real quick so I wouldn't scare whatever it was, but I didn't get off in case I needed to get away real fast. As I got closer, I could tell for sure that it was human. They had their back towards me, but I noticed a long, dark ponytail, and a strap goin' across the shoulders. I could tell then that it was a girl. She started to dig through her bag, then pulled out one o' them boxes like mine, and set it on the porch. She started to walk away when somethin' from behind the house move and I caught sight o' it. She didn't hear til it was almost too late, but I'd already pulled out my gun and shot the damn thing before it got her. It fell to the ground and twitched but I didn't wanna wait for it to decided to get back up again. I sped up to the girl, and told her to get on. She did as she was told and we sped off. We didn't say much o' anything to each other durin' the ride. Eventually I stopped and found another o' them good climbin' trees and that's where we decided to stay for the night.

"That story does sound a lot better when you pretend it's not you," a young woman's voice said. She was leaning against the bark of a tree that was good for climbing, on a branch next to the branch of a young man that drove a motorcycle.

"Yep."

The Real World

2011-02-22T22:09:00.000-08:00

If you have trouble viewing it, just click on the picture, and you'll be greeted with a full screen screenplay.

The Start of Something New

2011-02-15T22:09:00.000-08:00

“Jeremy’s Books & Desk Papers”. This message was scrawled into a grey plastic box and placed upon my college dorm bed. I have no idea who Jeremy is, but I bet it’s one of my roommate’s donut idiot friends. Well, that was a bit redundant- donut already means idiot. That’s like saying “Completely destroyed” or “BFF’s forever!”. Not that I would ever say BFF’s forever, that was something for girls who would later grow up to blow the whole football team. Fucking ignorant sluts.

As I kept bitching about the state of sloots in this country, I happened to hear a noise coming out of the box. “Huh…thought I heard something…” I mumbled. I reached over to grab my iPod and the noise occurred again. My heart raced a bit and I could feel the increased pulsing going my chest. A bit wary, I grabbed the nearest blunt object, a flashlight, and started approaching the box cautiously.

I started removing the box lid slowly, but I didn’t get too far before I heard a shrieking bark and shut the box lid back down in surprise. After a few moments to collect my nerves, I flipped the lid off quickly and saw a puppy sitting in the box. “You gotta be joking Jeremy. Is this some sort of joke?” The puppy, a pug, looked over at me with its huge eyes and started panting. “Great, now I’m gonna need to call animal control before I contract rabies from this flea bitten shit” I said.

I rummaged through my desk to find my phone and while I was doing so, the pug started barking at the door. “Shut up god damn it!” I yelled. The dog, immune to my curses, continued to bark. To appease the dumb animal, I went over to the door to see what was out there that was so interesting to the dog. I grabbed my flashlight and put the lid back on the box so the barks would be a bit more muffled.

As I went toward the door, I passed by the mirror in my room mounted on the side of my closet. I gave myself a quick glance and did a swift groom over. My light brown hair was getting a bit shaggy and pretty soon I’de need to use hair gel to get my hair into that messy bed hair look I liked. When you have too much hair and you wake up from last night’s shower, your hair kind of just slants to one direction.

I opened the door and looked around. Nothing unusual, just asbestos in the ceiling and puke on the floor from one of the frat “bros” who took one too many shots of Everclear. Or whatever they take shots of it. I never went into a bar before and I’ve never hung out with any “bros” before, so I assume they take shots of the hardest liquor out there.

I hope they did, that way their livers would short circuit faster and they can go die at the age of 40. I can picture the headlines in the newspaper: “Randall Doucheface has passed away at the age of 40. Life achievements: Slipping roofies into underage girls’ drinks and living off rich parents money.”

As I was about to head back in, a red trail caught my eye. The trail was smeared against the floor and was leading into the room to the left of me. At first I dismissed it, but then I realized that if that red trail was what I thought it was, it could be pretty bad for me if I was just sitting in my room while muchacha in the other room got diced to bits.

I gripped the flashlight in my right hand and followed the red trail warily. As soon as a creak squealed out of the door, the door was flung open and I was tackled to the floor by a unknown assailant.

Now, to say this door breaking perpetrator was ugly was a understatement. It was missing an eye in one of its sockets and had more broken teeth than Mike Tyson. Or maybe it was the other way around, maybe prince charming over here was just born with more fucked up teeth then non-fucked up teeth and to him the fucked up teeth functioned as regular teeth. Whatever the case was, it still had me pinned down to the ground and I felt that every moment I spent analyzing his facial features was deducting from my chances of performing a escapade.

I swung the flashlight that I was still gripping in my right hand against handsome’s face and the two objects collided. You would expect a hard-object-on-hard-object noise, like a fist to the wall, but what I got was the noise of your shoe hitting mud. The blow didn’t seem to deter the creature that much, in fact, I think it just made it more angrier. Which is hard to say cuz it could have already been mad. Its lack of emotional display would impress me if I wasn’t actually scared shitless right now.

I was pretty sure I was gonna die right here. Lifetime achievements: Got to eighteen years of age, no loss of virginity somehow at the age of eighteen, average grades of As and Bs, and a lucky find of $100 on a street corner one day. This has been one useful life. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, so this was all that I got.
Before the creature could sink its teeth into my jugular vein, it was blindsided by something. Something quick, I didn’t even see it in my peripheral vision. As the creature was slammed into the wall, I picked myself up and looked at my would-be savior. The hero was…me.

Well, it wasn’t me as in the sense that it was genetically identical to me and had my name and everything, but he looked no older than me. His hair was a similar style, but it was a deeper brown and he had an abnormal cowlick that shot throughout his hair. It was strange, yet somehow I could never picture him without it if I saw him again. Before I could even thank my would-be savior, he took my flashlight from the ground and slugged me across the head.

The Rapping

2011-02-09T15:40:00.000-08:00

It was around 8 o’ clock AM when Sergeant First Class (SFC) Ernest Palmer heard the rapping at his front door. He had started his morning just like any other, and now he was seated at his kitchen table enjoying his breakfast bowl of cereal. He would not answer the door. In fact, the rapping did not stir him at all.

The reason he left the door unanswered was not because of his nature. You see, Mr. Palmer is a malcontent. He is disturbed by the slightest irritant and is never concerned about what others want. On any other day, before today, SFC Palmer would have let the visitor keep knocking just the same; but the reason he did not answer the door this time has nothing to do with Mr. Palmer’s nature.

Today, in between the wee hours of 1 AM and 5 AM, Ernest Palmer killed 10 men.

He stepped out of the pub around about midnight and took his habitual drunken stroll to the chicken-coop he called home, 511 Bleak Street. He couldn’t make out what was what and who was who, everything seemed to be toppling over. He just felt the need to be home, away from his peckerhead “pals” from the bar.

“All they ever talk about is their f*ckin’ grandkids or their sh*tty left knee,” thought Palmer, to himself, as he rambled towards his front lawn. “No one talks about their service. No one ever talks about the war.”

He thought they were too soft in their old age. Nearing his 50s, Palmer felt he could still do some damage in a war. Often times he reminisced the days when what he said mattered, when he had assisted command of his platoon, when he held his military-issue high-powered rifle in hand and burst-fired upon the enemy.

As he stumbled onto his front porch, Palmer cocked his head to his favored rocking chair, just beside the screen door. It had been knocked over, and standing hunched over beside it was his fat-f*ck neighbor, Donny Wemerowitz.

“Donny, get the f*ck off my lawn!”

Although Donny had really been standing on Palmer’s porch--not the lawn--the statement should have nonetheless encouraged Donny to leave. But Donny did nothing. He stood so still and dumb like a moron.

“I don’t wanna be seein’ ya at this hour. I told you before the—“ The more words Palmer tried to fit in his sentences, the more he slurred his speech and caught himself tongue-tied. Finally he managed:

“GET!”

Donny tried to touch Palmer.

SFC Palmer never wanted to be touched without his approval. Even in a drunken stupor—especially in a drunken stupor—Palmer never let himself be touched without recompense. He slapped Donny’s face without thinking. It would have probably been the fastest thing Donny had seen in his life…if he were alive.

Donny was dead. But he could still move and eat. That’s about all he could do now. Donny was a zombie.

After being attacked by his dog, Donny bit back. And he bit deep. He ate his dog's intestines and heart and liver. Imagine a jelly filled donut. The fruity jelly is inserted via a hole in the side of the donut. Now imagine the dog as the donut. Except Donny wasn't putting in the jelly, he was taking it out. He ate nearly all of his dog's internal organs and left the carved-out carcass in the living room; but he wasn't satisfied with his meal.

In life, Donny liked to eat out. He was on Palmer's porch because he was looking for more food. So were the other 9 men Palmer killed that night. Palmer was almost certain that the ones he killed were infected. Almost certain. “Had I killed any pure humans,” he justified to himself, “I had probably just put them out of their misery before their misery came to meet ‘em.

Donny’s head began to tear off as Palmer continued assaulting him. Donny was gushy, and easy to sock. Palmer didn’t think he’d hit that hard, and, for the most part, he was right. Being undead, Donny just fell apart easily.

Not realizing that he’d just put down a zombie, Palmer began to panic about what would happen to him if ‘they’ figured out he murdered Donny. So, being drunk and having no good idea of what to do with the body, Palmer got his shovel and attempted to bury Donny in Donny’s backyard.

“I don’t want his stench in my yard,” thought Palmer. “Maybe they’ll pin this on the b*tch he’s married to.”

As he dug he sobered up. And he met others; other zombies. It didn’t take long for him to match these deadheads in his neighborhood with the zombies in the old horror flicks he caught on basic cable. Palmer wasn’t dumb, and he never appreciated being prejudiced as ignorant. But that’s another story.

Ernest Palmer killed 10 men then went to sleep for 2 hours.

--Back to the door, and the Ernest Palmer at present, enjoying his breakfast cereal--

The rapping continued, but Palmer waited until he emptied his bowl, slurping the milk at the bottom.

When he finished, he pushed the bowl aside and reached for his hunting rifle that rested against the table. Taking a few smooth steps he stood 8 feet in front of the doorway; the rapping continued. He armed his rifle and raised it so he could put his eye down the sight, just like the old days.

It took time for him. He was trying to guess where the knocking party was standing behind the door. How tall was he? How wide? Where was his head?

The bullet exploded from the barrel and left a wicked hole in the front door. Palmer rushed forward and unlocked the deadbolt. He nudged the door and it swayed open forward.

Bulls-eye. He smirked.

"That's another one for the fire," he joked to himself.