Zombie Drabble #451: "Walkabout"

“Remember ‘Big Chuck’?”

It was two in the morning, they were on wall duty. Jerry looked up to see Alice pointing down at the footpath approach to the main gate. “Holy shit.” Tattered clothes, hair matted, missing half an arm, and zombified, but it was Chuck. It ambled forward, aimlessly, unconcerned; it hadn’t smelled them yet. “How long since he went missing?”

“Year and a half. Maybe a little more. I remember it was cold.”

“Iris will be happy.”

Alice looked at him aghast. “Happy?”

“Well, at least now she’ll know. Closure,” Jerry insisted. “Think she’ll want to shoot him?”

Zombie Drabble #450: "Patience"

Someone was yelling something in the distance, something indistinct. Maybe a call for help, maybe a threat: no way to know unless they got closer. Below him, in the shadow of the water tower, a zombie turned and started shuffling towards the yelling. Then a second, and a third. Soon more than half the crowd was moving off, crossing the road, disappearing between houses and into the treeline. The ones remaining were distracted, unable to choose between the new noise and the older scent they had been following. He’d have an opportunity, soon, if his luck held.

Keep yelling, motherfucker.

Re-Education

She kissed me once, outside the store, under the overhang between the propped-open door and a curtain of rain. I remember wondering if she really meant it or if she was just stoned and making bad decisions. This was when you could still be out late, when there were still shows to go to, contact highs to acquire, munchie runs to execute.

When everything shut down I didn’t see her for months. When finally I ran into her, she had that stupid uniform on and that vacant smile plastered across her face and the smartwatch on her wrist, recording everything she said and did and anyone else in her vicinity to boot. “When are you coming in to the Center?” She asked like it was a foregone conclusion. You’ll give in. I know you.

“Not sure. Maybe soon.”

“I hope so.” It was half a threat. “What about Bobby?”

They’d been looking for Bobby. He’d said the wrong thing to the wrong people. A squad had been to his mother’s house, twice, three times now. Once they’d come before sunrise. “Haven’t seen him.”

Her eyes drilled into me, trying to decide if I was lying. “Call me if you do.”

SF Drabble #501: "The Editor"

 I walked up behind Ordinelli, shot him in the back of the head, tapped the return button and was back in the lab. Two hundred years, just like that. But nothing had changed: the world outside the observation window was still a barren wasteland, dusty, grey, dead.

“Maybe it wasn’t him.”

“It was him.”

“No, I mean maybe it wasn’t him who invented the thing. Maybe he took credit for someone else’s work?”

“Maybe he had a grad student.” There was a future to be had, a better one; it was just a matter of figuring out who to kill.

Fantasy Drabble #387 "You Don't Have To Go Home, But You Can't Stay Here"

The candle-topped skull on the end of the bar opened its mouth, and hissed: “Closing time. Cloooosing tiiiiime.”

Borthen downed the last of his drink and nodded at the barkeep. “How much to close out?”

“You’re paid up.”

“...I haven’t paid at all.” He patted his pocket, which jingled with coin.

“You’re paid up.” The barkeep pointed to a dark corner.

There, at a table, was the outline of a hooded female figure. He should have been able to see her better, even in the shadows. She beckoned with a spectral hand; he was just drunk enough to go over.