this is less a short story and more a points gathering exercise.  it’s all Aisling’s fault.  she said:

 

And now for something completely different 😉   I love these blocks.  They’s just soooo twisted.  I believe what I did before was challenge you to pick four and use them for your prompt.  Extra points if you use more!

Simple, right?  Here you go!
i can haz pointz nao…?
Zombie Apocalypse

u  r 2 silly – no such thng as zombies! 😛 stupid dream iz stupid. Bob XXX

I sigh into my waffles, looking around me again.  That man is my hero – I knew when I texted him my terrifying dream, he’d make me feel better.  Except…

Café B sparsely populated.  There is no conversation, just the chink of cutlery on crockery as the few patrons in this early push their food around their plates, eyes listless and glassy.  My hyperactive and contrary imagination is still – even in the light of day – still thinking up defences and what-if scenarios.  Dig a trench around my house and fill it with quicksand?  Fine until the buggers pile up so much that they just walk over each others’ heads to get to me.  And you can’t drown what’s already dead.  What if they find another way through?  Dig their way out?  Nah.  Or what about Harper’s soloution: outward-facing treadmills?  Nope.  No power during a zombie apocalypse….

A cinderblock is thrown in front of my train of thought as the waitress comes over and starts wiping the table, paying no attention to the cruet, sauces, and my half-finished breakfast .  An indignant shout of “Hey!” leaves my lips as the sauces and cruet fall to the floor with a clatter and smash, and only swift lifting of my plate and mug save my breakfast.  The rude bitch completely ignores me, moving on to the next table to perform the same nonsensical act.  I turn in my seat to watch her.

…is her skin…grey…?

Cursing myself, I turn my back on her, but not without considerable effort.  My hackles are rising.  It’s like the skin on my back is puffing up into some sort of lame shield.  I dart my eyes around again.  I think of my neighbour as I left the house this morning and, suddenly, I no longer have the stomach for breakfast.  Standing in the middle of his lawn, he stared at nothing as his lawnmower mowed the same patch of grass over and over again.  He didn’t respond to my greeting, but half-asleep and dopey, I just thought he had something on his mind.  Now I’ve had my coffee and carbs, though, I am more awake, more alert.  More questioning.

But it seems that no-one else is.

All six other people in this room are moving slower and slower.  It’s like their clockwork is winding down, or something.

I surprise myself.  Instead of freaking out, screaming, running, I become very still.  My back straightens, and a chill descends on my brain.  Survival mode kicks in as I realise that the grey-skinned, vacant-eyed patrons of this café could very well be the tip of the iceberg.  I may be the only human left alive in this town.  As such, I’d better get my shit together fast, before I become brains brunch.  And then I remember: there is at least one other person seemingly unaffected.

Grabbing my bag, I beat a hasty retreat from the café, and it doesn’t escape my notice that every grey-skinned, hollow-eyed head in the place turns to follow my progress out of the door.

I run through street after deserted street.  The world is quiet and beyond eerie as I make as much haste as I can to my best friend’s house.  Banging on his door brings no response, so I fumble the key he gave me into the lock and stumble through the house, breathless and calling him, my uvula feeling raw and ragged from the run as my calls get louder and more panicked when there is no response.  Out of the back door, I head for the outhouse, where he’s set up his studio.  If he’s in there mixing, the soundproofing will make damn sure he won’t have heard me.  Tripping over a bone left out by his dog, Bart, I wince as the bloody flesh clinging to it gets on my boots.  Only then does it occur to me that Bart’s nowhere to be seen, either.  Tearing open the outhouse door, I  finally lay eyes on Bob – draped across his mixing desk with his cranium scraped out and licked clean.

I begin to scream.

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