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Mechanical Failure, Chap. 1a

May 26, 2013

Note: I am continuing on from the end of the short story, hoping to eventually turn this into a novel. The short story (parts I to IX) will be the prologue. Chapter 1 will pick up where the prologue ended.

Chapter 1

I tried the engine again, with no better luck than I’d had the first four or five times. I should have been terrified, knowing that this was probably the end, but instead I felt a strange calmness settle over me. I guess it was because I’d already lost my family and friends, everybody really. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot of reason to stick around, yet I’d been doing it so far. I was pretty apathetic over the whole live or die thing, though if I had to go, I could think of better ways than having the flesh ripped from my bones by the teeth of the dead.

I glanced in the rear view mirror and noticed again that there were no zombies behind me. I guess the bed of the truck was a deterrent since they wanted to be as close to me as possible. The second thing I noticed was that I was parked on an uphill slope. With a zombie or two pushing on the front of the truck . . . I just wondered. I quickly shifted into neutral and took my foot off the brake. Sure enough, with all the pressure the zombies were exerting on the front of the truck, it started to roll backwards, quickly picking up speed. When I felt like I was going fast enough, I popped the clutch and to my surprise, the truck started. I hit the gas, going backward as fast as I dared before taking a moment to turn the truck around and head home. I rolled down the window and yelled, “Thanks, guys,” though I don’t know why. There was nobody alive nearby to appreciate my warped sense of humor, but maybe it just made me feel more normal to talk to people, even if they were dead.

It wasn’t until I was safely inside the house that I started to shake. Reality hit me hard and I helped myself to a shot of tequila, knowing that wine wouldn’t be enough. I’d had a few close calls before but this one was the worst. I guess that was why I didn’t stop at one shot but just kept going and ended up having at least six or seven. I should have known better but I’d had a bad day and I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Normally I slept in the attic, because I could pull the ladder up behind me and get a good night’s sleep. No matter how well the house was reinforced, I was always on edge, waiting for a window to break or a rotting hand to settle on my shoulder. Tonight, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly and after finishing the last shot of tequila, I passed out in my bed, instead.

Huge mistake.

~to be continued~

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