How do you get out of this chickenshit outfit? Why, by participating in this week's Friday Flash Fiction, of course.
I/He/She/It/They/(place name here) had to kick out the back window to escape. The ravenous Wade Davises were approaching a smidgen too quick for such fidgety, shambling mounds of quivering rot and I/He/She/It/They/(we don't need no stinkin' names) found out with a terrifying, near-fatal speed that a factory-manufactured shell bursting with charcoal, sulfur and potassium nitrate, even if such a concoction were to be fired directly into the cranial cavity point blank, was about as effective as poking a rabid bear with a used toothpick.
"Fucking watch it," screamed He.
"Hey man, I just scraped my arm, not sliced the fucker open on the glass. Why dontcha get after She's case. She's the one who's bleeding over It."
"Shut the hell up," said They, each carefully pronounced syllable descending in volume. "Got it? Good. Now, I, take point. She and He back --"
"Take point," I questioned. "What are ya, a punk ass kid in your parents' basement watching Aliens on mute n' repeat, stuffing your face full of chips n' soda, greasy mitts all over a stereo and a mixtape pile, the intermezzo to SI swimsuit issue spanking?"
"That's quite a diatribe, speak from experience," She deadpanned. He looked with incredulity as It tapped I on the shoulder.
"Look, man, get with it. Scared? You bet. She, He, They, and myself, none of us are alone, but unless some banding together happens, brotherly and shit, it's Hudson all over again and that means Game Over."
"Fucking hell, fuck you motherfuckers. I am not going to play some fucking B-movie shit and hole up like some fucking pussy! I say fuck those monsters, fuck 'em good, we've got enough fucking shells, don't need a goddamn headshot, just blow 'em to bits like fucking Robocop, remember that sh --"
The first time one sees -- hears -- decaying human teeth bite down with enough pressure to slough off their instantaneous crumble and break completely through a skull into the brain, matter and crunch and juices and gore soaking an already-filthy dress shirt, crumpled tie and the grey, disheveled grasses of an early spring, well, it's a sensory experience not easily forgotten.
I simply didn't know when to keep quiet.