It's Halloween, and I'm sitting in my living room, watching some old reruns of the typical horrors. Some experimental channel has decided to go for the golden oldies and there's a black and white representation of the classic Frankenstein. The poor effects make me chuckle to myself as a ketchup like substance flows freely from bites and burns. I think to myself how amazing it is that people used to find this the height of terror, that these crude deaths and this weak gore was at one point the height of movie effects. Amazing
The darkness seems to encompass me, as if it would devour me if it could but blot the dwindling light of the television out of its path. I have a large bay window to my right, leading out onto the street of my humble housing estate. The streetlight that used to be outside has long since been smashed by a brick or some such, leaving a lonely, country-style darkness, with but the cold light of the moon bearing down on the streets.
With horrified vigour, I stand. There is something outside my window. I saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing, and yet
I know it's there! I stumble harshly on the coffee table as I dash across the room to the window. My face briefly hits the floor, before I recover and rise to my feet. As my eyes return to the light curtains in front of me, I see a mass of shadows outside them that I'm sure weren't there before. I throw the curtains open and stare blankly into the gaping, bloody faces of about twenty slow, swaying zombies. They are moving toward my house, toward this window. Each limp each twitch each chunk of skin that falls limply off of them seem to hypnotise me into a trance of fear and helplessness. MOVE! I think to myself, suddenly filled with unbelievable terror, MOVE GOD DAMN IT!
As they reach my lawn and kick over my garden gnome, I am filled with a sudden rage and resolute purpose. I am now wielding a hammer and picking up the planks that I keep in the corner. I hammer them to the windows with a dreadful futility, for I know I haven't got the time to blockade them all. Finishing the bay windows, I move to the sofa calmly and wait for the zombies. I know they'll work out the windows are useless and go for the door. From there, I can funnel them and their numbers will count for nothing, like on that film about those Spartans.
I kneel on my carpet and upturn the coffee table, making a kind of fort. Then I mount my world war two machine gun on it and shout for the big black guy I have in the wardrobe to come out and help me "Pump some lead". He has a large gatling gun and positions himself to my right. We can take them. We can take those idiot zombies. This is my house! NOT SOME ZOMBIES' HOUSE, GOD DAMN IT!
There is silence. There is that kind of unearthly silence that should never really happen but we all know does, especially before something really dramatic happens. I hear the moans of the beasts as they begin hammering on the windows. "GIVE 'EM HELLA!" Shouts my black army friend, as he pumps the boards on the windows full of whatever "hella" may be. But I know that I need to save my bullets. They will go for the door soon enough, and when they do, I'll be ready. There is a faint screech as many zombies go down. They may not have been destroyed; the sheer number of bullets inside their rotting chests may have just weighed them down.
"TAKE THAT YOU ROTTIN' LUMPS!" My muscled friend is really getting into it as he pumps his endless ammo through my amateur DIY. Suddenly the door splinters inward as a huge blow hits the outside.
"You stay on the windows, Tank," That's right, he even has a big black mercenary name, "I'll go for the door!" He nods as I raise my mounted browning. The door splinters in a second time. My breathing slows. I am calm. I can take anything they throw at me. Those corpses won't take this fort!
The door finally breaks in, causing a surprising amount of dust to fly everywhere and suddenly me and at least ten of my army comrades are throwing grenades and pumping bullets into a huge hoard of the dead. Blood explodes randomly as far back as the road and the zombies shift and fall at the gunfire. Yet they still rolled on like some unstoppable force coming to swallow us. In one last push we got out the rockets. Limbs and heads flew and the dead army slowed in their advances, if not by the obstruction of corpses at the forefront.
There is a scream behind me. I turn in horror as I see the zombies have broken through our frontline and outflanked us. Tank is in bits and screaming as a few brainless cadavers rip him between them as if fighting over a meal. "GUYS! WE'VE BEEN SURROUNDED!" I shout with terrified vigour. But my words fall on no ears as my men are reduced to bloody mushes beneath the feet of the dead. "NO!!!" I fire frantically at the advancing hoard, but even as my clip runs out, I feel arms reaching around from behind and pulling me back. I see behind me a large rugby player with a bite taken out of his impressive bicep and his face in an expression of mindless hunger. His teeth extend and go for my exposed collar and just as my life is ended with his teeth biting into my flesh, everything stops.
I am sat on my floor. The zombies are gone. My windows and door are intact. My coffee table stands. The army men are gone. Tank is gone. My browning, his Gatling, the biting teeth, the flowing blood, the slack jaws, the grenades, the explosions. It's all gone. I am just sat on my floor, sweating profusely as my TV plays the soundtrack of some beastie and my lounge is filled with grey lighting.
Maybe it was just a dream
I reach for another mushroom.