Of Bullets and Brains

I fell alseep

So, fell asleep last night before making the word count. Will have to make it up… somtime. Next update could have 2-4 chapters, depending on when I have time. I will make the word count though- dispite everything.

Chapter Two

In which we learn my name and there is a lot of thinly veiled exposition

If you had told me earlier that morning that Grandma Crazy was going to abduct me and my friends, lock Bitchy McGee in a plastic bubble and inform us that the world was coming to a crashing halt, only to offer us oatmeal raisin cookies I would have commented on how cool that would be; point of interest- it’s really not that cool. There I was, pressed against the wall looking at her like she had two heads- which might have been marginally more believable.
“What do you mean ‘Zombies’? You tellin’ us that that hand was a zombie?” Eric, surprisingly more eloquent than any of us at that moment (I never thought that would happen. Add that to the list of things that would be cool, but is really not). Ms. Whitler looked at him,
“What, you deaf boy? Yes, there are zombies. And no, the hand belonged to a zombie, their lurking in the sewers, waiting for night to fall so they can break into your houses and eat all your mushy brains.” She placed the cookies on the coffee table in the living room. She sat down on the green couch, beside a large, grey cat.
“You’re a psycho!” Sarah called from in the quarantine area, her voice muffled by the walls, Ms. Whitler laughed, stroking the sleeping cat.
“No no, I’m practical. Can’t have you kids eaten by zombies looks rather bad on my karma.” She picked up a remote from beside the cookies, and pressed a button. The picture of sunflowers and fruit flipped into the wall; switching places with a flat-screen tv- I was at this point totally convinced Ms. Whitler was a spy.

She pressed another button, and the tv turned on, showing the street, and a handless woman in a tight leather dress and fuzzy jacket was eating the severed leg of a terrified looking business man, who was trying to drag himself away. It was pretty gross, Terrance threw up into the umbrella stand (I feel it’s worth noting that there were no umbrellas in that stand, instead there were a couple swords and a hatchet). Ms. Whitler turned off the tv, then turned to us, pointing the remote like a gun, grinning like a wolf,
“I suggest you take a seat and get comfortable. We’ve got a lot of things to cover before we get to practical training.”
“Practical training?” Rob raised one bushy eyebrow,
“Guns, blunt objects, moving in body amour- that kind of thing,” She said, gesturing for us to sit down with the remote (I was totally convinced it was also a gun). We all inched slowly over to the opposite couch- well, exept Eric. He strolled over, casually dropped into a chair, and leaned in, matching her grin,
“You are a boss.” He told her bluntly, she looked confused,
“I’m not going to pay you-”
“It means you’re awesome.” I told her, picking up a cookie from the tray. She looked quite pleased with herself,
“Oh, well thank you young man. Anyway, first order of buisness is names. As I’ve said, I’m Ms. Whitler. This is Waddles, best not pet him.” She lovingly patted the cats head, “Now, you with the glasses. Name?” Terrance looked startled,
“Uh, Terrance Belmount.” He spoke quietly; she nodded thoughtfully, and then turned her gaze to Megan. Who sat their, looking back at her blankly,
“Your going to be a challenge- name?”
“Oh! Megan Campbell.”
“I’m Robert Weisz.”
“Eric Baron.” Finally, she turned her gaze to me,
“Emma-Lynn Montri, and the girl in your bubble is Sarah Harper.” She gave me a long look, and leaned forward,
“Why do you have a hyphen? That’s suspicious, having too names.”
“My ‘rents couldn’t decide which mother to name me after. Flipped a coin to see which mother won first.”
“Uh-huh. Interesting. Right. Who here has any experience with combat?” Rob and Eric raised their hands. She motioned for them to put them down.
“Alright, what weapon?” Again, with solemn faces, they raised their hands, this times with their fists clenched.
“I don’t suggest punching a zombie with your bare hands.”
“Of course not, Ms. Whitler; I’d wear gloves.” Rob grinned, and was subsequently hit with a remote. Ms. Whitler had great aim and one hell of an arm.
“Pick that up. I’m the only smart-mouth around here, got that?”
“How’s that fair?” Rob complained, picking up the improvised weapon (at least now I was sure it wasn’t a gun… well, pretty sure anyway). Ms. Whitler smirked and crossed her arms,
“I have the shot gun.” I liked this woman- Eric was right, she was boss.

Ms. Whitler led us into her basement; a sound proof, well stocked bunker that I had no doubts could survive a nuclear bomb hitting the house directly (We left Sarah upstairs in the quarantine room by her lonesome- I had no problems with this. All that was left was to loose Megan somewhere and this would be the best apocalypse ever). The room was filled with weapons, shelves of ammo and rations and large metal containers that looked suspiciously like trash bins someone cleaned and painted; I decided it was best to just not question it. Instead I opened it- filled with body armor, except for the last one which had a bunch of cat paraphernalia. I was going to assume that was for Waddles, the cat we shouldn’t pet. I guess it made sense; she seemed to think that the cat was going to survive this with us I didn’t know if animals were affected by zombism- so he very well might. Still, the cat based magazines seemed a bit much.

“Right,” We all looked at her and the large white board she was standing next to, she had a marker in her hand, “Have a seat.” Megan looked confused,
“Where?”
“The floor will do nicely.” Megan looked absolutely scandalized,
“But the floor is dirty!”
“How observant of you, Megan!” Rob gasped. Ms. Whitler threw a can of beans at him, and he managed to dodge or we would have had three useless people trapped in this crazy woman’s house. She gave him on hell of a stinky-eye.
“Yes, deary, the floor. Now put you butt to ground and shut up.”
“But this skirt is designer!” This time Ms. Whitler threw a can at her, and she didn’t dodge. So Eric and I moved over a little bit so as not to be too close to her. That was one way to get rid of her, so the most awesome apocalypse could start now.
“Someone that stupid is a liability in a time like this; we’ll put her with the other girl. Now, before anyone defies me again remember this,” She picked up another can and tapped it with the tip of her marker, “I’ve got plenty of beans.” We all nodded out heads, glancing at each other. We all agreed, it seemed, that angering the can-happy woman was in none of our best interests, and just as Rob went to say something, Eric placed a large hand over his mouth, effectively silencing him for the moment.

Ms. Whitler seemed pleased by this, and uncapped her marker. She started to write furiously on the white bored and in her neatly slanted writing came out in squeaky red with the heading “Hierarchy of the Zombie Bastards.” Well, you could give the old broad this- she didn’t lack spunk. When she’d gotten everything down, she- rather dramatically, put the lid back on the marker, and turned to us (We’d all managed to sit there patiently while she scrawled away, though I think Rob might have been about to burst any minuet, he didn’t do quiet well). She sniffed and looked at us,
“How much do you children know about zombies?” We all shrugged and looked about,
“I’ve seen some movies,” I shrugged. She shook her head,
“Then, you are ignorant. Movies are full of crap- they put all zombies in the same category. In truth- there are three tiers. The first tier contains the only Zombies that talk. Their words are limited to ‘Braaaaaaaaaaains’ ‘Huuuuuuuuungry’ and ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat’.” I must say, Ms. Whitler did a wonderful impression of them, “These one’s can also… run. And I say running using the loosest sense of the word. If you’re going to choose a zombie to kill first, this is the one you want to target. It’s smarter, so it’s more trouble. The second tier is your typical brain muncher- doesn’t talk, doesn’t think, just lumbers around looking to eat. And unlike tier one; it doesn’t have the sense to hide. All zombies can be dispatched with anything to the head- just needs to get through to the brains. Any questions?” Terrance raised his hand,
“What about tier three?”
“Animals, really annoying and not worth your time if you can hit them- just leave them to Waddles.” We looked at each other, apparently she thought he cat would be able to take out zombies, and while I didn’t doubt her prowess…
“What if he gets infected?” Rob finally dared to open his mouth, and luckily it was actually a viable question. I was pleased, but Ms. Whitler seemed a bit disappointed. I think she wanted to hit him with the beans, to make up for not hitting him previously.
“Waddles is tougher than that, boy. And probably smarter than you.” She gave him another unholy skink eye, and continued on with her lesson, moving onto the finer points of mass zombie murder.

By the end of the day, we all had a helpful zombie guidebook. Eric, Rob and I all had anti-zombie body armor, a handgun and some kind of shovel thing that was apparently wonderful against zombies, a small bag for carrying things, food rations for when we go out, a canteen, first aid kit, sturdy boots and special gloves that had what was, for all intent and purpose, brass knuckles built in (I had to wonder where she got these, considering a lot of it was actually illegal in Canada). The best bit was the helmets- they were like dirt-bike helmets, but more awesome. Terrance was given lighter body armor and less weaponry, because Ms. Whitler decided with his week stomach and spindly fingers he’d be better learning all the tech in the house and how to repair it. True to her word, she placed Megan in the quarantine with Sarah. I was strangely okay with this; however they made a lot of noise. Sarah claimed unlawful imprisonment- Megan just wanted another bed so she wouldn’t have to sleep in the floor. That didn’t seem like the most important thing when faced with the dawning of the god damn zombie apocolyse.

All and all, I felt really cool. We ate dinner in full gear, watching the Brit-coms Ms. Whitler had on DVD on the cool fold out tv screen- and I would like to point out, that until the end of the third episode, Waddles had not moved. Then, with the grace befitting his name, went into the kitchen and slept on the counter. I wasn’t even sure he knew of our existence, let alone that there was a world outside his house, filled with the undead.

Chapter One

In which there is a lot of bitching and one very exasperated principal

“O!M!G! Megan! I, like, totally saw this UBER cute guy at the mall- and, like, when he looked at me, I BROKE my nail! How embarrassing is that?” Rob’s face was contorted into a poufy lipped sneer, flipping his hand like he was trying to claw his face off while someone held his elbow. We were all howling with laughter; slumped against the wall- Terrance had tears in his eyes. The girls he was making fun of however, stood across the hall looking rather offended- the similar sneers on their faces only caused us to laugh harder. Rob had always been talented at imitations, but his Sarah impression had been practiced to an art. For a boy with no hips and a flat chest, he got her pseudo-model walk with frightening accuracy. He looked at them, mirroring her hip-cocked, unimpressed stance, sending us into further spasms.
“Do you have to be, like, such a LOSER all the time?” Sarah asked, her gum tumbling around her mouth. Rob just clawed at his face again,
“Like, take a joke. GOD, what a bitch!” And this was about the point that everything went terribly downhill.

In hind-sight, the trip to the principal’s office was not all that surprising. Mr. Davis, the gym teacher that coached the girl’s soccer team, had a particular soft spot for Sarah and Megan (probably because their breasts were huge- and I hadn’t yet had the need to reveal to the school that those were 60% wonderbra and 30% tissues. I was saving that for a rainy day) and managed to come down the hall JUST as we told them to go roll up their skirts a bit more- people might start believing they
were capable of showing decency. It probably didn’t help that
Rob then turned, pulled out a pack of gum from his pocket and sexy-walked away while pretending the gum was a blackberry, which I think was what made Terrance stop being able to breath. Well, it was a really dumb move on our part- because he backed them up without hearing us out, even though their peeking ass-cheeks violated both our eyes and the dress code, and sent us off to the principal because “bullying was a serious issue.”

Four chairs sat in front of the principal’s desk- and with the choreography of a well practiced dance we parked our butts into the usual seats. Ms. Fick sat on the other end of the desk, her fingers laced together and stared at us. We stared back. This went on for a while.
“What this time?” Her voice was exasperated; any drop of disappointment had long since drained out of it. We were here often enough you’d think we’d have been suspended. Well, Rob and Eric had been suspended, but that’s because they kept punching people and not getting punched back.
“We were trying to enforce the dress code.” I shrugged. She eyed me- and to her satisfaction, my uniform was in perfect order.
“You can’t keep targeting Miss. Harper and Miss. Campbell. Their parents are demanding action.” We shrugged,
“So?” I asked, crossing my arms across my chest. It wasn’t out of defiance, my arms were tired and breasts are a decent place to rest them.
“Action is starting to mean expulsion.”
“Our parents pay just as much money for us to come here as they do.” Terrance pointed out, ever the obvious one.
“That does not give you free range of the school.” Ms. Fick countered. Eric, ever stoic and sulky grumbled,
“So we take the shit while they run around doin’ what they want ‘cause their tits ‘n ass bounce.” Eric was a man of few known words but many opinions. This didn’t lead to eloquence, but it let you know exactly what Eric thought. While we all thought it was great, Ms. Fick did not. This was made clear by the squinty eyes she gave him over her lovely little specs. Oh man, if looks could give detentions…
“Language, Mr. Baron.” Eric stared her down like the big strong man he wanted to be. Terrance, ever the peacemaker, was quick to jump in,
“What Eric was trying to say, is that this is getting unfair. Most of our infringements are retaliation for their abuse towards us. All- well, most of us, get good grades and don’t have problems with other students. We watch them violate both the schools dress-code on a fairly regular basis with no retribution to speak of, because of their positions on the soccer team. Can you really blame us for harboring so much animosity for them?” We all nodded, making those little humming noises of agreement. It was a total lie. Sarah and I have been feuding since first grade when I threw a dodge ball at her face accidently and gave her a black eye before one of her creepy little pageants. Rob, Eric, Terrance and Megan just got sucked into it when they became our friends, way back in middle school.

Ms. Fick rubbed her temples, and then let out another long
sigh. “Sit outside until I call you back in,” She told us, and we stood up to slouch out of the room like we figured hoodlum’s should. Ms. Fick followed us, and asked the secretary to call down Sarah and Megan, the disappeared back into her tastefully decorated office. We sat there, relaxed, but silent and the secretary gave us the stink eye. Tracy was a nice woman- but you did not make noise in her front office. None of us were sure why, but not even Eric was brave enough to find out. Short after the bane of my existence strolled through the door, still chewing gum, and followed by her worthless lackey. We all made stupid faces at her as she passed and she made the sneer again- sending us into snickers as they disappeared into Ms. Fick’s office, we heard,
“No chewing gum in my office, Miss. Harper.” The tone in her voice was more venomous than any she’d used with us. That’s right, I thought smugly, You may have Mr. Davis, but we’ve got the great and powerful Fick on our side. Checkmate, bitch.

It turns out I am terrible at chess- because what happened was not a win. The great and powerful Fick was not interested in backing us, and instead of punishing them and letting us off sent everyone home early- and starting tomorrow after school we’d all have to meet with the guidance councillor until this stopped. Ms. Carswell was a lovely woman, but was way to peace and love for me to deal with. She was one of those women who quoted motivational posters- and believed what she was saying. And no matter how many cookies she gave me to soften the blow I would not sit in a room with Sarah and Megan for an hour and a half each day. The feeling seemed mutual across the board, judging from the looks on everyone’s faces when Ms. Fick told us. The look on her face made it clear there would be absolutely no argument, and even Megan kept her mouth shut- and she had the collective brain power of a bowl of soup; and not tasty soup either. The kind that got left on the stove for to long, and was served at the end of the day so as not to waste food. However, the half-day off of school was nice. Gave me a chance to flee the province and set up shop as a middle aged bead-maker in some Manitoba small town. I would need a fair amount of makeup- and learn how to make beads; but really no plan was without its flaws.

I knew my parents would not be pleased with getting a half-day suspension. I was the good kid- especially when compared to my brother, but this did not lower their expectations. If anything, it raised them. Apparently getting low marks on a test is a logical first step to becoming a giant underground fighter with blue dreadlocks. Yea- my older brother is cooler than yours, and he didn’t finish high school. I bet you older brother did- and mine still wins.
“Shit is fucked up.” Eric voiced, kicking a small rock. I think he might have been aiming for Megan’s heels, he got pretty close. Rob shrugged,
“Eh. Free afternoon… anyone wanna go do something fun before our parents bring down the hammer?” A chorus of agreements rang out. Then Sarah scoffed from ahead of us,
“PUH-lees! Like you dorks know what fun is!” I snorted,
“Let me guess, you two are going to go max out your mommy and daddy’s credit cards before they find out what a bad little girl you’ve been?”
“Uh? This is, like, all your fault!”
“Awwwwwwww- poor Sarah-poo.” Rob pouted, mimicking her again. For some reason- possibly because I hate her, it never stopped being funny, and the other three of us snickered. I swear I saw Megan hold back a giggle, quickly switching to angry-mode as soon as Sarah turned to look at her.
“O!M!G! Can you, like, not be-”
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF ST.GEORGE AND HIS FIRE BROILED BALLS ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?” Needless to say, despite being totally terrifying, the combination of yelling, creative cursing and interrupting Sarah got my attention and my complete and total respect.

An old woman came out of her house, shot gun in hand. I questioned that, it wasn’t as though shot guns were not common place in the suburbs, at least not these ones. I’d seen a few replica’s over peoples fireplaces- but completely non-functioning.
“Get inside, all of you- things are brewing, it’s not safe-” A scream cut the old woman off, in the unmistakable hellish screech of Sarah’s voice. It seemed that a hand had come out from an open man-hole and was clawing at her ankle, trying to drag her down. The old woman raised her gun and shot at the hand, turning it into a splatter of blood, flesh and little slivers of bone.
“What the fu-”
“Inside- NOW!” She screamed at us. Any talking would be dutifully interrupted (No one had finished since the conversation started) and the freaky hand coming out of the man-hole both seemed like wonderful reasons to run into her house behind her. Once Sarah limped in, she shut the door, then locked and bolted it in every way one could think of before adding four heavy wooden bars over it, aided by Eric and Rob. From where I stood saw every door was reinforced with steel and the windows were nothing more than brick. I guess she had a painting or photograph on the other side to make it look like there was a room behind the glass. That was both cool and terrifying.

“You,” She pointed the barrel of the shot gun at Sarah, “Get into that quarantine room. You might have been infected.” Indeed, part of the living room was blocked off with Plexiglas- there was one door and the only things in it were a bed, a pot and a small metal box with a big padlock on it. Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but with a jab of the gun, she ran inside. The old woman followed and shut the door, locking it a few times then dropping the ring of many keys down the front of her shirt, presumably into her bra. She placed the gun up against the wall, and turned to us, a kindly old woman smile plastered across our face. If we all looked as terrified as I felt, we must have looked like a bunch of kids who just saw their puppy run over by a Mack truck. I was a little appreciative about the locking Sarah up thing.

“Sorry to frighten you kids, but I couldn’t just leave you out there.” She explained, walking into her kitchen, none of us moved from our corner in the front all. “You see- it’s happening. The end of the world is nigh,” She called from the kitchen, “And when the undead walk the earth once more, it’s the responsibility of us who were ready for this kind of thing to help everyone else. You’re my wards till the zombies are purged.” There was a slightly sickening sound as all our jaws dropped in unison. The old woman stepped out of the kitchen, holding out a tray before us, “I’m Ms. Whitler- cookie?”

What This Is

This is my novel for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I’m posting it here for people to read, give me feedback and hopefully; enjoy my work. I do expect most of the people reading this to be friends and family who are just being nice… and I love you for it. Still, I hope some people are reading it because they wish to read a novel about zombies, lesbians and crazy old broads with a shotgun.

I’ll be posting my word count for the day everynight for the rest of the month, the goal is to reach at least 50,000 words by November 30th. Can I do it? Why the fhell not? … Wish me luck.

For those of you who don’t know what NaNoWriMo is: www.ninowrimo.org