[blog like it's the end of the world]
WHOOMP THERE IT IS!
Seriously, I have the first volume of Jock Jams stuck in my head. Which, for all intents and purposes, is crappy triumph music.
But it's what's playing in the truck.
THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID THE TRUCK. I have truck! I am driving truck.
But not the Office Depot truck. Minor glitch with that.
Major glitch.
5 dead.
Please don't scrutinize my mood swings. I haven't a fuck to give, at this point.
The keys were on the dashboard, and the Office Depot guy was ... under the truck. I have no idea how he managed to run himself over. And I really didn't have the time to think about it too much. We got into the truck. Me and Steve in the front, all the kids in the back.
And then three of the children saw their father, and their minivan.
Before I could stop them, they jumped out of the cargo area and dashed across the parking lot, with all the hope their tired bodies could muster; arms outstretched.
That's right. He was zombified.
Steve, limping from the car, his face twisted in pain, threw himself in the general direction of the children, screaming for them to come back. I think he was trying to run, but it was more like a gradual, controlled fall, with legs suddenly appearing and continuing the forward motion. The children in the back of the truck hid their faces.
I'm glad they did.
I didn't.
ZombieDad ripped his 5-year-old's face off. No shit. I threw up. My stomach has been in one of those supercomplicated boyscout badge-qualifying knots all day. The 8 year old was next. And then the 12 year old.
And then Steve.
Unsolicited tears blurred my eyes. We had to go. Had to. Sixteen kids curled up in the cargo hold. Threw my weapons in the back too, save for the chainsaw which I kept on the now-vacated passenger's seat. Closed the door. Climbed into the driver's seat. Utterly alone again. Started the truck, and picked my way through the carnage, and away from the school.
(And I'm using the term "school" loosely, here. The charred, empty remains of what used to be a school. Apparently my Uberchristian co-workers invited the zombie hoarde in to "cleanse" them during their Apocalypso party. You can guess how well that turned out. At least the fire "cleansed" the whole lot of them.)
Two miles down the road I smelled burning.
You know how the only people who can't operate kid-safe things, are adults? One of the little girls figured out how to turn on my butane torch. And set light to the boxes of paper the Office Depot guy was meant to deliver.
*sniffle* R.I.P, Office Depot Guy. You are with us still. We still have pieces of you between the truck's tire treads.
Anyway. Long story short, she died. Again, I'm responsible. And again, I've failed. Except this time... I don't have the emotions to spare. The other 15 kids are safe, and I killed a guy with my chainsaw and commandeered his Silverado. I did it without flinching. In my defense, he was Bitten. It was only a matter of time. I can't be held responsible.
Its dark, and the sirens howl. And the people howl, the animals howl. The children cry, tucked under a tarp in the bed of our new truck.
And I, well. I drive.
Seriously, I have the first volume of Jock Jams stuck in my head. Which, for all intents and purposes, is crappy triumph music.
But it's what's playing in the truck.
THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID THE TRUCK. I have truck! I am driving truck.
But not the Office Depot truck. Minor glitch with that.
Major glitch.
5 dead.
Please don't scrutinize my mood swings. I haven't a fuck to give, at this point.
The keys were on the dashboard, and the Office Depot guy was ... under the truck. I have no idea how he managed to run himself over. And I really didn't have the time to think about it too much. We got into the truck. Me and Steve in the front, all the kids in the back.
And then three of the children saw their father, and their minivan.
Before I could stop them, they jumped out of the cargo area and dashed across the parking lot, with all the hope their tired bodies could muster; arms outstretched.
That's right. He was zombified.
Steve, limping from the car, his face twisted in pain, threw himself in the general direction of the children, screaming for them to come back. I think he was trying to run, but it was more like a gradual, controlled fall, with legs suddenly appearing and continuing the forward motion. The children in the back of the truck hid their faces.
I'm glad they did.
I didn't.
ZombieDad ripped his 5-year-old's face off. No shit. I threw up. My stomach has been in one of those supercomplicated boyscout badge-qualifying knots all day. The 8 year old was next. And then the 12 year old.
And then Steve.
Unsolicited tears blurred my eyes. We had to go. Had to. Sixteen kids curled up in the cargo hold. Threw my weapons in the back too, save for the chainsaw which I kept on the now-vacated passenger's seat. Closed the door. Climbed into the driver's seat. Utterly alone again. Started the truck, and picked my way through the carnage, and away from the school.
(And I'm using the term "school" loosely, here. The charred, empty remains of what used to be a school. Apparently my Uberchristian co-workers invited the zombie hoarde in to "cleanse" them during their Apocalypso party. You can guess how well that turned out. At least the fire "cleansed" the whole lot of them.)
Two miles down the road I smelled burning.
You know how the only people who can't operate kid-safe things, are adults? One of the little girls figured out how to turn on my butane torch. And set light to the boxes of paper the Office Depot guy was meant to deliver.
*sniffle* R.I.P, Office Depot Guy. You are with us still. We still have pieces of you between the truck's tire treads.
Anyway. Long story short, she died. Again, I'm responsible. And again, I've failed. Except this time... I don't have the emotions to spare. The other 15 kids are safe, and I killed a guy with my chainsaw and commandeered his Silverado. I did it without flinching. In my defense, he was Bitten. It was only a matter of time. I can't be held responsible.
Its dark, and the sirens howl. And the people howl, the animals howl. The children cry, tucked under a tarp in the bed of our new truck.
And I, well. I drive.