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It’s Never Like the Movies
By John Evans
Ya know, it’s kinda funny. They say that this sorta thing only happens in the movies. They say that it was all a joke contrived by George A. Romero. Who are they to say anything now? They’re dead, I’m not. Not yet anyway. I won’t lie; one of them bit me pretty good. I guess it’s only a matter of time before I’m one of them. I mean, that’s how it is in the movies, right? Oh well, hopefully when I’m gone this ol’ Bronco I’m driving will careen into the Hudson and I’ll drown; notice these bastards don’t like the water much.
The smell, I think that’s what’s bothering me the most right now. I remember when this city had a city smell. You drove by McDonalds and you smelled McDonalds. You drove by a pizzeria or a hotdog stand and the smell was enough to make you stop and say, “Hey, Mac. I’ll take one of each, hold the onions. Here’s twenty; keep the change,” and go about your business. Not now, though. Now there’s only one smell; death. I’d say it smells like walking into a slaughterhouse, but at least slaughterhouses are clean. This smell is rotten, like pig shit. I’m starting to get used to it, though, and that’s what really bothers me.
Hey, there’s Joseph Grisham! Used to call him “Papa Joe,” on account of the fact that he ran the orphanage up on Queen Street. I wonder if I turn the wheel just right if he’ll land in Mrs. McCaskey’s swimming pool? Bah, better not try it. This damn rust bucket might turn over and then I’ll be in real trouble. Sure I’ve got my trusty “Rugelator” under my seat, but that’s what got me into this mess in the first place. Damn thing made me think I was invincible. I mean, they’re SUPPOSED to die when you shoot them in the head! Guess I’ll hafta settle for spattering Joe on the windshield; that’s why they invented windshield wipers. So long Joe.
Christ, that’s a lot of blood. I mean, I didn’t notice before, but I’m really bleedin here. My seat is completely soaked, and by all rights and standards I should have probably passed out by now. And yet, here I am. I’m awake, I’m aware. My vision was blurry there for awhile; lost my glasses in the firefight but my vision slowly corrected itself after I was bitten. Since when can the undead shoot back? It’s bad enough the things can run down a cheetah without even trying, but zombies with GUNS? Who comes up with this stuff?!
I can see the Hudson just over the next rise; and not a moment too soon. I feel cold all of a sudden. And that smell. What is that delicious aroma? I’m half inclined to pull over and investigate. I would, if I didn’t know the why behind it. Death is crawling his way through me. That’s okay, at least I’ll die laughing.
About The Author
John Evans was born in Tooele, Utah. In his twenty two years of life, he has moved a total of twenty-seven times. He currently resides in Hilo, Hawaii, and plans to attend Hawaii Community College to pursue both engineering and electrical degrees.
A second degree black belt in tae kwon doe, much of Evans’ work dabbles in the philosophy of self defense and the idea that all things are driven by fate and destiny. His fresh new approach to writing keeps his audience coming back for more. Evans’ greatest goal as a writer is that people enjoy reading his work as much as he enjoys writing it.