How about a bit of zombie apocalypse-themed flash fiction for a Friday?
When the zombie apocalypse came, Dev and his friends were ready. They’d trained, prepared, and visualised every step of their plan. As lifelong fans of quality science fiction they had always anticipated the day there would be news that an extremely contagious virus had leaked from a top-secret, high-security government lab causing people to eat their victims’ brains, and it was their sworn duty to run away very quickly.
The call from Hamish came at 10.20 a.m. Dev was at a job down in Leith fixing a pipe at a flat when that mobile started to ring with the signature theme from Shaun of the Dead.
“Hamish, tell me it’s true.”
“Dev, it’s all over News 24. An extremely contagious virus has leaked from a top-secret, high-security government lab causing people to eat their victims’ brains.”
They met at Hamish’s comic book shop, Vintage Vault, on South Clerk Street. Dev could see Sandy’s van parked outside. Inside, Sandy had an impressive array of weaponry stolen from the Royal Mile tourist shop he sometimes worked in.
“I’ve got a double-headed replica medieval axe each and two genuine Braveheart broadswords between the three of us. They’re for chopping off heads. The crossbows are for long-range action.”
“Good work, Sandy,” said Dev.
They loaded up the van with supplies stored in the back room of Vintage Vault: tins of food, a laptop, matches, first aid kits, sleeping bags, seeds, spades, oil lamps, gas burners, packets of crisps, cans of drink, radio equipment, and the box sets of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Farscape. The roads were quiet – the outbreak was confined to the South East of England for now – and as they joined the A90 the mood of optimism and camaraderie rose.
“The sat-nav reckons another four hours till we get to Loch Maree,” said Hamish. They high-fived and went over their plans for fortifications.
Twenty-eight weeks later and the country had fallen to the zombie plague, although pockets of resistance were left in the cities, according to radio broadcasts, and isolated crofts held out.
Up at Hamish’s grandma’s house on Loch Maree, Dev was bored and hungry. There hadn’t been electricity for months so the television and computer were useless, and the tinned food had all gone. The seeds couldn’t be planted till spring and worse, Hamish’s grandma was driving them mad with her constant talk of the War and how much better her generation would have coped with a zombie apocalypse. It had also dawned on them that none of them had girlfriends so repopulating the world was out.
Dev walked into the kitchen where Hamish and Sandy were playing cards.
“I’m going,” he said. Hamish and Sandy looked at each other.
“The van’s already loaded up,” said Sandy. With a desultory high-five they stashed Hamish’s grandma in the back seat and headed south.
“Glasgow or Edinburgh?” asked Dev.
“Edinburgh. Better class of zombie,” said Hamish. Sandy remained silent and concentrated on sharpening the weapons.