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Prologue

It was dark, four o' clock in the morning as John struggled to stay awake at the truck's hula-hoop sized wheel. There wasn't much to keep him from dozing off, just the monotone drivel of a late-night radio DJ who seemed to have trouble keeping his eyes open himself. John wished he could take a break, wished he could pull over at a one-night motel and get himself a good night's rest on a cheap mattress and unfluffed pillows.
But I can't..
He was already running a day behind schedule, and his company would literally kill him if he arrived with the shipment late. If only he hadn't of stopped a few towns back to pick up a scantily-clad hooker..
Tammy. John recalled with a stubble-covered grin. Boy did she know how to work it.
Although the two had a good time, or at least John did, he wasn't sure if a day's worth of driving time was worth trading for a one night stand and a hundred dollars. And now, so late at night, he was beginning to feel the full effects of that decision.
You'll just have to pull an all-nighter. John thought, blinking hard twice, the poorly illuminated road sliding soundlessly beneath the sixteen wheeler. You've done it before, and you can do it this time.
John nodded to himself with a small yawn. The loading bay was a few hours away, if he could stay awake he'd make it in time by sunrise. Perfect.
But staying awake is going to be the hard part..
With a bigger yawn, John cranked the radio station up and looked for something, anything, to keep him occupied. He began reading the fake ID dangling off his rear view mirror and gave a sleepy grin. He had to admit, the higher-ups had certainly gone to great lengths to cover up every possible outcome of this assignment, good or bad.
For example, he was not John Richmond, but rather Stuart Holdings, a construction worker on route to his job building a local bank on 601 Yield Lane, if anyone asked. And the lethal contents was cleverly concealed in an air-tight cement mixer, hitched on the massive truck, with three foot thick walls and a dead-bolt lid.
No one would suspect a thing.
John wearily wiped the sleep from one eye, stretching his back muscles as best he could in the large leather seat. It was comfortably broken in, like a worn-in baseball mit, the faded brown leather hugging John's large frame as he slowly eased back into it. The DJ had cut to a commercial for a pharmalsutical product, the background music was soft and soothing. John's tired eyes began to close as his head slumped, giving a jerk in protest but ultimately succumbing to a deep, deep sleep.

John jerked awake with a startle, rubbing his eyes vacantly. He groggily looked around, noticing the steering wheel and eyeing it, confused.
Where am I? He wondered, still drunk with sleepiness. Oh, ****!
He soon realized his surroundings in a flash of terror, horrified eyes reading the diamond-shaped sign signaling a sharp turn ahead.
Turn the ****ing truck! John's mind screamed as he gripped the monster wheel with both hands, whipping it left with all his might. The brakes squealed as he stomped them, tires screeching as the collosal vehicle violently swerved on one side. He had lost control..
BAM!
Sparks danced across the windshield as the guardrail and road sign were both flattened, the twisted metal screaming as it was unmercifully thrashed under eight sets of tires.
The entire vehicle shuddered violently, John gripping on for dear life as he glovebox ripped open, spitting papers onto the messy floor. The fake ID swung wildly from side to side, the world moving too fast to comprehend -
****-****-****!
Then all was still, the calm radio commercial playing as if nothing was out of order. As if John wasn't going to die. Through the window John saw he and the truck were both flying, saw grass swaying in the moonlight so far below. The monumental vehicle began to descend, the driver's compartment dipping forward, the weightlessness raising in the pit of John's stomach as he gained momentum..
Falling..
Falling..
John fumbled for his seat belt as the ground grew nearer, shaky hands not making it in time as -
WHAM!
- The truck crumpled upon impact, nailing the grassy field from a hundred feet above. The door tore off in a shower of sparks, windows shattering on all sides in a symphony of broken glass and deafening noise. John felt incredible pressure as he was thrown the blown-out window, jagged glass shards rapping his skin as he exited, covering his body in millions of blood-soaked lacerations.
The ground and sky interchanged countless times as John uncontrollably twisted through the night air, mind wracked with too much pain to even yell as he gradually fell back to Earth..
Thump.. Thump!
He hit the ground twice, shoulder shattering upon impact as he uncoiled a few yards away from the accident.
"Uughnn.." He mumbled, weakly turning his head to see grass, slick with his own blood, a red trail marking the areas where he'd skidded.
Beyond the matted grass was the completly wrecked truck, burning with nothing more then a soft crackle. The cement mixer had become detatched and overturned sometime during the fall, a thick green gel silently gushing from the destroyed lid in clumps. John watched through discolored, puffy eyes as the chemical outbreak pooled around truck and bubbled outwards, his vision weaving as the spill inched closer to his mangled body.
"No.." He sputtered through a mouthful of a blood.
The world faded away.

Chapter One

Sam tapped on the wheel as he drove, keeping in time with the soft rock on the radio. The song brought back joyful memories, memories of he and other friends passing joints some fifteen years ago in his parent's basement, listening to this very song.
Ah, but you're an old man now. Sam thought jokingly, keeping an eye out for his next exit. No time for the wacky grass anymore..
He was in high spirits, and rightfully so. Today was the beginning of a new life, filled with new friends, a new neighborhood, and, perhaps a little further down the road, a new girlfriend. Finally, after ten years of living in a cramped apartment in the big city, Sam was ready to try out a more peaceful style of life - The suburbs.
Jackson County, here I am! Sam thought, rolling down his old 93' Mazda's window and taking a deep breath. Wow, get a whiff of this fresh air.
Air seemed to be Jackson County's sole resident, as Sam shared the road with no one. Come to think of it, Sam hadn't seen anyone since he had packed up and left for his new house around three hours ago. Not even a single car.
Oh well, I can't blame them. Sam decided, furrowing his eyebrow thoughtfully. Afterall, who'd want to be driving in this thick fog anyway? And it's only ten o' clock in the morning on a Saturday, the town probably hasn't even woken up yet.
A guitar solo wailed on the radio as Sam turned on Exit 13. He was close to his neighborhood, just a few blocks away. Beautiful hills surrounded him on both sides as he drove over a bridge, the fog dampering an otherwise breath-taking view.

It wasn't long before he was driving through the new neighborhood, admiring the sights. At first glance, it was still the same looking neighborhood he remembered when he first laid eyes on it a few months ago. However, a closer look revealed a few changes, and none for the better. For one, everyone's yard was unraked and unmowed, and on many occassions the grass and leaves were piled so high that they spilled into the streets. A child's playground lay abandoned in one person's yard, rusted, the swing swaying lazily while the slide itself was completly turned over.
Sam spotted a particulary dark and ominous man staring at him through the window, the fog casting him in a pale shade of grey, downturned mouth and sunken eyes painted on an expressionless face. Sam politely waved 'Hello' with a friendly smile, yet the man ignored him, slowly turning around and dissappearing back into his dark home.
Well, at least I know who I'm not getting a 'House Warming' gift from. Sam thought, deciding he wouldn't be bitter about it as he drove on.

The excitment and satisfaction of owning his first house was exhilarating as Sam turned the radio up, not able to hold back a proud smile any longer as he pulled into his gravel driveway.
He exited his vehicle, the car door echoing unusually loud as it slammed shut. Sam figured he'd meet the neighbors and then grab lunch at a nearby diner he had seen on his way here. But first, he had to unpack.
He casually opened the rear door, revealing a backseat overstuffed with boxes and furniture. He decided to start with the nearest object, a large box marked 'Bathroom Stuff'. He lifted the box with a strained grunt, walking to the front porch with buckled knees. Somehow, Sam shifted the box under one arm, fumbled for his keys, and unlock the house. He unsteadily let the box drop to the floor once inside, wondering how the hell he was going to get it upstairs before returning out to the car for more furnishings.
That's when he saw the figure in the fog..

Thank you for reading all this so far. If I get a good response from everyone here, I'll post more as it comes along

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"The best way to control people is not to want to control them in the first place."

TokeyMcBongHit

Wow what happens next??
I assume he saw John's truck...

Keep posting!

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First, let me apologize in advance if this story isn't updated in the next few days. School tends to burn me out worse than a long smoking session, and at the end of the day I'm usually too beat to do any writing. I did manage to add a new paragraph or two and some revising today, but nothing worth posting yet.

As for your question, Sam did not see John's truck yet. Although the accident was in the same relative area, he hasn't encountered the accident.. yet.

More soon

TheCleric

That is very good work smallgoal, looks like we have a future author on our hands, cant wait for the next part, i will have my eyes glued to this forum. Keep up the good work man!

Cleric

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Stewpad

Thanks for the feedback you guys. You're encouragement is really helping me make this the best peice of literautre I can.. Here is more, I think you'll enjoy the pick up in action.




That's when he saw the dark outline of someone heading towards him in the fog..
Finally. Sam thought with a slight hint of relief as he watched the figure approach. Someone to give me a proper welcome.
Sam decided to meet the figure halfway as he walked around his car towards the shadowy sillohuette, the dense fog shrouding everything more than an arm's length away in a thick mist of mystery.
I wonder which house he's from. Sam pondered, the soft clicking of his penny loafers on the cold aspahlt giving an eeire, unanswered echo. He hoped the man was nice enough to help Sam move his belongings in.
From the looks of it, the stranger was empty-handed, meaning no house-warming gifts - But Sam could accept that. The mere fact that he was willing to come out into the thick fog just to greet his new neighbor spoke volumes already.
"Hi there!" Sam called through the fog as the two neared.
There was no reply.
The figure ventured closer in clumsy, uneven steps, dragging his left leg slightly as he limped along.
"Hello?" The friendliness in Sam's voice vanished, replaced by suspicion. Something wasn't right in this town - The unkept yards, shady neighbors and an overwhelming feeling of.. dread.
"Are you okay?" Sam called, his voice lost in the cool mist.
"Uhhhh." The man replied in a weak, faint groan.
****, he's hurt. Sam realized, a sinking pang of uncertainty jabbing at his stomach. He gave up all formalities as he sprinted to the victim, trying to diagnos what the problem was as the figure grew closer with each running step. He's hurt his leg, that much is for sure. Maybe a head injury? Could that be why he's unable to speak? What a weird welcome..
"Hey man, what's the problem?" Sam asked, a bit winded. The fog cleared in a circle around the two, allowing Sam to see the stranger clearly for the first time. His peeling yellow skin, putrid drool dribbling down the corner of his discolored lips -
Holy..
- Mucus-covered eyes, one intact, the other dangling by a long red nerve from his sunken eyesockets.
"What the hell.."
His thin, grey hair, falling out in clumps, revealing a scab-infested scalp. No nose, just a gaping hole, mostly crusted off by a filthy green infection. Outstretched arms reaching for Sam, knees buckled inward, tattered business suit and dirt-covered tie.
"Hey man," Sam began, hands raised defensively as he slowly backed away. "I don't want any trouble."
The diseased stranger let out another retarded moan, much louder before, taking another uncoordinated step forward. He pulled his moldy lips back in a demented sneer, revealing a row of black and yellow teeth, staggering forward another step, jerky muscles working together in spasms.
"What is it you want?" Sam asked nervously. "Money? I don't have my wallet on me."
Another step.
"Listen, back off or I'll call the cops."
Another step.
"I'm warning you, pal." Sam said, pointing. The attacker lunged forward, snapping at Sam's finger. "Holy ****!"
Sam turned around, ready to flee -
Oh, God!
- And came face to face with three other staggering filthbags. Two men, one woman, all equally disgusting. A gang of rotting, stinking attackers.
Sam pivoted left, taking the only unoccupied exit and running with all his might. The world was a whirling blur as he took off, arms and legs pumping as he ran off the street and onto the sidewalk, the fog clearing as he blazed through it, tearing up someone's front porch and stopping at the door.
Bang bang bang!
"Someone open up!" Sam cried, nervously looking behind him. "It's an emergency! I'm being attacked!"
Bang bang bang! Bang-bang-bang-bang-
Crreeaaak.
The door squeakily opened, a few wisps of fog creeping in a dark, unoccupied livingroom. Sam timidly stepped in, eyes alert, heart pumping.
"Hello?" He asked, getting no reply. He wondered why someone would leave their front door unlocked if they weren't home. Even if it was the suburbs and crime was supposively low down here, how careless could someone get? "Hello?"
He carefully shut the door behind him and locked it, deciding he'd use the phone and call the cops even if no one was home. They'd understand.
Now where is the phone?
He cautiously crept through the dusty livingroom, the squeaky floorboards loudly giving away his position with every step. Soon, he found himself in a messy kitchen.
What a dump.
Someone left the refrigerator door wide open, flies swarming over spoiled food found on every shelf. The lightbulb had burnt out, and the kitchen sink had been left running. And there, resting on a wall-mounted hook above the countertop, was the phone.
Saved. Sam thought, rushing over and dialing 911.
It was then, on the fourth unanswered ring, that Sam noticed a distinct smell which he had initially attributed to the abundance of rotten food. But it was more distinct than rotting food, and much more stronger.
Sam waited four more rings before deciding that no one was going to answer, hanging up the phone in a wave of dissappointment. He followed his nose out of the kitchen, leading him to a small, dead-end hallway with a door on each of the three walls.
The smell was definately coming from the room on the far left.
"Anyone in there?" Sam asked, rapping on the door. "Anyone?"
He waited for a response, a response which never came as he slowly turned the knob.
Creeeak.
Dismembered bodies littered the room, dried blood staining the wooden floorboards in a collage of red. Limbs were strewn across the bed and floor, arms, legs -
- Someone's multilated head stared at Sam from the bed, her face forever etched in a combination of suprise and agony.
"Jesus Christ!" Sam screamed, slamming the door shut and leaning against the wall, trying in vain to catch his breath. "What's happened to this town.."
Suddenly, he didn't know and didn't care. He just wanted one thing - To get out as quickly as possible. The car was a few houses down. If he could just make it there and start her up, he'd be out in a flash.
Sam gave himself a few minutes to catch his breath before heading back to the front door, turning the knob with a trembling hand..

TokeyMcBongHit

holy **** that was a surprise! keep it coming!

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Chapter 2

From the kitchen counter, Mark had a good view of his foggy back yard. The wooden fence that encased his property rattled and bounced, the undead relentlessly pounding away on the other side. At first, the racket they caused served as a disturbing reminder of the dangers waiting outside, but after four days, he had grown accustomed to it.
I've grown accustomed to a lot of ****. Mark thought bitterly to himself, not taking his eyes away from the window as he poured another dry bowl of Cheerios. The milk had run out the day before yesterday. But I'm not putting up with it anymore. Not today. Today, I'm busting out of this hellhole.
He wondered if the entire world had gone insane as he silently finished breakfast, wondered if he was the only person left who hadn't turned into a cannibal zombie. The past few days had left him asking numerous questions, almost all of which he had no answers. In fact, he was only certain of one thing -
- If I don't get out of this place soon, I'm going to go insane.
Mark put the empty bowl in the sink once finished, a silly habit since no one was around to wash it or the other dishes and cups piled high. His parents were at the movies when the cannibals first attacked, and his younger brother was over a friend's house.
It was quite simple to Mark - He may be young, but definately not stupid. He was well aware that his family was most likely dead, and after the second day, he'd concluded that they'd wouldn't be coming back.
Ever.
It was a hard thought to swallow at first, but once Mark accepted the grim truth, he felt an overwhelming urge to escape, to break free.
Guess I better say goodbye. Mark supposed, walking from the kitchen into his room. He took one last look around and sighed, taking everything in - The white walls, the Bob Marely posters, the murky aquarium in the corner that he hadn't taken care of since he was about six.
From there, it was a short trip down the hall to his brother's room. With a deep breath, Mark creaked the door open and poked his head inside, bracing himself for the pang of sorrow that was sure to come.
His brother's room was also white, a torn Blink 182 poster hanging off the wall, random toys and socks scattered across the soft drink stained white carpet. In the corner, by the window, rested his brother's unmade bed, where he had been creamed in many wrestling matches against Mark..
Shit, I promised myself I wasn't going to cry. Mark thought, burning tears welling in his eyes as he slipped back out. Get yourself together. The worst has yet to come..
His parent's room was the hardest to look at, the King's sized bed with satin sheets and comfy white pillows filling most of the space. A mahogony dressor was tucked away in the corner, the top littered with his mother's make-up accessories and perfume. He walked over to it, plucking an expensive frame and examining the picture inside.
It was a family photo, taken last year at a photography shop in the local mall. They looked so happy together, Mark and his family. Back then, he never would have guessed that they had less than three hundred and sixty five more days to be together..
Mark cracked the frame open and pulled out its contents, folding it neatly twice and stuffing it in his jeans pocket. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to hold back the tears as he slowly closed the door for the last time.
Control yourself. Mark ordered himself, stuffing any remaints of his grief deep down. Crying like a little kid isn't going to help your escape at all.
He hustled back to the kitchen, popping open the trashcan lid and rummaging through.
"Bingo." Mark said to himself after a bit of trash-digging, turning the empty beer bottle twice over. "Perfect."
He grabbed a dirty dish rag and a box of matches as he exited, closing the door behind him.
He felt numb as he marched down the walkway to his open garage, coldly ordering the wailing cannibals to shut up along the way. He wished his parents hadn't of taken the car out when they left, or else he would skipped cruised out of town long ago. Not having a car meant Mark would have to find one when he escaped, and quick.
I'll think of something when I get that far. Mark decided, searching the musty garage. His Dad always kept a spare can of gas laying around somewhere... There it is, behind the car battery.
Carefully, Mark picked the can up, aligning the long nozzle with the empty bottle and filling it halfway with the gasoline can's contents. After that, he carefully stuffed the dishrag as far into the small bottleneck as possible. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed to get it halfway in, the rag just barely dipping in the gas.
Here goes nothing..
The fog engoufled him as Mark bravely walked to the shaking fence, ignoring the cries of hunger from the zombies behind it. Biting his lower lip, he fished around his pocket and pulled out a lighter, springing it to life with a sharp flick of his thumb. He slowly lowered the dancing flame to the rag, waiting until it crackled before sitting it down by the fence and running like hell, the rag slowly burning down to the gasoline...
BOOM!
Mark was halfway across the yard when the deafening explosion erupted, firey peices of wooden shrapnel whizzing by. He turned around, studying the fence's newly acquired hole and the dozens of burning corpses around it.
Holy ****, it worked..
With a burst of energy, Mark sprinted across the yard, hopping over a charred cannibal once outside, pausing on the foggy sidewalk.
I'm free. He slowly realized, taking in the outside world for the first time in four long days. Free..
Mark ran.

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The door slid open and Sam timidly stood in the doorway, nerves raw as he watched the thick fog roll by. Once he was sure it was safe, he ventured onto the front porch, waiting a few more tense moments before descending the small flight of stairs to the sidewalk.
Okay.. He thought, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he followed the cracked sidewalk. The car isn't that far away and I haven't been killed yet. So far, so good..
But lurking in the back of his mind was a single frightening question - Where were the attackers now? They had to be somewhere, roaming in the fog. Looking for a kill.
Anywhere.
Sam picked up the pace and looked over his shoulder, seeing nothing but a winding road blurred by the fog. I've got to get out of here. He nervously pushed up his glasses again and redirected his gaze ahead of him, the brisk walk soon turning into an all out run as he bounded down the road, shoes slapping the pavement loudly as he ran.
Gotta' get out of here, gotta get out of here. His mind repeated, the road shaking with every step he took. Soon, the car's blurry outline was in sight, and Sam finally slowed down. His shoulders sagged, a huge weight miraculously lifted as he sighed in relief.
Thank God. He thought, fumbling for his keys and unlocking the door with the remote control. I can finally get the hell away from this place.
Never before had one man been so glad to get in a car as Sam eased himself in, slamming the door closed and buckling up. He was almost hysterical with relief as he started the ignition, shouting in victory when the engine roared to life.
"Whoo-hoo! Saved! Fucking save-"
WHACK!
Sam recoiled in horror as a putrid, disgusting face slapped itself against the windshield; its mouth opened wide, its blackish toungue licking the windshield in some obscene gesture. He let out a lonely cry, wailing loudly into the windshield as Sam slammed the gas, backing out the driveway and peeling down the road in record time.

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More tomorrow.

whozgotbud?

holy ****e, there better be more coming soon
this is def. pretty cool
love the zombie crap

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