Here's the first of the (hopefully) syndicated story I'll be writing here...

I stood there, staring down into the pavement, seeing through the body that once held my friend inside. His face was torn, covered in blood, the skin hanging off slightly to the left. The look on his face was unimaginable; I could never have contemplated the wide-eyed, opened mouthed, horrified look if I had tried. I felt as if this moment should have brought a tear to my eye, but strangely, I stood there, simply staring. Not in disbelief, but a slight state of shock. The man had approached so ominously.

It was almost surreal the way he walked up to Steve and simply sunk his dead-looking mouth into my friend's neck, before having his face knocked in. More of them came, clawing at Steve, before I had picked up a spare board and swung. The "zombies" around him were invisible; all that I could see was my dead friend lying in the street. To my direct left was an arms dealership that we had often visited, Steve being the gun freak that he was.

I contemplated breaking in now, that I could see carnage and anarchy slowly rising in the form of zombie hordes in the once dead city street. Just as I turned from him, a slight throaty hiss emanated from behind me.

"No.. " I thought, "he can't be... ".

The glass of the arms dealer a mere ten feet in front of me reflected the light from the street lamps almost flawlessly, showing me exactly what was happening behind. The sudden onslaught of fears were realized in an instant when I saw a half mangled Steve slowly limping toward me, hunched over, his right arm outstretched hungrily. Now the tears came. My fingers tightened around the board, as I grabbed it with both hands, the force of my grip simply acting as an outlet for my anguish and frustration now...

Cutting away all fears and doubts within my mind, I shut my eyes tight, and swung, pivoting my whole body as I did, connecting with a desolate Crack! My board had been snapped in half and littered with bloody chunks of Steve's head. Swallowing hard, I dropped the board, gave a final look to my late friend, and turned around towards the arms dealer.

***

After a good twenty minutes of "raiding", I had only managed to stock myself with two 9mm pistols (of which I had to find holsters for) and one pump action shotgun. If you'd asked me what gauge it was, to this day, I still wouldn't be able to tell you. Snatching a leather pack from behind the counter, I piled in boxes of ammo, making sure that I would be able to make my stand long enough to make it out of this damned hellhole. Steve and I had spent many a day in this place, as we had become friendly with the owner, and regularly utilized the shooting range at the back of the large store, where I had learned to shoot.

Given, I wasn't the best, but hitting a human target would be far from problematic. I noticed the dead silence in the shop, my breath being the only thing that broke it. But suddenly it was shattered by a forceful smack on the glass. A grayish face stared hungrily at me through the window, met with my scowl. Almost without thinking, I pulled a pistol from its holster, and fired a single shot into the zombie's face. It fell backward sickly and hit the ground with a dull thud.

Stepping through the doorway, I glanced at the body, noticing the glazed, whited eyes, and continued down an alley to my right. The street was alive with noise, as several others combated the abominations, and this particular alley was clear, the perfect refuge, for now. I was running now, leaping trashcans, not knowing exactly where I was going. I couldn't run full speed from the weight of the shotgun, but I was still covering a decent amount of ground. Stopping for a breath and listening to the gunshots all around me, I saw something in the distance.

A group of the monsters slowly approached from the opposite end of the alley, limping, carrying the same hungry, dead look on their faces. They were that close, that I could make out their faces in the dark, and it brought back the image of Steve's face to my mind. In a rage, I drew both pistols, and aiming carefully, pulled the triggers rapidly, moving them from target to target.

Pulling off more "body shots" than I had wanted to, led me only to discover that headshots were all that could disable these creatures. Despite the others dying right in front of them, the remaining zombies kept coming, about five of them. Now, both pistols made the click that I, and every other human who had ever been in a firefight, had dreaded. The clips were empty. I panicked, knowing full well that I had not time to load in another clip. However, thinking quickly, I pulled the shotgun from its place on my back, and reached into the pack that rested itself limply on my hip.

I removed a shotgun round from its innards, and slid it into the receiver. Holding it forward, I waited a few moments, for the zombies to get in close enough range where I could do all of them in with one single shot. Then, I squeezed the trigger, with a flash of light, blood, and bits of flesh and brain tissue. I jerked the action back across the magazine with my left hand, cocking the gun, and releasing the empty shell.

Then, my eyes grew wide as I heard a forceful hiss from behind. In that instant I reserved myself to the gallows, yet, by my luck, a shot rang out from atop one of the buildings, a fifty-caliber bullet piercing the zombie's forehead with a splash of blood and brain matter, stopping him dead in his tracks. I stood, wide eyed, breathing heavily.

Before I could collect myself, I saw a fire escape ladder drop down to the right of me. "Hey, kid!" A female voice called out from atop the ladder, "Come up here, there's a group of survivors who can keep you safe." Not wanting to question her at this point, I took a deep breath, trying to stop the shaking, and took hold of one of the metal rungs.

Upon reaching the roof I was greeted with the overwhelming sight of the most ragtag, frightening group of survivors one could imagine. They didn't bother introducing themselves, however, but sufficed the need with a strange glare or nod as I looked around the ranks. I looked back to the woman who was now, in my mind, my own guardian angel, who stared back at me with a cold sternness that in no way showed that she was capable of doing the good deed she had just performed. "Were you bitten? Any blood get in your mouth? Nose? Eyes? Open wounds?" She questioned almost frantically, looking me over as she did. I was taller than she, by about six inches, though with her commanding demeanor she seemed to tower over me, as well as the others, I guessed. There were no other females in the group.

"No, no, and no," I responded, wiping some blood off my face with the back of my hand. "From what I can tell, I'm completely unharmed..." I paused for a moment, my mind dancing upon that thought, wondering if I truly was unharmed, if not on the surface, then underneath. "Just what the hell is going on here?"

"Hollywood, kid." A gruff, raspy voice said from across the roof.

"Huh?"

" 'Cept one thing, Hollywood never could've imagined that they'd be right for once, that one of their fanciful summer blockbusters would be played out in our very streets..." A man stepped forward, truly more of a bear than a man, wearing a tight fitting black skullcap over his bald head, with a bullet-resistant vest, long sleeved shirt, and camouflage pants over his six and a half foot frame, his overall mythos tied off with a pair of standard issue, black combat boots.

"I still don't follow..."

"Christ, kid, what are ya', deaf? Zombies. Yeah, that's right... Zombies."

With that simple phrase, my fears were ultimately realized. Something Mr. Romero himself could not have imagined, all those movies now finding truth with a single occurrence. The thought shook me to the core, I simply couldn't believe that that rather enjoyable bullshit had become more of a reality than I could ever fathom.

"Enough with the friggin' theatrics, Ray." A voice called out of the darkness. "Don't you worry about a thing, Peter Pan, we've got the situation under control..." It said, obviously directing it at me this time. I don't know what I did to deserve the 'Peter Pan' comment, but due to the gravity of the situation, I shook it off for now.

"That was quite the display of gunmanship, Petey," the voice said, now finding a body as it came closer in the dim light of the building's one orange roof light. "Of course, you're still an amateur, but certainly more than I'd expect from one of those shmucks down there..." The man was dressed much like Ray, aside from the assortment of different sized combat knives that were slung across his hips, yet other than that, looked nothing like him. He was a man in his early forties, with a shaved head, a cleaner shaven face, about my height and with only a slight addition of girth. He wore black, open fingered gloves that gripped a rather intimidating assault rifle.
"So, you sat around and watched?" I said, in disbelief.

"Only until it looked like you couldn't handle yourself anymore, Petey," he said with a smirk. "But hey, we bailed you out before you got in trouble, right?" Apparently, he considered this to be funny, accompanying the comment with a crude laugh. The rest of the group seemed unmoved by my introduction into the collective, keeping to themselves, some watching over the side of the building, arms at the ready, some asleep, and the rest looking much like a homeless shelter, with one huge difference:

Lots and lots of ammunition.

(TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2)