Lunch Hour by G.M. Reinfeldt
Lead Pipe:
To my left is a lead pipe. I congratulate my luck even as I hear the hungry growls outside. Taking my time I finish off. A stall door bursts open. I lift my pipe off the ground and stand. I am ready. My door opens. I swing blunting the zombie’s head, moving to the next even before the first hits the ground, finishing the group in moments. Returning to the stall panic grips me, the toilet paper is gone. I take my anger out on a zombie. Then hike up my pants up and head to the big box store.
Paperwork:
To my left is a stack of papers. Mournful moans emanate in an aisle over from mine, a lone gasp is all it takes for them to change course. I scatter the papers across the floor and cower under a desk. The moans close in. I am holding my breath hoping for the best. Papers slide and slip under their uncoordinated shuffle. They collapse. I run. There is a groan to my right. I drop and create an origami star, with a throw it lodges in an eyehole. It is nonlethal, but in the confusion I make it to safety.
iPhone:
To my left rests the most sought after gadget of the 21st century, an iPhone. Now nothing more than a fancy weight. I turn it over in my hands, edges sharpened to deadly points. I let I fly, dropping another mindless victim. I with draw another iPhone before the body hits the floor. I check the charge, 20%. Smiling, I mutter, “This will be cool.” The horde moving closer. I send it end over end into a gas tank. The resulting explosion clears my way. I pluck my first iPhone from a corpse and head off knowing more will come.
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Little Boy Blue,
Dead Man’s Hand, or
Code: Black (The Complete Collection)
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