Short Fan Fiction, The Walking Dead : Lamebrain Thoughts

You remember the bicycle girl walker? Right? Ok, ok crawler, dragger, etc. I strolled past her. Well as best as I can, being a geek 'n'all. She grunted, I grunted back and we carried on.

I wonder what happened to her?

Anyway.

I didn't survive the outbreak! Those things got me. As I cowered in a corner of my house crying my eyes out. Sat in soiled underwear.

Yep; I wet my pants.

I was that frightened. I wish I could have gone out fighting bravely. Swinging an axe with a precision blow to the head.

But no. I was dirty, covered in grime. Shivering, quaking like jello. Salty snot blobbing from my nose, and into my mouth. I was not pretty in my final seconds of life.

Hang on- That was a raw screech I just heard! It's not far from me.

"Oh boy oh boy, dinner, possible, I hope," I mumble out in my best geek-a-nese. It sounds more like clearing phlegm and heavy breathing combined. To the juicy living.

Masses of us hungry walking dead run as best as we can to the dinner call. Gathering more of us rotting, greying, decaying, dead eyed rotters as we amble. The need to eat is primal in me, my oozing, puss ridden mouth salivates a little more. Black foul smelling gelatinous gunk drips onto my shredded hands. The flesh pecked off by ravens or crows. (I don't know The difference). As I lay dormant in the yard of a house waiting for something to entertain my basic brain functions. It doesn't take much, flash of light, a noise, or sudden movement.

At the beginning of this horde of lamebrains, is the warm ones. A sheriff, a young Asian lad. A dude with a crossbow. The roamers falling in behind me crush us together. My arm forced through a fellow dead ones chest cavity. Neither of us pausing to untangle in the fray. The gnashing and chattering of teeth is growing, rattling groans and liquid screeching; our joyous celebration of finding sustenance.

Closer and closer I come. The warm ones run, away up the street. Some of us get a hand on the food, but it always fights back. They don't hide in fear of the Walking Dead. Unlike someone, naming no girl in particular. If a blush could come to my cheeks it would; every time I think about it I cringe, dying a little more with embarrassment.

The sheriff falls, from a badly placed foot on a fallen phone pole. His tender, juicy, meaty, fleshy leg within my grasp. My free hand reaches stretching the red tendons to breaking point.

"Come on Olive, a, little closer and...