…
The alarm went off in Rob's bedroom. 6 AM on the dot, another glorious day about to begin. Rob stretched as his clock radio played today's forecast:
"It's all over! The zombies have taken over the city completely! Everyone's dead! God save us all! Oh Jesus, how did they get in here!? Back! BACK! ARRGH! AAAAHHH!!!" The morning radio DJ's screaming was cut short by routine station identification:
"WROF 102.9 R-R-R-RACCOON CITY! The only station that really rocks your nuts!" Which was directly followed by a knarly electric guitar riff. (Ba-dow-ba-da-bow-wowowow-kkknnnnngghhhhhkkk-da-nnaaaaaaahhH!)
Rob reached over and turned off his clock radio. Radio was getting pretty boring these days, hell even in the morning. Of course Rob was wearing the pajamas Mom got him last birthday, the red button-up ones. He got up out of bed into his gray-bunny slippers and scratched his crotch as he took a look out the window. A bunch of people shambling around like drunkards, moaning and groaning.
"God… was there a party last night or something? Crazy hung over people…" Rob shrugged and stepped into the bathroom to brush his teeth. If there was one thing he'd learned from Mom and Dad, it was to brush at night AND in the morning. "More often than not," they told him "some girl will just dismiss you on your breath. You've got to show them you've got shiny white teeth, sweet breath and damn good hygiene. It's not good enough today that you just pay the bills, you gotta have that good hygiene, son. We love you." Ah, the good old days.
Having brushed his teeth nice and white as ivory, he turned on Mr. Coffee and picked up his jeans off the couch. Shaking off his jammy bottoms and pulling up his pants, he noticed a notebook fall out. Yes, a whole notebook. ("Jilly's Diary" written in girly cursive on the front in pink hi-lighter.) Of course, Rob picked it up and opened to the first page,
"August 7th. Two weeks have passed since that day. My wounds have been healed, but I just can't forget it. For most people, it's history now. But for me, whenever I close my eyes, it all comes back clearly. Zombies eating people's flesh and the screams of my teammates dying. No, the wounds in my heart are not healed yet…"
"The fuck is this shit? Zombies? That's preposterous!" Rob exclaimed. He immediately closed the notebook and threw it into the fireplace, which had been lit all night long in his small two-room apartment.
He pulled on his socks and sneakers, and slipped into his favorite "Sock It To Me!" gray t-shirt. He grabbed his "World's Greatest Rob" mug from the sink and ran some tap water in it, cleaning out a cockroach or two. He was just about to pour his cup of coffee when a fat man suddenly burst in through the front door.
"Unnngghhhh!!" The man moaned, saliva and ooze coming down from his mouth. His eyes were white cataracts and his flesh had a deathly blue and greasy texture. His shirt was stained with blood and his intestines were actually hanging out over his hip. The man was clearly high on crack or something.
"Mr. Jones! Goddamnit I told you I would have the rent money on Tuesday! What the hell are you doing barging in like this? I demand that you fuck off!"
"Unnghghhh…" The fat man moaned again, his arms stretching out in front of him as he stumbled toward Rob, hungry for warm human flesh.
"I'm warning you Mr. Jones! I've had it up to here with your crap! You take one more step and I'll knock you on your ass!" Rob said, holding up a spatula.
"I said 'Unnghghhh!' mothafucka!" The fat man yelled… and continued to stumble menacingly toward Rob again.
Rob immediately clocked him across the face with the plastic spatula, and the zombie's head went flying across the room like a meaty, spongy football. The body kept walking though, and hugged Rob for some reason before finally giving up and collapsing.
"Ah damn… all he wanted was a hug." Rob sighed.
He shrugged and reached into his silverware cabinet, pulling out his trusty Beretta 9mm handgun. Everyone in Raccoon City carried one. Rob proceeded to cock it and stuff it in his pants, right up against his cock. For some reason, that made him feel good. Real good. Suddenly a hundred zombies poured in through the broken front door.
"Smoke that foo!" One said, pointing an undead finger at Rob, and they all proceeded to shamble toward him. Adrenaline-pumped techno music suddenly started playing as Rob moved in for his close-up,
"Damn… this is… my… last… escape!" (Knarly guitar riff and title,)
THE LAST ESCAPE: TAKE IT ALL