This is my first fan fiction. I done this some time ago and I'm unsure as to whether or not to continue. If I recieve positive feedback I probably will. Enjoy.

Chapter 1

In swept a tall figure, about 6' 2" accompanied by the ringing sound of the café bell above the door, and the clumping sounds of the man's tan boots, the snaking laces were hidden by a dark navy pair of jeans, secured by a black belt, although the only thing visible was the shining silver buckle. The rest of the belt was hidden by a dark denim jacket, it a similar colour of his jeans. The jacket hid his .45 ACP Pistol, which in turn, was sandwiched between the jacket and a black T-shirt. He strode further, over to his regular table, the place where he'd sat every day for the past few weeks. The café, 'Bennett's', done decent food, much better than the unidentifiable sludge he made when he attempted the newly discovered death-sport of cookery.

He sat and removed his mirrored shades, the huge ones that state troopers are often seen wearing while cruising along a highway. He rubbed his tired eyes. It was only dusk, and the orange glow of the sunset shone through the café window, both heating one side of his face, and irritating one of his bloodshot eyes. He turned, stretching his somewhat muscular torso and raised his hands behind his head, exhaling loudly. The café was virtually empty. As he turned, he was greeted by the sight of the café owner, a man who he only knew as 'Larry'. He'd assumed the man's surname was 'Bennett' for obvious reasons. He nodded to the aging man. He had to be at least thirty years his major, which would make Larry about fifty to fifty five.
"Hey Larry..."
"Sam..." Larry replied with a nod.
"Quiet tonight, don't ya think?" Sam answered, shooting a quick glance around the deserted café, and Larry shrugged, "Probably have a bit more customers tomorrow..."
They both nodded, as if they'd been great friends for many years. Larry was just that type of friendly guy, despite the lack of customers, Larry had given meals and drinks to Sam on the house. Sam wasn't sure, perhaps he took pity on him, or maybe because his slight hints of an Irish accent made him seem like a refugee? He didn't care, it was free, although Sam had offered to pay, secretly hoping that Larry actually didn't take the money, he needed it, badly, given his situation.
"What'll it be tonight then, Sam?" Larry said, after a long silence. Sam shrugged, "Just the usual I suppose". Soon enough Larry had served him his repeated order of orange juice and some toast, to the greeting of Sam flickering his eyes open. He'd dozed off slightly.
"Uh...oh, thanks..." Sam responded in a slurred way.
"No problem." Larry said with a kind smile, purposely walking away before the hazy customer could put forward any kind of payment. He looked towards the breakfast food, and lifted the toast, biting into it hungrily. He could eat toast and orange juice at any time, it was like a sort of comfort food. He took a sip of the zesty orange juice, a crumb or two resting on the rim of the glass. He sighed heavily and handled his shades that sat on the table, and glanced out of the window. It would be dark soon, and he really couldn't wait to get back into bed. He rested his head upon the leather of the seat and watched the sun slowly disappear over the distant horizon, it's light gradually sinking behind the buildings, just as his eyes inevitably closed shut gently. Little did he know, it might've been the last sunset he'd ever see.

He woke with a slight moan, lazily at first, then was slightly stiff with fear, after his eyes had refocused, and he realised where he was. His adrenaline was still pumping as he looked out into the darkness beyond the window. It was now night. That didn't make sense, shouldn't Larry have woken him up to kick him out? Perhaps Larry let him sleep. He was nicer than Sam had thought. He looked down to his former meal, his toast cold and hard, his orange juice now warm. He shifted in the leather chair, squeaking slightly as his weight adjusted. It took him a while to realise that he wasn't alone, he was in the company of what appeared to be a young woman, who stood with her back facing him, at the opposite end of the café. Click Click. He stood and slowly headed towards her, finally noticing that she was standing in front of the jukebox. That damned thing was always getting stuck.
"Hey Larry!" he called into the back, glancing at the female every now and then, she still hadn't moved. "Your jukebox is playing up again!" he continued. No response. He rose a brow, that was strange too. Maybe he was out back, getting more supplies from the cellar. He looked at the woman again, before hesitatingly walking around the counter and into the back. The place was eerily quiet, "Larry..." he continued to call. He pushed open the kitchen door, and saw the legs of what appeared to be Larry on the floor, the top half of his body hidden around the corner, "Larry!" he exclaimed and quickly ran, turning the corner, "La..." What he saw nearly made his apparently comforting food come back up.

A bloodied figure was hunched over Larry, his neck apparently ripped open, forming a pool of blood around Larry's balding head, which was also exposed to the elements, eaten open it seemed, a crimson mess within, mixed with a grey pink mush, and most of it smeared over the face which now had turned it's attention to him, it's eyes white and dripping with a unidentifiable fluid, and arms outstretched, grasping for Sam. He stumbled back, glancing down to Larry's helpless body, "J-Jesus..." Sam stuttered. The seemingly dead and bloodied body, shambling towards him. He watched it trip and fall over Larry's corpse. Do something. Now. He turned, and made for the door of the kitchen, but he was too late, the crawling cadaver had grabbed his foot. "Urgh..." he said, as he struggled with it, "Get the fuck off me!" he exclaimed, and it opened it's decomposing mouth, ready to take a bite from his foot. He swung his free leg back and hit it disgustingly hard in the face, it's head caving in, and his foot being stuck inside. He felt the grip of the zombie loosen. Upon pulling his tan boot from the creature, he noticed the fabric of the boot had begun to absorb the moisture, changing it from light brown to dark, upon the boot was what appeared to be the remains of the creatures mind, sticky, like toffee or caramel from within a sweet. He stepped away, and leaned over the sink, ready to be violently sick.

After five minutes or so, attempting to recover, it dawned on him that he should do something, this wasn't exactly normal. He closed his eyes, the smell of the decomposing ghoul making his stomach turn. After stumbling out of the kitchen, he lifted the phone behind the counter. Dead. "What the hell?" he whispered to himself. Click Click. He looked up with a start, and saw the woman, she was still here? He sluggishly walked towards her, the right boot of his not making such a thumping sound, as he travelled across the wooden floor. As he approached her, he spoke, the clicking sound getting louder, naturally. "Uh...hey lady...you'll have to leave...we're clo-" As he spoke, the 'woman' swirled around, her face looking as if it'd been clawed and torn, her own throat having bite-marks and her torso looking as if it'd been disembowelled. "Agh!" he cried out, as she took a firm grip on him, her mouth opening wide, and a partially chewed finger falling out onto him, he cringed in disgust, now realising that the jukebox wasn't bust at all. Much to his terror, the windows that lined the café seemed to explode, many more shambling figures tumbling through, "Oh Shit!" he said, glancing around, still struggling with the female cannibal. These things aren't...human. He was going to become zombie food soon if he didn't escape. He turned his attention to the lady and gripped her back, just as hard, moving his hands to her torn neck, and slammed her head to the left, onto the metal lining and glass on the front of the jukebox, "Get..." he slammed once more, "...off!". Blood dripped from his hands and the selection buttons as she fell, the jukebox now starting to play a rock tune. This was all he needed. With the music blaring and him surrounded by zombies, it was hard to think. He ran for the back door, the zombie back there would hardly give him trouble now. He shoved a Raccoon resident aside, and pushed open the kitchen door, to his horror, there was more zombies, feasting on poor Larry, and more behind them. God damn it, shit! He span around, back into the front of the diner. He was screwed. He slowly began to walk backwards towards a wall as they advanced, still more tumbling through the windows. He felt for the wall behind him, and his hand was met my the touch of fabric instead. Huh? He turned, and remembered that there was access stairs to the second floor, where Larry lived. He pushed the curtains aside and stepped in, taking a final glance at the carnivores, he swept the curtains closed. Well done Sam, THAT'LL really make a difference. He climbed the stairs at a running pace, two at a time, and opened the door, slamming it shut, just as he heard the advancing steps of the zombies. He just hoped they didn't figure out how to use doors.

In the meantime, he'd pushed a cabinet against the door, which he'd shifted from Larry's former bedroom. He'd guessed that he'd been trapped here for at least half an hour. He sat, watching out the window, in complete darkness, his pistol clenched in his hand. How stupid. He'd forgotten about it completely, he could've shot his way out before too many of them gathered. Luckily, none of his thirty shots had needed to be fired. Yet. He sighed, even more had came for the party, he assumed that it was the loud music that attracted them, but just like not thinking of using his gun, he didn't think of pulling the cord out. There had to be at least thirty, most likely more, and he doubted he was that good of a shot to get thirty headshots. Perhaps he could shoot them once they're in a line, coming up the stairs, getting multiple kills? Or he could let them come up the stairs and around the corner one by one? He sighed, What if there were more? He had this constant nagging, doubting, unbelieving voice going on in his head, constantly telling him, "You're going to die.". He refused to believe it, just like he refused to believe what was happening, but undoubtedly, with an attitude like that, his own scepticism would be his untimely downfall. He had to be strong, to get out of this living hell, but in order to do that, he needed help.