ROCHESTER, NY—The complete collapse of society and the fragmentation of human civilization after a catastrophic zombie apocalypse has been nothing but a fun experience for local survivor Bobby Lornet, who is about to be devoured by merciless hordes of the undead.
“I can’t tell you how much fun I’ve been having,” said the former stock market analyst, who remained oblivious to the fact that a few dozen famished zombies nearby had taken notice of his laboured breathing and clanking weaponry.
Since the violent plague of an unknown pathogen swept across the globe when contaminated goat cheese was served in Wolfgang Puck’s Grille in Detroit, Lornet has been making the best of the new zombie paradigm, even though his best isn’t enough to prevent an unscheduled evacuation of his lower intestines from his abdominal cavity.
“Finally, all those years of considering what I’d do during the zombie apocalypse and it’s finally here,” said a gleeful Lornet, gripping his looted M16 assault rifle for which he had neither the skill to handle competently nor the cognisance to understand how the loud report of the rifle would almost certainly decrease his already minimal life expectancy.
From a third-storey balcony in a Rochester, New York apartment complex, Lornet has established an exit-less position from which he could be spotted by any zombie or looter with less than 20/50 vision. With him he carries an assortment of looted weapons including a flare-gun, a pair of frag grenades, and a decorative Klingon Bat’Leth—all of which he would more likely injure himself rather than the undead.
The apartment was not his first choice—Lornet’s had tried the The Marketplace Mall but found it ransacked and swarming with zombies. He then doubled back and headed to his second imbecilic choice, Jackson Guns & Ammo.
“Right next to the Tally Ho Gentleman’s Club, so I could get a steak,” said Lornet, who wasn’t long for this world. The gun shop, however, had long been taken over by gangs of armed looters by the time Lornet showed up. “The dancers took pot-shots at me from behind the barricade—I guess residence gets taken up in these places fast.”
Despite these setbacks, Lornet would not let a simple thing like the complete breakdown of universally agreed-upon deference to higher authority and law get in the way of enjoying the apocalypse and found a decent apartment (about the $1500 range) to make what would be his final, fleeting stand.
Before setting out on his own, Lornet, along with his wife, Melissa, and their four-year-old son, James, had originally been running with a band of survivors for which Lornet had been inappropriately selected as leader as his resumé claimed that he possessed the skills required as such.
His tendency to push the group into dangerous situations and firefights with an almost sadistic joyfulness eventually led most of the group to disband.
“I don’t think Bobby understands the hopelessness of our situation,” said Sarita Patel, Lornet’s neighbour. “Loved ones have been killed and turned into walking abominations; this is Hell on Earth, not a Chuck E. Cheese shooting gallery.”
When a majority vote suggested the group’s best course was into the mountains where the cooler climate would slow down the rotting, walking corpses and shelter them from urban gangs, Lornet would hear none of it.
“The mountains? Pfft, why would I want to go there? And shoot at what, mountain goats? What a waste of an apocalypse.”
The survivors left him to join up with other bands in the hopes of rebuilding civilization. The last holdout, his wife, eventually left with his son, lying to Lornet that they were heading into town for more toilet paper.
“He didn’t question me—he just let us go on ahead, unarmed, so he could pretend to be a sniper on the lookout,” said Melissa, who now packs a hunting rifle with sound suppresser and a katana, her son long-since eaten by the cannibalistic gang she eventually joined. “I won’t complain too much: by his own stupidity, I was able to leave him for dead.”
On his own, Lornet now poses much less of a threat to the few remaining survivors of humanity, though he regularly shouts at wanderers passing under his balcony, inviting them up for beers and a “sick sniping spot”. No one has taken him up on this offer; in some instances, he has been fired upon.
“They can live out there in the chaos and death if they choose—up here, I’m having the time of my life,” said Lornet, oblivious to the fact that the zombie horde in the units across the hall had begun to splinter the cheap, hollow apartment doors.
Luckily for Lornet, his cheerful mood will not be spoiled by the telltale moaning and groaning of coming death, the sounds drowned out by Lornet’s innocuous rifle fire and his iPod docking station playing Metallica’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls”.
M. S. Caldwell is The Daily Sprat’s resident shoe-shiner.
Photo Credit: imagerymajestic