Wrote this a while back, while testing out Write or Die.
“This sucks,” thought James, as he blew the head off yet another zombie.
It had all started two days ago, when Obama’s health-care plan took a turn for the worse and started bringing the dead back to life. The country — perhaps even the world — was completely overrun. Only small pockets of survivors were left, like the one James was with. But they were close to the end, having run low on all their supplies. Including bullets, James was reminded as he reached for a shotgun shell but only touched air. He swore, dropped the shotgun, and drew his Mateba Auto Revolver.
The survivors were holed up in a coffee shop — not Starbucks, because even in the middle of a zombie apocalypse none of them were that desperate. No, this was a small, independent place called Coffee of Doom. The proprietor had succumbed to the infection a few hours back — and, as she was the only one who knew how to work the fancy coffee machines, they were almost out of caffeine.
James was standing near the window — or, rather, where the window used to be. Floor to ceiling glass walls don’t last very long around the undead. Speaking of which, another zombie appeared across the street, howled, and charged. James sighted his .45 calibre weapon, squeezed the triger gently. The monsters head exploded.
“If only they were Romero zombies,” James wished for the thousandth time. “But no, that Zack fucker had to go and do a remake…”
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