story. because curtis HAD to suggest i write a zombie story. And the plotlines wouldnt leave me alone!

a moan, and a shriek, and the constant sound of dragging feet up the stairs.
i hear them through the door of the abandoned apartment. i had thought that the penthouse suite of the Hungdon Place Hotel would have more weapons in it. I mean, we had been in this war for what, ten and a half years? and this silly suite has absolutely nothing to take care of them. Not even a pistol. I search the room throuoghly, checking all drawers, under all rugs, under all tables. When i was sure all of the room was devoid of fighting impliments, i start to build a wall in front of the door, to try to keep them out. After chucking the last oriental rug onto the pile in front of the door, i scan the once polished wood floors and the creamy-white walls for something to fight them with. My eyes fall on a wooden bracket with long wooden bars on it, mounted on the wall next to an oriental wall scroll. The wall scroll has a group of large japanese symbols on it- the text underneath say "strength against all odds." These things will have to do, i tell myself with a grimace. i lift a pole from the bracket, it seems so fragile. Great. A horde of zombies versus me with a three fragile little sticks. I test the longest rod for strength, pressing it against my knee. It bends, but doesnt break. I start to swing the thing around, and the end goes flying off into the kitchen with a clang. A clang...? The end i am holding is hollow, which means... I go to the kitchen, where a four-foot samauri sword lies, shining on the ground. "strength against all odds?" How... epic. Hope returns, a tiny, already dying hummingbird in my chest.
The sound of them schlepping themselves up the stairs is a little annoying, so i go out to stand on the balcony. The once over-populated city is deserted. The gray buildings loom overhead, the sky is a beautiful green-blue colour. All of the morox scooters lined up in the parking station remind me of a past life. The life where everyone drove their morox to work, parked it, and took the elevator up to their floor for their profession. The life where i had a nice house, with a nice family, in a nice city. I had a nice job test-driving autopilot bartemoras. It was a little boring, but flying around in the air without a worry, doing the daily crossword while gliding over Yattenore at supersonic speeds, it always made me... content. I was a content person ten and a half years ago. Until the undead decided to make their appearance.
They went for the government first, infecting the people closest to wORlD lEadeR. when it got so high up so quickly, there was panicking in the streets. People blamed the olden-god, the olden-satan. Most blamed the failure of the force-field the week before around the hq of wORlL lEadeR. The optimistic said it would pass quickly, the hopeful said that it wouldnt affect them, the realists prepared themselves, and the pessimistic said everyone would most likely die- or become undead. Well, the optimists and hopefuls died off quickly. Only us realists and pessimists survived on tough luck, good weaponry, and the ability to think rationally. But life came with a price.
It was no longer a real life.