Pink Caterpillars

A short story about two boys in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

Pink caterpillars, spokes of hairs bursting out of their tiny, squirming bodies, and you can't ever seem to figure out the purpose of those hairs and why their warmth and weight were a necessary adaptation for such tiny creatures. The road just behind them is leaking with fog like that of a clogged toilet, fear, FEAR, it'll come out, it'll be too much. The caterpillars, they can breathe, but you are who you fear for.

Has it been poisoned? What difference does it make? If they haven't injected the air with their venom, the zombies are going to have you for dinner anyway... but nevermind that. You drag on, scraping and thinning the cotton on your elbows and knees more and more with every crawl. Maybe it's the beginning of a new fashion trend? If you survive.

A dull and self-reproaching "uuuuuuuhhhhggg" drags through the air, carrying the same emotion of what negative thoughts a mother has from a child's piercing scream. With a quick turn of the head, you see the coast is clear and you continue on, nearing the shed. Bobby's waiting for you there; he's got the cure, well kind of. He's been testing this one out for a while, being one of those weirdos, thinking, truly believing the zombies were once to come. He walkied to you earlier that he's put the needle in himself, so he'll be safe by the time you come back.

You double take and see, indeed, it was a four-leafed clover you just passed. Pluck it out of the ground but just before you try to eat it, you realize it could be poisoned with the drug the zombies give off when they're cut, Cannataoil Persthesastyne, or CaPe. And what happens if CaPe is introduced to the average human body? Instantaneous transformation; eyes become bloodshot, pure red, not by blood, no, but because of the chemical reaction in the body. All your organs are sucked into your own body and you suddenly appear as though you've been on Weight Watchers for the past 10 years of your life and your skin becomes paler and paler within every second your not feasting on your former kind.

Finally at the shed, you tap on the door with your fingernail, quiet to not awake the attention of the zombies. Bobby opens the door after releasing the lock.

"Quick, Ryan, come in," whispers, "There's one behind you." You crawl into the shack and finally stand, stretch, for you've been creeping and scrambling on the ground far back since Bittersweet Drive, for three dreadful hours!

Bobby lies on the floor, raises his head to look through the tiny glass window at ground-level.

"He's still coming. Get the guns ready." You obtain the firearms from the drawer; fill them up, two for each of you, tucking one into the back of your jeans. The zombie's a'comin'.

Bobby stands and opens the door as the repulsive, nauseating varmint eases his way to us, emerging through the smog, Bobby's arms outstretched holding the weapon I gave him, positioned precisely at the creatures head.

Before he can get a word out to instruct me, the zombie pulls a dagger from his pocket and, still steps away, launches it at Bobby's eye, which bursts into blood, gushing and dripping all over the place. His scream is terrifying, but he should have shot him. His fault.

Kat! Kat! Kat! And the zombie goes down.

I walkie over to General Harold with the notification that this idiot waited for the zombies to get closer and they send over an ambulance, sirens off of course.

I head back into the shed and put the antidote into my arm... uh, sorry, Bobby.