Entombed

I considered writing their names on my forearm, the same way Bruce Willis had done in the first Die Hard movie, but I couldn’t because I didn’t have a magic marker and the pencil wouldn’t write on my skin. Pity, that. I would have enjoyed crossing their names out one by one in their own blood. I wished I had an iPod loaded with nothing but Motorhead songs. I’d have stalked the corridors of the bunker, slashing throats and smashing heads to the left and to the right, grinning a rictus grin and bathing in blood with “Orgasmatron” and “Killed By Death” on repeat providing the perfect soundtrack for slaughter. If I closed my eyes, I could picture it all. Even better, I could hear the music in all of its ear-splitting glory. I could smell the blood, feel its warmth as it sprayed across my skin. I could taste…

Human zombie repeatedly slapped the door with a severed penis he clutched in his fist. A dead dog licked the steel, slowly and methodically, as if trying to wear down the door with its tongue. Another zombie’s eyeball popped in its socket as I watched. The gooey remnants slipped down the corpse’s cheek like a squashed grey slug. A cloud of flies swarmed toward the hole and began to crawl in and out. Disgusted by what I was watching, yet strangely compelled to watch it anyway, I shuffled toward the blast door, my peril momentarily forgotten. I was thankful that the closed circuit system had no sound. Seeing them was one thing. Hearing them was another, and smelling them was even worse. As I got close to the door, I imagined that I could hear them.