666 Event Article: A Look into the Past

666 Event Article

Written by: Kris Walker

Yuh, I always wanted my fifteen minutes of fame. Problem is, the damn apocalypse didn’t go as planned-- cause it ain’t an apocalypse. Zombies everywhere but most of the world is kicking, which is why I’m still a nobody. For now. Tablet Six is my fifteen minutes, and if I got sumthin’ to say about it, this is gonna be fifteen minutes of forever.

Yuh, I’m with you-- five years ago, I clustered with my little group of nobodies behind the school and bullshitted about death by zombies. Watched the rednecks growling around in their trying-too-hard trucks, told each other-- yuh-- the zombies would catch them asleep in their Duckheads and Dockers. But we’d live, we’d be the freakin’ kings cause we already had it planned.

Problem is, half of us were dead in the first five. No lie. We were at school, man. We didn’t know. One minute we’re talking bones, the next it’s brains and the lunch line started with us. Just lucky I was in AP anatomy with the other pasty-faced nerdlings-- what if it had been gym? With jocks? Toast, man. Chomp chomp, lights out.

I said half, but it was more like half of half-- until they started long division with their teeth. Zombies love math if it involves eating, and this was like fat kids in a snack cake factory. And that ain’t a metaphor, survivor...this was literally a flock of Boomers on the Twinkie farm.

But I’m not a damn twinkie, so I got the heck out. Like I said, I knew it was coming eventually, man-- I knew-- one look at the fatties getting hungry and I jammed a #2 pencil (freshly sharpened, in fact) into the nearest deader’s face and hit the window. Thank God I was right, man. Wouldn’t thatta been a mess. But shoot man, I knew. Like a mullet knows a red neck.

“Damn, shoulda used a stunt double,” cause I still thought this was a movie, reckon, and I guess that was ketchup on my face. Yuh. And cheerleaders have a secret fetish for ketchup-licking, too, which was why they were drooling and running in on my three o’clock. Fast.

The parkour is for the zombie apocalypse, I always told people-- mostly cause I knew as well as they did I looked retarded out there trying to hump my way up a rain gutter. I always think I’m right, but I had no idea I’d be right-- I was just a snot-nosed kid who kept confusing being weird for being clever. So I took a moment for a well I’ll be damned until I realized it didn’t taste like ketchup.

Went zipping through the parking lot in my velcro Converse-- way before they were mainstream-- and put a chain link fence between me and the newly hungry anorexics. And I tell you what...I’ve never said a bad thing about rednecks since. That I meant, anyhow. This was Alabama. Nobody locked their doors and everyone had guns. It’s almost like they were planning for the zombie apocalypse; which kinda pisses me off. I thought I was cool, man.

Feel bad, though, kinda...the truck I went to, man, I won’t lie-- I been back since, and it’s still there. I tell myself he was an offbrand stick of camo jerky in the first five, yuh, the hick equivalent of Jiggles the Chomp Chomp that I vision corrected with the #2...but I don’t know, man. All I know is no way he made it out on foot. No way. So ever since I speak the drawl, ya know, like a little speech pathology memorial.

And the truck was like a gun monkey’s wet dream. Only problem was, there I was, zombies trying to fit through the holes in the chain link fences-- yuh, cheerleaders are bright-- guns everywhere, and I realized that like maybe I should have fired a gun before.

C’mon, you know how it is. Get your 12 nobodies playing hacky sack and planning out their little evac action movies, and you kinda forget that the only person who knows how to shoot is that one fat kid who can’t run, so like that’s his only shot. Plus since Columbine it makes the jocks nervous. Like maybe they’ll make the list. Which they will, let’s face it, but all he’s gonna do is cry on it. And maybe like, ten years down the road, fill his swimming pool with money and think that’ll show ‘em.

Except our firearms expert was already a 12 course meal, and not one of these guns-- not one-- had a left-mouse button.

(to be continued)