Free Writing: The Dead Can Run (Chp 4 Prt1)

Please keep in mind this is a first draft and no revisions or editing should be done as part of the exercise, though I failed miserably and edited for hours on end on this one. Though in no way does that mean you are getting a clean and amazing chapter, most likely the opposite. 🙂

I will be properly revising and editing this story in the next few days. Here is hoping to have the first compilation of the first six chapters before the end of this month. Also, I am sorry for taking so long in continuing this story. This is intended to be a free writing project and I was brainstorming ahead. Needed to take time off to undo those chapters in my mind.

Warning: 1st draft, possible rambling


The Dead Can Run

Chapter Four Part One

My teeth cut into my lower lip and my mouth filled with the taste of copper. I struggled to my feet to only be shoved back down. A hand pinned me to the floor by my hair followed by a knee to my back. The man was heavier than he looked.

“Let…let me…go,” I pleaded, blood seeped from my busted lip and coated the floor to then cling to the strands of my hair that had fallen loose from his grip. I tried to muffle a cry at the touch of the man’s hand trailing down my bare back. His rough fingertips lapping up the droplets of water that still clung to my flesh.

“What do you say we have a little fun before I turn you over to our Mr. Self-Made Leader huh?” the brute sneered, pressing me harder against the ground and digging his knee further into my back.

“You’re disgusting,” I shouted past his mocking laughter. I recognized his voice. He had been one of the men I had overheard while tied in the closet. His companion must be the other man he had been talking to.

“Just kill me already,” I cried, struggling against his hold as best as I could. My actions earned me another tug of my hair. Tears welt up in my eyes at the pain. I could feel my warm breath against my face and the blood draining from my fingers as I clung to the man’s wrist with both hands in an attempt to loosen his grip on my hair.

“Feisty, I like them feisty,” he laughed, yanking me to my feet, his grip on my hair threatening to scalp me where I stood.

“You know he won’t approve of this,” Cassy cut in, removing her gloves and tossing them aside. She stepped back into the bathroom to emerge with the handcuffs. Her calm and blank demeanor told me there was no salvation there and my fear grew. Just what kind of people were they?

“Come on Cassy, relax. I wasn’t really going to rape her,” the man who held me teased, pressing a blade against my skin. “At least not right now,” he whispered into my ear.

Were the zombies the real monsters here? I thought to myself as the knife nicked my skin.

“On second thought, why wait? I think you deserve a good reminder of how lucky it was that we found you. The zombies would have finished you off if it wasn’t for us. The least you can do is repay the gesture. What do you say?” my tormentor replied, his voice full of malice and of something else I wanted nothing of.

The blade disappeared and I was shoved towards the bed again. I cringed as my hands came in contact with the blood stained sheets. The smell of death engulfed my nostrils and my gag reflexes reminded me that they still worked. I dropped to my knees and threw up again, this time white foam mixed with the blood that had dripped to the floor from the carnage on the bed.

Before I could wipe the vomit clinging to my lips my head was jerked back and the man pressed himself against me, kneeling behind me.

“Should I take your silence as consent?” He ran his fingers across the side of my face. Every touch made my stomach twist with greater disgust, threatening to make me gag for a third time.

“Get off me,” I snapped, elbowing him in the face. I had just walked in on a bunch of lunatics, deadly lunatics, but I wasn’t ready to die yet. I still hadn’t found my son and I wasn’t about to let them have their way with me either.

I bolted to my feet and dashed for freedom. The other man blockading the door leading out of my room grasped my arms and twisted them behind me, turning me around to face my first attacker. My eyes swelled in tears and my throat tightened, I tried to scream but nothing came out. I didn’t want to think about what they had planned for me. Now that I was found not to be infected, would I die or worse would they really rape me?

“Where do you think you’re going?” the biggest of the brutes sneered, taking one broad step towards me. He grasped my neck with both his hands and squeezed. “You really want to die? Then who are we to keep…”

The man behind me yelped in surprise and I was shoved forward into the very man who tried to strangle me. We both tumbled towards the bloodied bed. I rolled off the bed and slammed into the hard floor, slamming my head against the edge of the night stand. I withered on the floor and clung to my head. Silence filled the room and I chanced a glance at the man still sprawled on the bed.

“What were my orders?” a familiar voice bellowed followed by the sound of a gunshot. Warm blood splattered on my face and I screamed.

Free Writing: The Dead Can Run (Chp 3 Prt2)

Please keep in mind this is a first draft and no revisions or editing should be done as part of the exercise, though this part of chapter three refused to write itself the way I wanted and I had to cut it down to fit the word count.

Feel free to point errors and grammar out for when I do get around to properly editing this story. And if you would like to read the chapters one day early consider signing up as a patron over at my patreon page.

Warning: dry humor/sarcasm and rambling


The Dead Can Run

Chapter Three Part Two


This time it was cold water digging into my back that woke me. The icy daggers nipped and scratched at my flesh without mercy. I snapped awake and jerked to my feet to only smack against the shower edge before tumbling back to the floor. A pain bolted up my arm, the handcuff on my right hand making its presence known.

I was handcuffed to the toilet.

I yanked my hand back still in denial and tried to rise. The pipe held and I bit back a wince, the grogginess finally fading.

“Take your clothes off,” a husky voice commanded. The voice was different from the last two and I chanced a glance upwards.

A boot nudged me on the side cutting my vision short. I jerked back and my hand still handcuffed to toilet twisted causing a new set of pain to crawl up my arm. I held on to my shoulder and tried to scoot closer to the toilet.

“I said take your clothes off,” the voice turned into a shadow and I squinted against the rays beaming through the bathroom window.

“No.” My lips moved on their own before I realized I had spoken. The curiosity to connect a face to the voice vanished and I moved my gaze to the tiled floor.

A hand gripped my jaw and I was forced to lock eyes with my tormentor. The blue eyes that stared down at me were filled with anger and something I couldn’t quite place. I pushed the fear back and steadied myself against the floor. I raised my chin and tightened my jaw.

I would not budge.

Not even for the handsome face staring me down.

“You will take your clothes off and get in the shower.” The man, whose breathtaking appearance failed to fit with the pain still coursing through my body, kneeled next to me. His large hands moved gently over my wrist causing my cold flesh to shiver against the new sensation traveling through my arm.

I pushed the feeling aside and felt a knot start to form at the back of my throat.

“Why do you need…? Just let me go and I won’t get in your way. You can take whatever you want from my house.” I stuttered, the fear returning full force.

I fought the idea that the barbarians demanded my cleanliness before having their way with me. I wanted to laugh, to cry, and to claw his eyes out for the cruelty of his demands. I took another deep breath and did my best to keep the tears from trailing down my cheeks.

“We are wasting time,” the man replied rising. He paused for a moment and ran a hand through is dark blonde hair before turning the knob and letting the last part of my privacy ajar.

“Take your clothes off, get in the shower. Cassy will see if you were bitten or not.”

At the man’s words a woman stepped into the doorway. She slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, the light blue material obvious against her dark skin.

“I’m…not bitten…” I stuttered again, my eyes wandering to the bloodied bundle still lying on my bed. “Please let me go. The blood on my hands isn’t mind—” I tried to explain.

“We have lost too many already to those very words,” the handsome but cruel man replied cutting me off. He turned to look at me and for a moment his eyes softened to reflect something similar to sympathy. “I will be outside so don’t think of doing anything stupid.” And with that the door closed.

Cassy tugged at my arm and brought me to my feet. I leaned back afraid my arm would dislocate and found the handcuffs were no longer confining my wrist. When had he taken them off? I rubbed at my wrist and sighed in submission.

I stripped my clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the cold water clean away their doubts and the anger I felt.

The woman’s eyes scanned my naked body with an icy stare. My mind wondered which was colder, the water or the woman’s hazel eyes. Her gloved fingers moved expertly inspecting every intimate part of my skin and my anger returned tenfold.

After my exposed skin was completely numb she stepped back.

“She is clean.” Cassy’s voice cut through the stream of water and my shattering teeth.

The door opened and two men stepped in. They yanked me out of the bathroom before I had the chance to even scream. They shoved me to my bed and I slipped on the bloodied sheets to slam against the hard wood floor.


Free Writing: The Dead Can Run (Chp3 Prt1)

It has been too long since I wrote another entry to this crazy but fun zombie story. Please keep in mind this is a first draft and no revisions or editing should be done as part of the exercise, though each entry I find it harder to keep true to it. I hope you are enjoying my take on the zombie apocalypse none the less.

Feel free to point errors and grammar out for when I do get around to properly editing this story. And if you would like to read the chapters one day early consider signing up as a patron over at my patreon page.

Warning: dry humor/sarcasm and rambling


The Dead Can Run

Chapter Three Part One


I didn’t know how much time had passed.

When I came to it was dark and my head throbbed like no tomorrow. But what I did know was that someone had hit me over the head with something hard and painful. But why? I was in my own house for crying out loud. Yet the zombies in my backyard weren’t mine, I reminded myself through the pain swirling around in my head. Heck the most deadly thing I owned were two miniature poodles if you could call them deadly. Cute, annoying, but deadly not so much. They barked more than anything else. And who knew what had happened to them.

Like on cue, on that last thought a bark reached my ears.

I forced my mind to settle and strained my ears. Had I heard right? Had my mind played tricks on me?

The bark came again, then another bark slightly different in tone followed by an angry male voice. “I told you to muffle the darn dogs or leave them outside. They are going to wind up the zombies even more than that woman.”

Yes, I had heard right, my dogs were alright. What about my son and my mother? Images of my stepdad sprawled on the bed his insides no longer where they should have been flashed through my mind and I forced down another knot and the last remainders of my breakfast. I pushed back the bloodied images and let the words behind the darkness sooth away the uncertainties.

“That woman isn’t my fault. I wasn’t the one who left the gate unchained or the door unlocked. We are lucky it wasn’t one of those things,” another voice replied, less loudly than the first. I could notice the nervousness of his words through the wooden wall.

“Shut up, you saying it was my fault? How was I supposed to know there were still people alive? We did the rounds and found no one in the entire complex.”

Were they talking about me? Had they just stated that no one else was alive?

No, it couldn’t be.

I struggled to get closer and found I was tied to a chair.


The unsettling feeling in my stomach grew. They had tied me up, shoved me who knows where while my son was possibly dying somewhere and in need of my help. Tears clung to my eyelashes and my throat tightened. I tried harder, tugging against the rope until my wrist threatened to turn raw, and managed to free a hand.

The rope loosened enough and I freed my other hand but not before the chair toppled over and my head smashed against the floor. The darkness started to spin for a brief moment before it stilled once more. My body froze in fear of being discovered. Nothing. The voices continued but faded as if the men had moved to another room.

I waited a few more minutes and then continued my struggle with the cursed rope. A few more tugs and I was free. I moved from the chair and the ropes that clung against my skin like leeches to flesh and rose. I felt fabric rub against my hair and the new forming bump. I was in a closet. I scrimmaged through the array of clothes hanging and bumped my elbow on a dresser. The closet was mine. My fingers grazed the newly remodeled floor to make sure and I thanked the turn of events.

If the closet I was locked in was really mine then it meant there was a flashlight in one of the drawers. My hands tugged at the metal handle and a sigh of relief escaped my lips as my fingers pressed against the flashlight. I turned it on and the darkness faded behind the small ray of light. I glanced around for something I could use as a weapon, anything I could use to escape the unknowing threat on the other side of the door. The horde of zombies in my yard would require a much better array of choices.

“What the heck?” the same angry voice from before yelled. “She freed herself.”


The men had moved back to my room.

The moment of relief was short lived. A shout behind the closet door was followed by heavy footsteps and the door was yanked open. The flashlight was ripped from my grasp as something hard smacked against the side of my face. I fell to the ground, the sound of angry words fading and mingling with the irony of the fact that one could fall unconscious more than once per day.

“You should have used the handcuffs,” the angry voice mocked me.

My luck hadn’t changed for the better after all.


Free Writing: The Dead Can Run (Chp2)

Another addition to my free writing exercise. As always please keep in mind this is a first draft with minimal revisions. Again I cheated a little but not as bad as the previous segment. I combined two writing sessions. If you prefer the chapters to be broken up in two parts like Chapter One was or have the entire section posted like Chapter Two let me know.

Feel free to point errors and grammar out for when I do get around to properly editing this story. 🙂

Warning: dry humor/sarcasm and rambling


The Dead Can Run

Chapter Two

The rest of the highway blurred by. I clung to the phone refusing to sever the connection to my son, to the only time I might ever hear his voice. My fingers were going numb and my hand on the steering wheel was close behind. My son’s screams had turned to cries and muffles as he tried to speak into the phone. My mind went blank, the questions I should have asked never came.

Was he alright?

Had he been bitten?

Where was his grandmother?

Nothing. I could only cling to the phone and press harder on the gas pedal. I swerved down the exit that would lead me closer to my son. I didn’t bother to brake and thanked the strange empty roads ahead of me. I swerved right and let the tires scraping and jerking against the potholes that infested the two lanes give me the comfort they offered. I was glad it wasn’t infested with the undead.

Potholes seemed a miracle over what I had just witnessed. My gaze wondered to the blood stains clinging to my cracked windshield and my hood. I forced my eyes to tear away from the spot the severed arm had been and concentrated on returning to my son.

“Mommy,” the faint voice of my son beckoned me to drive faster still. “Mommy…where are you? Please help us.”

The phone went silent and I tossed the phone into the passenger seat and reared in my seat. I didn’t bother to call back. I was only a few minutes away. I just had to drive faster. My eyes stared ahead of me, past the endless trailers on either side. The short road seemed to extend far beyond the normal. The stop sign finally came into view and I dared to slow down just enough to ensure I didn’t die before I reached my son.

Again the roads seemed bare. The morning had already come and with it the hustle and bustle of business life should have followed. A strange feeling in my stomach had me wanting to throw up on my steering wheel. I turned left, then right, then left again.

My eyes welt up in tears again, tears in vast numbers, tears I had never known I could shed. My heart pounded on my chest and my lungs ached for air. I strained to breathe and slowed down. The street to my house was crowded with cars, smoke rose to greet the ravens circling above. And my world shattered.

I had to get to my son.

My son had to be alive. I let that last thought urge me forward. I jerked the car to a stop and jumped out, the last words my son had spoken to me echoing over and over in my head. Mommy…where are you? Please help us. I had to get to him. I ran, skidding over hoods and squeezing through any space that would allow me passage. I glanced around, no bodies, no zombies, no undead. The uncertainty grew and I ran faster.

The void of dogs barking scared me more than the empty yards on both sides. The busted mailbox that still had three of the four numbers to our address came into view and I shoved the broken fence open. I ran up the stairs and threw the ajar door the rest of the way open. It was open. Why was it open? I forced all thought about what could have caused it ajar and I stepped inside.

“Mom, Scott?” I half cried half whimpered. No reply. “Mom…Scott…” I yelled louder and thanked the morning for its growing light. My brain had hit reboot and I couldn’t remember where the light switches were.

I made my way to my son’s room. Empty. I bolted to my room. My knees gave way. My bed was covered in blood and I inched towards the bundle in the center. Tears burned the side of my face and my stomach twisted and protested the contents it still contained. I inched closer. I extended a shaking hand and pulled the sheets back.

A scream erupted from my lips and my heart burst from my chest. This time I swore it lay near my feet to beat its last beat. I staggered to my feet and leaned against the doorframe. I covered my lips in disbelief. The limp body of my stepfather lay sprawled on the bed, his insides no longer in their proper place.

My stomach gave up and I threw up. The vile taste invading my mouth only caused me to gag more and I found myself on my knees again. The contents of my breakfast lay on the tiled floor reminding me that I was still alive. My eyes wandered to the corpse on the bed and I wished I was dead.

A loud bang snapped me back and I bolted to my feet. My son crossed my mind and I ran towards the kitchen, to the backdoor. I hadn’t checked the storage or the backyard. Hope forced my heart to beat again and I ran faster. The banging came again and I swung the door open.

Another scream escaped my lips and I rushed back inside, the sound of moaning lingering in my ears. I struggled with the doorknob. My bloody fingers slipped on the cold metal and I screamed louder. Desperation took over and I clung to the doorknob as if it was the key to my very life. Actually it was, that was the only thing keeping me from the horde of zombies that had greeted me.

The banging moved to the door and with one final attempt the locks fell into place. I backed away from the door and reached for something, anything to use as a weapon. The moaning grew louder followed by garnishing of teeth and fingers gnawing at the wood. My hand reached for a pan lying on the table and before I could grab it something hard hit me on the head. I hit the ground hard and everything went black.


Free Writing: The Dead Can Run (Chp1 Prt2)

Here is the second part of chapter one of my crazy zombie story. Please keep in mind this is a first draft and though no revisions or editing were suppose to be done as part of the exercise I did revise a tiny bit, just a little. It was hard for me to let the writing flow and kept trying to edit and change every word I typed. This I blame on the current editing and revising I have been doing on other stories I am currently working on.

Feel free to point errors and grammar out for when I do get around to properly editing this story. 🙂

Warning: dry humor/sarcasm and rambling


The Dead Can Run

Chapter One Part Two

The glass must have been even cheaper than I had first thought, that or the freaking undead zombies were freakishly stronger than most of the movies had shown. My sweat running fingers reached for the keys and I hurried into the car locking the door with my elbow and struggling to insert the keys into the ignition. Zombies barricaded my car on all sides threatening to break my windows just like they had the glass doors. Their bloodied hands left smudges of wet blood on them and their lips spread further away from their teeth snarling like hungry dogs that got forced to participate in dog fights.

The windshield cracked and I cried.

I cried in fear and desperation. I did not want to die and much less turn into a zombie. I had enough problems to add the need to rip my son’s throat or any other human’s to the list. Another whimper escaped my lips as I shoved the key the rest of the way into the ignition and turned it. The gargling of teeth and moaning vanished under the comforting humming of the engine and I pushed the gear to drive.

My car sped forward and I swerved barely missing another parked car and the ensured death that would have followed. I would have become a movie cliché, crashing into a tree stump, light post, or any inanimate object in my hurry to escape to only seal my death from my stupidity. The zombies held on, a few crushing under the tires and my eyes wandered to the review mirror.

A sick feeling of happiness rushed through me as I pressed harder on the gas pedal and made a sharp turn. The disembowel zombies clawing on the parking lot resembled the coworkers that had brought me the most grief. As their image vanished so did the feeling to be replaced by morbid disbelief. I had to be in bed still dreaming and would soon wake up to curse for snoozing my alarm a second time.

It had to be.

This horror was unreal.

I stared at the zombies still clinging to my car and the blood stains of where more had been. I stared past the pieces of flesh stuck on the hood of the car and at the red light and car ahead. I braked, my foot slammed down on the brakes and my heart jumped out of my chest. The rest of the zombies went flying and smacked against the car.

I cursed for the second time. Being attacked by zombies and the need to follow the law didn’t mix well. There had to be an unspoken law that when flesh eating monsters, or any monsters in general, attacked the right to run through red lights was justified and understood. But somehow the unspoken law wasn’t universal. The driver of the car in front stepped out. I yelled for him to get back in and drive off, but his expensive suit and name brand car wouldn’t allow him to leave with a smashed bumper.

Instead now he wouldn’t leave at all. The zombies that had survived my driving lunged at the man and tore at his neck and chest. One zombie pulled his arm clean off. The moment the sound of bone braking reached my pulse pounding ears I knew it wasn’t a dream. The zombie licked and lavished the dripping blood from the torn ligaments before rushing back toward my car.

The torn arm banged against the hood of my car and my brain remembered it still had a body attached to it. In seconds I had backed up and sped past the carnage, past the last hope that I was dreaming. Tears welt up my face and my hand clumsily reached for my phone still in my purse. Cars weren’t blocking the road in numbers, zombies weren’t running across the fields on either direction, and smoke wasn’t rising in the air turning it into night. There was still hope, a different hope but hope nonetheless.

My fingers scrolled through my contacts and I dialed my mother. My son’s screams filled the quite tense air and my car hit 120.


Free Writing: The Dead Can Run (Chp1 Prt1)

While reading Being a Writer: A Community of Writers Revisited by Peter Elbow and Pat Belanoff last year I gave free writing another go. This is the product of that escapade. Please keep in mind this is a first draft and no revisions or editing were or will be done as part of that exercise. Also, this story is written in first person, not my forte and thus why it is written in that point of view.

Feel free to point errors and grammar out for when I do get around to editing this story. 🙂

Warning: dry humor/sarcasm and rambling


The Dead Can Run

Chapter One Part One


The day started off like any other day, I woke up and dressed for work. I got in the poor excuse of a car and drove the ten minutes to work. I got out and walked to the double glass doors, swiped my keycard and pulled the handle. It would not budge. I swiped again—nothing.

My face started to reflect my anxiety to get inside. I never thought I would get anxiety for not being able to get to work, but there I was standing in front of those stupid doors that had become my cage for the past two months. I swiped it a third time, heard the beep that said my card was recognized as one of its slave workers and pulled at the door.



I looked around the parking lot, empty and shrouded with the night that still refused to give way to the coming morning. I looked inside past the cheap glass and circular desk where the security guy usually sat when he wasn’t avoiding work. The second door I had to pass through every day to get to my cubical connected to another cubical which lead to rows and rows of cubicles was closed. I stared at the clock hanging in the wall inside laughing at me. I was now late, it’s big hand pointed to my write-up. It was five minutes past 7am and the parking lot began to wake.

I turned again to the first rays of light and sighed. There was nothing I could do but wait until someone came from either direction of the glass doors. I really didn’t like my job anyways; being late for the first time wouldn’t kill me. I moved to one of the benches closest to the doors and sat down letting my tired limbs rest and prepare for the next 8 hours of pure sitting and ear drumming against the headset that held one of the many endless yelling voices of grumpy customers and incompetent humans who were too stubborn to learn the technology they were buying from us.

A shuffle, a banging against the second door, and wood breaking brought me back to the double glass doors. What met me there wasn’t the lazy security guy whose job I would give anything to have but a handful of blood soaked moaning coworkers. Their clothes were poorly kept, their hair a bigger mess than my own, and their teeth contained even more blood and chunks of something I didn’t wish to know. Their bloodshot eyes stared at me and their movements became more meaningful.


That is the word that came to my mind, to the endless whole in my brain that we call imagination or whatever. Zombies, that is what greeted me at the doors and caused my tired limbs to freeze up on the spot. The gargling of bloodied gums and what used to be white teeth clean of any tar, at least tar visible to the Seeing Eye, and hands painted in red banged against the thin barrier that stood between them and me. Those walking dead things you shoot when playing Call of Duty, those undead you love watching at the movies and crave to give you the reason to cling to that guy you like but are too much of a coward to make the move. Those grotesque flesh eating used to be humans that once bitten you join their army of horror, those are the things that made my chest seem like it would burst and my still pumping heart would fall to the ground near my unmoving feet.

A single crack in the glass broke the trance these zombies had laid over me and my feet became moving objects once more. My hands reached for my purse hanging to my side and unzipped what held my only salvation. At the same time my feet ran back to my car, the poor excuse for a car that was both newer then 60% of the cars you saw in the streets and yet refused to work properly for its year and model.

Another crack, another ear full of moaning and groaning from the zombies that used to bully me at work and fight over the tables and seats during lunch, and I was running. I clung hopelessly to my purse, still unable to leave the attachment of my citizenship, pictures of my son, and the few scraps of money I had saved. The keys slipped in my sweaty fingers and hit the pavement just as the zombies broke through the newly replaced glass.