Seriously.
I step over my colleague's body as I enter the building. His head has been ripped open; what is left of his brain oozes out of his skull. His vacant eyes stare at the ceiling. They're here.
I clutch my smart phone to my chest. Their moaning floats down the hall. No amount of Twittering is going to save me now. I toss the phone aside and retreat into my office. The back of my thighs press against my desk.
They crowd through the doorway. The zombies reach for me; their dead fingers claw at my head. The four in the front have their names stenciled on their bloody shirts: Budget, Procurement, Contracting, Politics. I draw my science gun and pull the trigger. Only clicking reaches my ears. I toss the useless weapon aside.
Their fingers scrape at my forehead. I reach back, screaming. My hand closes on my machete. I whip it out. "Writing" gleams on its blade. I emit a war cry as the zombies cover their faces. They stumble over one another to escape my hellish blade. My demented laugh rolls down the hall as this blog post slips from my lips.
Writing has saved my brain again, and I will live to write another day.
2 comments:
Lol! Ok, remind me to never apply for a job at your place of employment. ;)
There is definitely a book here. You should expand it! It would be a killer read. :)
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