Little Joseph Krueller was about to climax inside of a vagina for the very first time when the Zombie Apocalypse finally occurred. He was about 56 seconds into his first real sexual encounter with a girl, at the ripe age of 17, when police sirens came roaring down the streets of a sleepy, suburban cul-de-sac. People were screaming. Gunshots were ripping through the dead of night. Kids at the house party of one Tony Tucco were stashing their beers behind couches and rushing the living room windows, fighting to peep out the blinds and see what was happening.
Heather stirred into consciousness underneath Joe, pushing him off her as all these sounds harmonized together into one undulating note of mass chaos. Lying on the bed next to her, Joe watched as she threw some clothes on. Instead of wasting time putting it all back in the right place, she just slipped into her pink shirt and jammed her bra into the right pocket of her hip-hugging jeans. She did take time to straighten out her long, gingery hair however.
Those pale cantaloupes of Heather’s bounced around wildly, and he imagined himself still pressing into her as his hand acted as a surrogate. He just needed a little bit longer. Joe could feel the pressure in that fleshy volcano ready to erupt. Why couldn’t she have waited just a few more moments?
Heather was the kind of girl that guys like him always hounded incessantly. She put out, usually. If she didn’t agree the first time, the common mantra around high school was to try and try again. Eventually, she was going to need to reaffirm her popularity with the boys, and when that happened, anybody would do.
In the locker room, boys would often tell vivid tales about riding her like the high-pitched squeak toy she was. They’d fondly speak of her gargantuan breasts and of how they often did drum solos upon those cannons, sometimes bouncing out beats to popular rock songs. One of the jocks, Ricky Friedman, always liked to relate his experience of drumming out “Sympathy for the Devil” in its entirety, howling and screeching the lyrics while his Johnson writhed to the tune in her hidden valley.
Joe quickly used the blankets on Tony Tucco’s parents’ bed to mop up the DNA evidence he had just secreted. People downstairs were getting louder, and the gunshots were getting more frequent. Heather had left the room whilst he was fantasizing, so he hopped to his feet and slid his boxers and khakis up after fumbling for them in the darkness.
A sudden crash put the fear into Joe’s cooling body. A window downstairs had been shattered from the sounds of it, and there were screams coming from in the house now – many, many screams. He threw on his Iron Maiden T-shirt and ran out the door into a desolate, pitch black hallway, thundering down creaky, wooden steps like a frightened, stampeding elephant.
The living room was just down the stairs and to the right. All the lights were on, and the noise level was worse than a death metal concert. All the shrieks and cries blended with shattering glass objects to create this chorus that reverberated throughout his head, intertwining with the alcohol and pot coursing its way through his system. Like Elvis, Joe was all shook up.
Heather’s boobs were the first things he almost trudged upon as he careened down the stairs. Those pasty, jiggling bulbs were exposed to the air and convulsing with fright. Not being able to stop himself, Joe leaped instead over his attempted lay, landing square on his feet on the other side of her. He noticed then that she wasn’t convulsing with fright. Those were death spasms still working through her nervous system. Blood pooled around her and spurted in regular bursts out of her dismembered torso. She was like old faithful with red misting particles pervading the air around her.
Intestines were strung out upon the bloody wood floor like a child’s electric race track. Heather looked like a sweet, beautiful, mutilated cat squashed in the middle of the road – so angelic and calm in death, yet so tragic.
Joe wanted to cry. He could feel the tears filling at the corners of his eyes as he stared down at her empty face. She looked like she didn’t even know it was coming, whatever it was. She just ran out there and took it with quite possibly the same spunk that she ran out there and took the boys from school. It didn’t matter what or who, so long as that appetite was satiated, and here she was, satisfied in death with one last quenched rush of… something.
His oblivious attitude to the events in the living room was interrupted when a boy flew past him, breaking his eye contact with the dismembered corpse. The boy was barreling into the kitchen, fleeing in mortal peril from the screams in the opposite direction.
Joe turned his head to the living room. What he saw was beyond his comprehension, something so abominable that he just stared blankly at the sight. Mutilated people were climbing through the windows, their papery thin flesh tearing over jagged pieces of glass as they collapsed onto the floor, seemingly immune to pain. Blood spilt from their bodies like red water from a ripped bag, and their inner organs weren’t far behind in following suit.
Once inside, these immune, diseased monsters cannibalized on the teens, tackling them to the floor and eating away at their body parts. It didn’t matter which part, so long as something wrapped in skin was bitten. Some kids were able to fend these creatures off, holding their own quite well with the standard living room décor available as weaponry. One young boy was swinging a table lamp around like a giant club, bashing in skulls.
Unfortunately, the armada outside wasn’t letting up. A never-ending stream of monsters poured through those windows, and soon the holdouts would be swallowed by massive hordes, bitten across every inch of flesh by a different set of teeth. Suddenly that trip through TSA security last month at the airport didn’t seem too bad.
Inching backward ever so slowly, Joe recollected his thoughts as his eyes scanned over the stewing swamp of blood. Miscellaneous organs and appendages lay strewn about, as if spilled from an open refrigerator once belonging to Jeffrey Dahmer. Grown men and women, some with severe levels of decay fought over these miscellaneous bits and pieces, clawing and howling at each other in contest to see who was able to devour even so small as a pinky finger.
His bones froze as a chill settled in Joe’s joints. The very real possibility of death was amassing before him, and judging by the horrid screams gargling through that frosty air, this was no way to go.
Those inching feet had taken him into the kitchen now, where he saw people grabbing knives and rummaging through weaponry. Joe just wanted to escape. He wanted to leave, but he could see no windows low enough or any sliding glass doors nearby. There was nothing but cabinets – big cabinets that maybe a body could stowaway in.
Tony Tucco’s parents’ had money. That meant that while they may not have cooked much (Tony’s mom was known to make a mean, congealed plate of spaghetti), the family could afford to load its kitchen with enough shit to make someone who understood the finer side of culinary cooking flip out in excitement. They had everything, and to have everything, they needed monster cabinets able to contain some of the giant woks and mixers. In the marble-topped, wooden island in the middle of the linoleum room was where they kept many of these tools, and Joe found himself rushing over to it and ripping open one of the many doors. He yanked out all the appliances he found inside and climbed in, shooting his legs in first and then pushing in the rest of his body.
The horde of ravenous abominations made its way into the kitchen by the time he gently closed the cabinet door. More boys and girls screamed in anguish as they died valiantly, their cries meeting abrupt endings as they died off one by one.
The lone survivor listened to this in a state of mind he couldn’t quite comprehend. Joe had never felt this way before. He had never attained a level of mortal terror even remotely close to this. On any given day, the only fear he felt was in trying to score a tough X-Box Achievement under strict time constraints. And then, when he was trying to improve his gaming abilities, Joe found himself breaking a sweat. There was no sweat now. There was only the frosty death grip, as if he was sitting in a bathtub filled with ice.
Screams in the house no longer rang out. All that was left were moans and the crunching sounds of a bunch of decrepit old people enjoying an afternoon at the Old Country Buffet. Chomp. Chomp. CHOMP!
What was he to do? Just sit here? Ride it out? Listen to all his friends get eaten? Could he stand listening to that for an indefinite amount of time? Was there any way he could take his mind off of it?
Joe thought of Heather and her amazing breasts. He unzipped his pants and started rubbing one out, constricting his hands tightly around an uncooperative member to force his body and mind to rejoin elsewhere – somewhere away from this world. As his body fought him and tried to drag him back to reality, his strokes grew more vicious, so much so that he accidently bumped the cabinet above him. Pots clanged together. Joe stopped wanking. Something was moving outside the island.
Moans grew louder as scuffling grew nearer. A hand rubbed outside the door, sliding along its surface roughly.
Oh shit, Joe thought as the cabinet door flew open. His eyes squinted shut, and he imagined Heather’s tits once again as a full set of teeth clutched his arm.
END.
-Doktor nOnsensical
Read more nOnsense HERE.
