EPISODE 2
HARD SURVIVAL
Everyone died. I mean it—everyone. The cities went silent, the highways turned into boneyards of rusted cars and dried blood, and the world fell into a kind of stillness that felt... wrong. Like when a party ends too early and no one says goodbye.
It started like a joke. Some sketchy diet pill from a startup no one had heard of, promising “cellular reset” and “eternal youth.” Influencers swore by it. Celebrities endorsed it. And for a while, it worked. People looked younger, felt stronger, stopped aging. Then they stopped sleeping. Then bleeding. Then dying. The pill didn’t just halt decay, it killed everything human and left the shell running. No soul, no thought, just a meat puppet on autopilot. By the time anyone could stop it, half the world had already swallowed the apocalypse. And the other half was infected by them. Walking half dead, half alive, hungry for fresh human meat.
But somehow, against all odds, I didn’t die. Not because I’m brave or smart or shredded like those Hollywood apocalypse bros. Nope. I survived because I’m a nerd. A lazy, unremarkable, socially awkward, horror-movie-addicted nerd who spent most of his adult life watching other people get eaten in high definition.
I knew exactly what to do. And more importantly, what not to do. Like, don’t scream. Don’t try to save that one bitten guy. And definitely don’t go into a dark basement saying, “Hello?” Nope. I had a plan. I became one of them.
I’m not saying I ate brains or dragged my foot and grunt all day (well, okay, I did a little). But I figured out pretty quickly that if you walk like them, grunt like them, and smear yourself with just the right amount of expired deli meat and sewer juice, boom, You're invisible. They won’t even notice you.
I remember the first time I tried it. I stood outside my old apartment building, naked except for boxer shorts and a garbage bag full of rotting chicken thighs tied around my neck like some sick bib. There were three of them down the street. Shuffling. Groaning. Covered in blood like someone had spray-painted them with guts.
I took a deep breath. Not out of fear, but to avoid throwing up. Then I stepped into the street and gave my best zombie impression: slack jaw, half-closed eyes, arms limp like noodles, and a walk that said I pooped myself and don’t care.
They didn’t even blink. Just staggered past me. I almost cried. Partly from relief. Partly because the rot-meat juice dripped into my sock.
That was Day 13. Now it’s Day… I don’t know. Maybe 42-something? I stopped counting after I broke the calendar, throwing it at a pigeon that wouldn’t shut up.
I’ve gotten good at this. Really good. I’ve raided every corner store from Jersey to Nashville. I’ve peed off skyscrapers. This whole end-of-the-world thing is supposed to be grim and hopeless. But sometimes, it feels like a vacation. A gross, lonely, slightly moldy vacation where I get to do anything, go anywhere, and eat every unopened bag of chips I want.
Except… There’s no one to talk to. I tell jokes out loud and laugh alone. Sometimes I pretend mannequins are people, just so I can argue with someone who won’t bite me. And at night when the silence gets too heavy I climb to rooftops, light a cigar I don’t know how to smoke, and watch the dead stumble around like a slow, endless parade of regret.
But I’m alive. Still here. Still faking it. Still walking with the dead. I’ve mastered the art of pretending. Pretending to be one of them. Pretending I don’t miss the way things were. Pretending that loneliness isn’t worse than zombies.
And tomorrow, I’ve got a big plan. To watch a porn in the theater. Like, on the BIG screen. Don’t judge. It’s the end of the world and I haven’t touched a boob since the pandemic began.
It’s going to be a good night.
I found the DVD under the counter of a half-looted gas station in Ohio. It was wedged between an old pack of cigarettes and a dead rat, both of which smelled better than the rest of the store. The cover was worn, corners curled like dried leaves. It had a picture of a half-naked lady. I stared at it for a good two minutes. Then I whispered, “God bless America,” and took it.
The theater was only six blocks from the gas station. The building was old—the kind that smelled like velvet and pipe smoke and old people perfume. The marquee outside still read: “COMING SOON: FAST & FURIOUS 18.” Spoiler: It never came.
I stepped inside with a plastic bag of popcorn I’d microwaved at an old convenience store, two warm cans of root beer. The lobby was dark, but not too dark. My boots crunched over spilled Skittles and broken glass. I walked down the hallway toward Screen 3. The biggest auditorium. The deluxe room. Red velvet seats. Dolby surround. The full experience.
I hooked the generator up in the projection room. Took a while to get it running—had to yank the cord like I was starting a stubborn lawn mower with daddy issues. It coughed, sputtered, then finally roared to life. The screen lit up like heaven had powered back on. I laughed. Honest-to-God laughed. Then hit PLAY.
The movie started cheesy as hell. Bad makeup, worse acting, and boobs that defied both physics and plot logic. I took a deep breath, sank into the center seat, unbuttoned my jeans, and sighed like a man who finally found peace in chaos.
About ten minutes in, things were heating up. I was invested emotionally, spiritually, and physically. And, well, I started doing what any man alone in a post-apocalyptic theater watching a classic porno would do.
But then I heard it. A low shuffle. A groan that didn’t match the moaning on-screen. And not the fun kind of groan.
I froze. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The groan came again. Closer. I turned my head slowly. And there it was. A zombie. In the back row. Watching me. Not the screen. Not the movie. Me.
Alright. No panic. I know this game. I slipped into character. Slouched. Drooled a little. Rolled my eyes back. Let out a solid zombie moan, “Uhhhhhghh…” Classic. Foolproof.
It almost works. Almost. But then the zombie looked down at the one thing I couldn’t disguise. My boner.
It tilted its head. Sniffed. Then let out this… confused noise. And I swear to God, that was the moment it figured it out. Zombies don’t get boners. Dead blood. No pumps. So here I am, pants down, meat out, mid-stroke, in a zombie porno theater and this walking corpse just knows. Knows I’m not one of them. Knows I’m fresh. Knows dinner is served.
It growls. Then screeches. Then freaking lunges. I try to do the zombie grunt again, limp a little! But I trip over my own pants, land ass-first on the sticky carpet, and by the time I scramble up, it's too late.
Teeth. So many teeth. Gnashing, wet, bone-grinding teeth. It bit into my thigh with a sound like chewing celery and wet socks. I howled. Pain screamed up my spine, hot and sharp and wet. I tried to push it off, punch it, anything, But it was like wrestling a pissed-off refrigerator. I looked down, my own blood spurting like a discount Tarantino film.
My vision blurred. As everything faded, I had one final thought:
Not in a noble sacrifice. Not defending a child or curing the infection. I died with my dick in my hand and a smile on my face. Kinda poetic, if you think about it.
The last thing I saw wasn’t the zombie, or the blood. It was the porn actress getting all wet orgasm, screen glowing like above my own stupid, smiling corpse.
O X L
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