The Rode
"Rider, Rider, Rider, Rider..."
The Passenger, he stood on the hood of an old grey car as he made some kind of speech about how we, fans of the zombie genre, have been waiting for this moment when the world faced some kind of zombie apocalypse. People ran around the city and took televisions and shit, only people never imagined themselves to run. They imagined themselves to fight and have a hell of a time blasting corpses away.
There is no "Rider", it's just a synonym for his archetype title "The Passenger", the leader and "born hero". I am not him thou, I am a side-kick, a minor character in his life, Shotgun. Passenger and Shotgun, shooting up the place. I am someone who doesn't get noticed, and it isn't because I am hiding my face under a giant green hood of a winter raincoat or that my eyes are hidden behind black lenses of sunglasses. I am simply, my mind laughs now as I do not know what to say. Even the idea on how I am speaking in first person is a laugh. My identity is slowly revealing anew.
"Yo, Buddy"
Buddy? I look at my supposed "Buddy" and think how he could be a friend. I mean, I supposedly knew him for a long time as this is the end of one journey, I look above at a helicopter, and the beginning. What am I doing here? Where are we going and what's happening now?
"Move"
I look out to see a horde of corpses as they walked, limped, and even ran towards us. I reached for my green and grey backpack and swung it over my back, a shotgun in its place. I ran to a school bus, it was yellow, black lines, red splashes and gates on the windows. In a single file line, one by one got on it. There were two busses and even a motorcycle, the cycle was Passengers, who lead the busses on the road. I took the bus and sat in the back, we were safe, for now. In the next stop we would get items to put an end to the fleeing corpses. Our only fear, were the people in those Helies as they would shoot anyone on sight.
"21 64 Movie Zone"
Passenger spoke into a secure telecom to note our destination. I took off my backpack and shuffled through it and when I did I found a journal that I don't remember having, I don't think I even looked into it before. The journal has writings; dates, diaries, notes, poetry even. I found a pencil and with a single wonder I wrote a line and found my handwriting to be identical to the journals. The journal has a page that says "This Belongs to..." and thats it, not a single brand of name in initials or other. I have been writing in it since a date that was blurred out.
"Was I a writer?"
Someone heard me and asked "What did you say?" or maybe just "What?" but, it was aiming at me and I could only nod towards saying nothing. I saw the big sign, "Nighty Nite Movies" letters of "Night" was removed and added by survivors or dim-headed loons, I don't know. The theater was nevertheless our safe place, movies that played were Boris Karloffs "The Mummy", Jerry Jeromes "Ornament Jingles" and "Zootopia".
We parked up on the on the parking lot that was boarded by electronic fences and barrels. The lights twinkled as it began to die out. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". I spoke through a one way walkie talkie of a black man named Fred. He was the electrician and programmer of the group and even a guard of sorts. Fred turned the lamp lights off which attracted visitors of the norm. The corpses began to walk towards the fence, I found it odd that lights don't attract them but darkness has its way. Maybe there not the normal corpses. The door opens as the people pour in, I took a injured female by the arms and I lifted her up a bit to walk to what I assume is her family, but I guess we all are thou. We always have been since, well, I am not so sure. It's just kind of happened.
"All in" I talked it in and the doors began to close for the night. The night came fast. It was a movie theater, so all we had was theaters and hallways and even the big popcorn center. People slept where they can and ate less. I slept in Theater 6, upstairs in the film room. Theater 6 was showing a film of "Day Droughts" a rom-com in an endless storm of rain, however it ends in a tragic note as floods starts to come in the picture.
Other people were Cell-Phone Jimmy, Sarah Pinkleton and Amy Sawrow.
Jimmy was always on his phone, never goes anywhere unless its 100 percent and some other stuff. Sarah, well Sarah I don't know much about except for her love of Pickles. And than there is Amy, a pretty thing, short red/blonde hair, maybe a waitress, sometimes we call her Trish for whatever reason and if, and a big if, you observe her you will notice a little something extra about her.
The three are minor and side-kicks like me but, more of a major role than myself. All four of us and Passenger hangs out in the lounge to communicate about plans or just to hang. I am the quite one.
