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“Well it sounds like that’s what would make them undead.”
“What?”
“Yeah, when you kill someone their dead, but if you unkill them their undead.” said Mick who was quite proud of himself.
“Alright, what if we call it rekilling?”
“That’s fine, I guess.”
“You guess? Well I could make a word up that makes no sense if that makes you feel better.”
“Like what?”
“Luxadundurate”
“Yeah” Mick said slowly “lets just stick with rekill.”
After that riveting conversation ended Mick and Al found a bread cabinet the size of a missile silo and decided to bunk down for the night. They pushed over the stacks of ‘how to tell if you best friends’ a red’ pamphlets and fell asleep. Besides the usual brain rattling and yelling coming from the hoards of zombies outside and a few trips to the restroom our heroes slept well through the night and well through the morning of the day after.
The next afternoon the pair of would-be warriors finally woke up and after a breakfast of radiation proof pudding and tang, the orange drink, Mick and Al went back to the storefront to continue their usual intelligent conversation.
“So” said Al after forcefully trying to swallow another helping of fifty year old pudding “ do you think zombies go to heaven?”
“What?” asked Mick who was too sleepy to actually answer the question
“I mean, where do zombies go when they’re rekilled? Some paradise where they can be all zombieish all day long and not have to worry about limbs falling off?”
“Wouldn’t that be like… hell? Like normal hell? You know, with lots of people to eat and stuff” said Mick as he finished off his tang, yes the orange drink.
“I guess your right…” was all Al was able to say before the intruder alarms went on.
“The filthy godless reds have broken in” said the alarm speaker in a kind of voice a marines sergeant would when he was telling his underlings to get him a sandwich or wrestle a live cyborg tiger “you should sacrifice your life for America and fight off those dirty commies” continued the voice. But our pathetic pair had no intention of fighting the apparently communist denizens of the underworld.
“Lets get the hell out of here!” yelled Mick while he was attempting to open the two and a half ton magnetically engaged hermetically sealed front door.
“Yeah, but where the hell are we gonna go?” said Al while he picked up a baseball bat sized whisk from the counter top.
“ What are you gonna use that for?” asked Mick after giving up on the door
“The Whisk? I’m gonna use it to beat the zombies. Get it? Beat? Whisk?”
“No”
“What ever, so where are we going to go, I can hear the dead heads coming this way from the back”
“Well we could… did you just say ‘dead heads’?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing.” Said Mick while trying to hold back a river of laughter.
“What?”
“No, it’s just… never mind.” Mick was now smiling out of the side of his mouth
“It’s just what?”
“Dead heads? Where did you pick that up? Scooby Doo?”
“Whatever, it’s not like you didn’t see that episode too.”
“Well…” but Mick had no time to admit that the return of the dead heads was his favorite episode because three zombies with fur hats and red suits that had the hammer and sickle on them burst into the room.
“CRAP!” yelled al before he hit the open door button.
“When did you find out about the door button?” asked Mick angrily as he and Al ran into the streets where they weaved trough the zombies to an as of yet undisclosed location.
“I saw the button about a five minutes before the alarm went off.”
“ Then why didn’t you tell me when I was trying to open the door?”
“ It was funnier to watch you try to open an impenetrable door.”
“… Well I guess you right.”
They continued to randomly run the streets all the while the amount of zombies in front of them grew thinner and thinner until they came to the Musicstore, which had no zombies around it as of yet.
“Why are we here?” asked Al, with whisk held high in case of zombie ambush.
“It’s familiar territory.” Argued Mick
“ That’s stupid, we should go somewhere safer, like some place where we didn’t see our first zombie!”
“That one’s probably gone, and even if he wasn’t we could hide in the back room.”
“I still think this is stupid.”
Their useless bickering was silenced by the sound of a stampede of zombies headed their way.
“I guess we have no choice.” Said Mick with much satisfaction in his voice
“I hate you.” Responded Al as he and Mick went inside.
After locking the door, like that’s going to do any good, Mick and Al were surprised and shocked and awed and horrified and surprised again by the fact that Bob, the zombie without a face just in case you forgot, was still in the same place he was yesterday and doing the same thing, yelling just in case you forgot that. So, in order to not disturb Bob, Mick and Al snuck past and barricaded themselves in the back room. Once inside, Mick and Al breathed a slight sigh of relief and continued their usual banter.
”Hey, did you see the zombie carrying an extra leg?” said Al who grabbed a cold soda out of his now filthy lab coat.
“ Yeah, what about him?” said Mick amazed by the apparently magical qualities of the lab coat
“Why do you think he was carrying an extra leg?”
“ I dunno”
“Maybe it’s a spare, just in case he loses one.”
“Probably”
“But, the one he had was a left leg. So what if he loses his right?”
“Well then I guess he couldn’t dance.”
“Why?”
“Cause then he’d have two left feet.”
Then, a silence. Not any normal silence, it was like a radioactive super silence. A silence so great it would be nye impossible to break for any normal human. Unfortunately for the silence, bob, an admittedly un-normal zombie, continued his useless howl.
“Why does he have to do that?” yelled Al who is desperately attempting to keep hold of his whisk and soda while holding his hands to his ears.
“Why does who have to do what?” responded Mick who was sitting very quaintly on an unordinary bent guitar case.
“The zombie outside. Why is he yelling?”
“You mean Bob?”
“He has a name?”
“Of course, haven’t you been paying attention?” said Mick before he grabbed the soda from Al’s hand, took a sip, then put it back “besides, you get used to the noise eventually”
“Really?” said Al before he cautiously removed his hands from his ears then immediately put them back because of the horrifying screech that can only be compared to a chorus of banshees all stubbing their toes simultaneously.
“Well” said Mick as he took another sip of Al’s soda “ at least I got used to it.”
Well, it turns out Al eventually did get used to the noise. The following hours were then filled with Mick and Al coming up with schemes to resolve the zombie situation. Mick’s suggestion dealt mainly with a very large and sophisticated contraption made up of two refrigerators, six toaster-ovens, an Alien ware laptop, sixty feet of electrical wire, twelve cans of silly string, and a colony of small blue mammals. Mick didn’t quite know what the machine did but he downloaded the blue prints for it last Wednesday and the website promised the machine was ‘X-treme’. Little did he know that the barley understandable machine is, in fact, a gateway, a portal if you will, that takes whomever goes inside it to a twisted backwards dimension where rock actually beats paper and where birds have human pets. Al’s suggestion was a bit more understandable, but was equally if not more useless.
“This is what we do” said Al accompanied by a series of non-comprehendible hand gestures “ we get a big drilling machine, then we tunnel underground until we find a big cavern. Then we live there, in the big cavern, and eventually we’ll evolve into mole people and rule over our dark mole kingdom with an iron fist.”
“Iron fist huh?”
“Yeah! Iron fist ruling.”
“Sure, next time I find a tunneling machine we’ll do that.”
They then continued talking and bouncing more and more useless ideas off each other. They continued talking well into the night and a little into the next morning. Not has such a long streak of useless conversation went on since the great fun sized vs. bite sized candy debate of ’89, and rather interestingly both conversations ended with the same debate.
“No, I’m telling you” said Al, with his heated argument face on. “The plural of bigfoot id bigfeet.”
“Your totally wrong.” Rebottled Mick “It’s Bigfoots, bigfeet seems more like an adjective.”
“Whatever, feet is plural for foot, so just adding the prefix big shouldn’t change that.”
“You are wrong, my friend.”
But, because Mick couldn’t think of any reason why Al was wrong, the conversation ended there. And yes, the return of the awkward silence, in theaters next fall. But this silence was broken fairly quickly by the sound of shattering glass.
“What was that?” asked Al, who was still in a relatively proud mood after winning the argument, or at least thinking he did.
“Not paying attention again? It’s the sound of shattering glass.”
“No, I mean what shattered the glass?”
“I dunno”
“Now who’s not paying attention?”
“The narrator hasn’t even said it yet.”
Well I would if you would just shut up.
Then a silence, after which Al finally worked up the courage to walk up to the door and investigate the sound. He slowly opened the door and after a few seconds of calm observation he closed the door and sat back down next to Mick.
“Crap.” Al said very casually
“What?” asked Mick with a pre-panic face on, the kind of face rabbits or dogs get when they sense an earthquake
“Ohh… nothing.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“Just some zombies”
“Some what?”
“Sorry, I mean some ‘undead Americans’”
“No, no. I mean how many zomb… undead Americans?”
“Just a few...”
“Ohh, that’s OK.”
“Thousand”
“What?”
Mick immediately sprung up and went for the door to see for him. After taking a look he closed the door calmly and sat down next to Al.
“Crap.” He said
“We should do something maybe.” Said Al as he finished off his drink.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Then it finally clicked, what I mean is up until now Mick and Al couldn’t grasp the whole situation. When being faced down by an armada of zombies it starts a sort of egg timer in the brain and until the timer goes off the brain cant understand what’s happening. Well, Mick and Al’s timers just went off.
“There are freakin’ zombies outside!” yelled Al as he jumped out of his seat and held his whisk at battle position.
“We’re gonna die.” Shrieked Mick
“No, you are. I’ve got a weapon.”
“You have a whisk.”
“Well, what do you have?”
“I, umm…” Mick searched around the room for anything he could use as a weapon “here I have this!”
Mick then opened the guitar case they were sitting on and whipped out an orange bow guitar with the word ‘Ubukid’ written on it in big red menacing letters
“Ubukid?” asked Al
“Yeah, it’s a specially made bow guitar.”
“Yeah, but Ubukid? What the hell is that?”
“I dunno a nickname or something.”
“You’ve got to be ubukidding me.”
“Whatever, I didn’t choose the name. I would never choose a nick name that weird and orange, who likes orange.”
“So, what are you going to do with that thing any way? Hit them over the head because I think you’d get more accuracy from a normal shaped guitar.”
“No, I’m gonna do this!”
Mick then went to a different part of the room and picked up a drumstick, no not a discount deformed drumstick. He then brought the end of the stick to the strings of the guitar and pulled back a bit. Then he walked up to the door and kicked it open. “Take this you zomb… uhh, undead Amer… no screw it, take this you zombies!”
He pulled back further and aimed the stick by placing it on the finger of the hand holding the neck. He picked a zombie with a fairly large target shaped head and released the stick. The stick flew like a heat seeking missile toward the large headed zombie. It continued on its way and the bigheaded zombie was so shocked he could do nothing but wait for his inevitable fate. Finally, the moment came and like an ACME rocket piloted by Wile E. Coyote the stick missed the bulbous zombie head. Not only that but it also somehow missed all the other 427 zombies in the room. Mick just stood there with a blank look on his face and Al turned to him and said, “Dude, that sucked.”
“Man, I thought that would go better.” Mick said with a disappointed face
“Better?” asked Al “ your shooting a drumstick out of a guitar, a bow guitar but still, a guitar. What did you think was gonna happen.”
“I dunno, I thought it would at least ricochet and hit a zombies ankle or something.”
“Well you did a good job there buddy.”
“Whatever, at least I tried.”
Then, because Mick and Al were too busy bickering to notice, the zombies started heading towards their makeshift fortress of solitude.
“Crap!” yelled Mick and Al simultaneously
“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?” said Mick
“Yeah” said Al who was failing an attempt to put his game face on “ but I’m gonna kill umm…unkill…rekill…Luxadundurate… whatever, I’m gonna take out as many zombies as I can before I go.” Al then got into attack position, but before he could go and commit suicide a voice cut through the madness, and no it’s not Bob.
“Sempur fidelus tyrannosaurus” said the voice
Then, the source of the voice started cutting through the wave of zombies by bashing them out of the way with a very expensive, limited edition blue and green sunburst Gibson les Paul. The guy holding the guitar took care of all the zombies and went into the room Mick and Al are in.
“Hey guys, need a hand?” said the guy
“Wait, I know you. You’re umm…” said Mick as he searched for a name to match the face he obviously recognized “that guy.”
“Call me Greg”
“You’re the one who’s always hanging out around the store.”
“Yeah, good times. Anyways, I cleared a path back to the guitar section where you work. You can barricade yourselves there for a while.”
Mick and Al didn’t argue and followed Greg to the familiar guitar section and then barricaded the hallway that leading to it with a few large trunks and one smell, moist new model platinum lined guitar case. Now the only zombie left in the room was Bob, who oddly stopped yelling. And when Mick and Al were relatively secure Greg turned to them both and said, “I’m not staying.”
“What? Why?” asked Mick with the kind of eyes a puppy gets when he finally understands that getting ‘fixed’ is not a good thing.
”Well, I have to follow my path of destiny. Wherever the path leads, I know there is where I must be. Whether I end up in the candy store of happiness or the septic tank of despair or even the cold operating table of death. I know lady destiny will not let me down, or cheat on me with the mummies fear and self-loathing. I must jump on that train car of fate and become a vagabond of life. I must grab my canoe of adventure and paddle through the rapids of fate to reach my waterfront house on the beautiful lake of destiny. I am like a piece of seaweed in the ocean of the universe, going wherever the current of life takes me. So farewell my friends, I look foreword to the day our paths may once again meet.”
Greg then moved the barricade and went through before placing the barricade back up. Mick and Al just stood there in silence hoping to hear something of Greg’s fate. They hoped to hear Greg’s voice coming in clear yelling ‘I’m Fine’ or ‘ take that you undead bastards’ but the only thing they heard were Greg’s gargled scream as he was torn apart by the zombie hoard.
“Goodnight sweet prince.” Said Mick softly
But before anymore grieving could be done Al began to push Mick away from the barricade, which was now shaking.
“What are we gonna do now?” asked Al, whisk still held firmly in hand
“I dunno, we…” said Mick who glanced at the stand where the guitar Greg used as a weapon once stood. Now upon the pedestal that once held the expensive instrument there was a stack of cash equaling the exact amount the guitar costs, including tax “he could pay for it.”
“What?”
“ He could pay for it!” yelled Mick
“Whatever, we should go.”
“Fine, we can head for the roof.”
“What good’ll that do? We’ll still be trapped.”
“But we’ll have the advantage.”
“What? How?”
“We’ll have the higher ground, makes our attacks more effective.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Of course it does, haven’t you ever played tactics?”
But before the argument could continue the shabby barricade busted open and zombies poured into the room.
“To the roof!” shouted Al “It’s the only way.”
The pair then left to the roof, and from the roof they could see an ocean of zombies all converging on The Musicstore.
“Wow” said Al “ there’re thousands of them.”
“Where did they all come from” asked Mick, who was having trouble getting through the conveniently placed hatch leading from the guitar world section to the roof.
“Huh?”
“I mean, there are only about five hundred people who live here, where did the others come from.”
“Well, all the people in the cemetery”
“The nearest cemetery is ten miles away and those things move at like two inches an hour, plus our cemetery only has about two hundred people in it.”
“Maybe people were visiting for the holidays”
“ The closest holiday was flag day”
“Yeah, the families came over for a nice flag day dinner.”
“Sure, we got two thousand visitors for flag day.”
“Well” Al then thought for a while for other alternatives and displayed a shocked face when he thought of one “they could be naturally born zombies”
“What?! Like two of the zombies had a baby. Dude, I don’t even want to think about that.”
“I wish I never did.”
The zombies, in fact, did not come from a weird form of necrophilia or form Flag Day visitors. They did come from visitors though, but these visitors were all on their way to a convention where world renowned writer of the hit series “Tryals” was set to premier his sequel to the best selling book Save the World. It’s just bad luck that the only road leading to the Conventiadome cuts through this town. But because of these travelers the town is now home to three thousand seven hundred and forty two zombies and our two wayward companions who, at this moment were on the roof of The Musicstore hoping either that zombies forgot how to use ladders or that the zombies had the memory span of a gold fish and forgot Mick and Al were up on the roof.
“We seem safe.” Said Al cautiously
“NO!” yelled Mick “why’d you have to say that?”
“What?”
“That we were safe, you’ve incurred the wrath of the inverse statement theory.”
The Inverse Statement Theory (IST) was developed in the year 2004 by two geniuses, they might have won or made up an award for it. The theory states that when you make some kind of precognitive statement such as ‘we’re never gonna find this place’ or ‘the day’s lookin’ up’ then the opposite has a high probability of happening. Sometimes the IST is beneficial like when you’re looking for something and say you’ll never find it. But more likely then not the IST comes around and bites you in the gluteus maximums, like it’s about to do with our half-cocked heroes.
“What’s the worse that can happen?” said Al confidently “ the zombies can’t even get up here.”
Just then, out of seemingly nowhere, a large hatch on the roof opened up and zombies came flooding out towards Mick and Al.
“Just so you know.” Said Mick angrily “this is all you’re fault.”

Message from the Author:
OK, so you guys reading my story know that this is the best zombie story about a music store associate and a go-kart attendant on the Internet. So, as it stands now, our heroes, Mick and Al, whom we’ve all come to love and cherish are now in some deep crap. They’re currently stuck on a roof surrounded by zombies, what’s going to happen next? You may ask. Well, I was so filled with inspiration by this masterpiece I thought up a few different endings, three actually. I couldn’t choose which one to put in because, like children, I love all the things I write equally, except I like zombie weekend the most. Sorry other stuff I’ve written, you will all be put up for adoption. So now, alternative ending #1 or as I call it the “happy” ending.

The zombies continued to surround the precocious pair while they fought off as many zombies as they could. Al ‘beat’ all the zombies within reach and Mick finally got the hang of the bow guitar and continued to fire, he almost never hit the one he was aiming for but he usually hit the next one over. But, Al’s whisk was bending out of shape and Mick was nearly out of ‘arrows’. Even still Mick and Al continued to simultaneously fight off zombies and urinate on themselves. After about an hour of fighting the zombie hoard began to grow thinner and thinner. Soon all the zombies around them dropped to the floor luxadundurated, which, incase you forgot, means they’re dead.
“What happened?” asked Mick
“Well isn’t it obvious?” said Al proudly “they knew we would win in the end so they all decided to commit suicide.”
“Right” Mick said sarcastically “that’s probably what happened.”
Al’s assessment was predictably false. What really happened was, the zombies starved to death. Now, it may be asked ‘how could a zombie starve to death in such a short time?’ well the answer is simple, zombies have extremely fast metabolisms, hence the reason they need to constantly feed, so all they need is a day or so without food for a zombie to Luxadundurate. And since zombies are too polite to eat each other it doesn’t take too long for the zombie uprising to end.
So, in the months that followed what would affectionately be called the ‘zombie weekend’ Mick and Al discovered that, through a series of inheritances, they now owned the whole town and all the land ten miles around it. It also turns out that the grease in zombie skin is the single greatest dermatological discovery ever. It seems that the infected skin grease reanimates the dead cells on the skin of a living person, making the skin silky smooth. So Mick and Al became multi millionaires from their cosmetics company Zombetics©. Bob, the only zombie survivor, eventually became the mascot of Zombetics©, his picture now adorns many a billboard and TV commercial accompanied by the slogan: if you don’t want to look like Bob, you’ll use Zombetics©. Mick now owns the newly rebuilt Musicstore and has the largest collections of bow guitars in the United States. His collection is second only to that of the Zansh of Nash, ruler of the extremely tiny country of Nashinstein, the Zansh apparently has some sort of disturbing bow guitar fetish that would be impossible to describe without projectile vomiting. Al later renamed the town Nowhere, found the exact center, and made a theme park called “the middle of nowhere”. He made six million dollars in the first year alone just by selling ‘ my [friend and/or family member here] went to the middle of Nowhere and all I got was this stupid t-shirt’ shirts.

Another message from your author:
Wasn’t that ending nice, a tad too obvious, but nice. This next one you’ll never see coming.

Mick and Al now had their backs to the wall, not literally because their on a roof, surrounded by zombies. Al continued to fight as best as he could and Mick still couldn’t get the hang of the bow guitar. After about a half hour of fighting Al’s whisk bent so much out of shape it broke apart and before realizing he was now weaponless he attacked again and was bitten badly by a zombie.
“Crap! That hurt” wailed Al
“Are you OK?” asked Mick
“Are you seriously asking that question after I just said ‘crap that hurt’?”
Al then fell to the floor, presumably dead. Mick was so enraged at the sight of his fallen comrade he began using his bow guitar to beat down almost every zombie on the roof. He then looked back and saw Al getting up off the ground.
“You’re alive!” Mick said ecstatically, but Al didn’t respond “Al, you good?” still no answer and Mick walked closer to Al who was looking away from him “Al?” Mick then turned Al around and revealed his extremely damaged looking face.
“I’m gonna eat your brains!” yelled zombie Al before he bit Mick. But, opposite to his remark, Al did not eat Mick’s brains.
Eventually the zombie infection spread to the four corners of the globe, not literally because the world has no corners, and for the first time in the history of mankind, all countries were at peace. There were no longer such things as different races, religions, or creeds, there is only zombie. And the world was finally brought together. As for Mick and Al, they went back to their jobs the next day and everything was back to normal, sort of.

From the non-existent desk of your supreme ruler (Author):
Wow, wasn’t that ending just… neat. I bet some of you were crying when Al died, if so you’re really not gonna like this last ending. This last ending will be a tad shorter and you may think this ending would be me “coping out” which it pretty much is. But whatever, I wrote the other two just so I could cop out with this last one.

The zombie hoard approached our two brothers of fate, yes I mean Mick and Al, who tried desperately to stay alive. Neither the zombies nor our heroes knew about the approaching calamity. The heated battle continued as the sky began to darken. The event was such a sight to behold that even the brainless zombies stopped to see the giant piece of space crap being dumped out of the sky. Yes, that means the earth got hit with a meteor and the world ended before the year 2012, take that conspiracy theorists.

And now a message from you friendly neighborhood Author:
That last part always tears me up. So yeah, that’s all of zombie weekend, I hardly knew ye. It was fun writing this story and I bet all my many readers are crying themselves to sleep knowing there’s no more zombie weekend. Well fear not my fans, I shall be writing again soon so tune in frequently and tell your friends.

Author’s log: star date- whatever
Hello again people. Guess what, there’s a whole new ending. This one is more mature because I’ve grown since I finished zombie weekend originally, one month ago. My definition of ‘mature’ may be different from the general definition, but whatever. If you need an example of my definition of mature then read the message from P.I.Z.Z.A. because I think that’s about mature as it gets. So now, the new Platinum special late anniversary edition alternative ending.

We rejoin our heroes on a sunny beach, the calm waves are crashing softly. Mick is out swimming a sea marathon and Al is chilling in a fancy beach chair surrounded by beautiful women and drinking a coke. At least Al is imagining this scene while he’s trying to defend himself from the army of zombies. Mick is actually able to use the bow guitar with some manner of accuracy, enough to not get devoured for now. After about an hour of fighting and ten minutes of self-urination a slight taping noise started out of nowhere. The noise became louder and louder and eventually it became apparent that the noise is the furious whirling of helicopter blades.
In fact several helicopters appeared from the horizon and began to hover above the Musicstore. Then several men in full HAZMAT suits and heavy earmuffs repelled from said helicopters. They went up to Mick and Al and put a pair of heavy earmuffs on each of them. Then one of the HAZMAT clad men took out what looked like a bullhorn and pulled the trigger. Instantly, all the zombies dropped to the ground, even more lifeless than before. Then Mick and Al removed their earmuffs and began gawking at the scene.
“What the hell was that?” asked Mick
“That was a Device for Acoustical Ranged Killing” said one of the HAZMAT guys
“It’s a DARK?” questioned Al
“Yep” said the guy “ basically, it produces a sound that kills.”
“In this case a sound that luxadundurates.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask” said Mick “ by the way, who are you guys.”
“I believe I can answer that,” said a mysterious voice from the hatch the zombies appeared from “ we are P.I.Z.Z.A.” then the man dressed in a black suit and sunglasses walked into sight and was immediately recognized by our heroes.
“Greg! Your alive.” Said Mick
“Yes, at least I hope so.” Said Greg
“But he heard you die”
“No, that was just my battle cry. It only sounded like I died, it’s pat of a secret Panamanian martial arts technique.”
“Ok, so what’s P.I.Z.Z.A.?”
“P.I.Z.Z.A. is the People’s Initiative for Zealous Zombie Allocation.”
“Uh-hu”
P.I.Z.Z.A. was founded in seventeen eighty-nine after the first great American zombie outbreak. P.I.Z.Z.A. was created by many of the founding fathers and was the first official government agency. Because they must stay a secret they can’t leave any living survivors after an outbreak, so they recruit them. Now, Mick and Al are their newest recruits.
After two months of grueling training they became full operatives and after just three short years they rose through the ranks and are now important P.I.Z.Z.A. executives. Mick now runs research and development and is improving the design of the standard field issue bow guitar. Al is now the executive culinary liaison for giant utensil appropriation. The pair go down in history as the most decorated agents of P.I.Z.Z.A. ever.

Description
“Well it sounds like that’s what would make them undead.”
“What?”
“Yeah, when you kill someone their dead, but if you unkill them their undead.” said Mick who was quite proud of himself.
“Alright, what if we call it rekilling?”
“That’s fine, I guess.”
“You guess? Well I could make a word up that makes no sense if that makes you feel better.”
“Like what?”
“Luxadundurate”
“Yeah” Mick said slowly “lets just stick with rekill.”
After that riveting conversation ended Mick and Al found a bread cabinet the size of a missile silo and decided to bunk down for the night. They pushed over the stacks of ‘how to tell if you best friends’ a red’ pamphlets and fell asleep. Besides the usual brain rattling and yelling coming from the hoards of zombies outside and a few trips to the restroom our heroes slept well through the night and well through the morning of the day after.
The next afternoon the pair of would-be warriors finally woke up and after a breakfast of radiation proof pudding and tang, the orange drink, Mick and Al went back to the storefront to continue their usual intelligent conversation.
“So” said Al after forcefully trying to swallow another helping of fifty year old pudding “ do you think zombies go to heaven?”
“What?” asked Mick who was too sleepy to actually answer the question
“I mean, where do zombies go when they’re rekilled? Some paradise where they can be all zombieish all day long and not have to worry about limbs falling off?”
“Wouldn’t that be like… hell? Like normal hell? You know, with lots of people to eat and stuff” said Mick as he finished off his tang, yes the orange drink.
“I guess your right…” was all Al was able to say before the intruder alarms went on.
“The filthy godless reds have broken in” said the alarm speaker in a kind of voice a marines sergeant would when he was telling his underlings to get him a sandwich or wrestle a live cyborg tiger “you should sacrifice your life for America and fight off those dirty commies” continued the voice. But our pathetic pair had no intention of fighting the apparently communist denizens of the underworld.
“Lets get the hell out of here!” yelled Mick while he was attempting to open the two and a half ton magnetically engaged hermetically sealed front door.
“Yeah, but where the hell are we gonna go?” said Al while he picked up a baseball bat sized whisk from the counter top.
“ What are you gonna use that for?” asked Mick after giving up on the door
“The Whisk? I’m gonna use it to beat the zombies. Get it? Beat? Whisk?”
“No”
“What ever, so where are we going to go, I can hear the dead heads coming this way from the back”
“Well we could… did you just say ‘dead heads’?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing.” Said Mick while trying to hold back a river of laughter.
“What?”
“No, it’s just… never mind.” Mick was now smiling out of the side of his mouth
“It’s just what?”
“Dead heads? Where did you pick that up? Scooby Doo?”
“Whatever, it’s not like you didn’t see that episode too.”
“Well…” but Mick had no time to admit that the return of the dead heads was his favorite episode because three zombies with fur hats and red suits that had the hammer and sickle on them burst into the room.
“CRAP!” yelled al before he hit the open door button.
“When did you find out about the door button?” asked Mick angrily as he and Al ran into the streets where they weaved trough the zombies to an as of yet undisclosed location.
“I saw the button about a five minutes before the alarm went off.”
“ Then why didn’t you tell me when I was trying to open the door?”
“ It was funnier to watch you try to open an impenetrable door.”
“… Well I guess you right.”
They continued to randomly run the streets all the while the amount of zombies in front of them grew thinner and thinner until they came to the Musicstore, which had no zombies around it as of yet.
“Why are we here?” asked Al, with whisk held high in case of zombie ambush.
“It’s familiar territory.” Argued Mick
“ That’s stupid, we should go somewhere safer, like some place where we didn’t see our first zombie!”
“That one’s probably gone, and even if he wasn’t we could hide in the back room.”
“I still think this is stupid.”
Their useless bickering was silenced by the sound of a stampede of zombies headed their way.
“I guess we have no choice.” Said Mick with much satisfaction in his voice
“I hate you.” Responded Al as he and Mick went inside.
After locking the door, like that’s going to do any good, Mick and Al were surprised and shocked and awed and horrified and surprised again by the fact that Bob, the zombie without a face just in case you forgot, was still in the same place he was yesterday and doing the same thing, yelling just in case you forgot that. So, in order to not disturb Bob, Mick and Al snuck past and barricaded themselves in the back room. Once inside, Mick and Al breathed a slight sigh of relief and continued their usual banter.
”Hey, did you see the zombie carrying an extra leg?” said Al who grabbed a cold soda out of his now filthy lab coat.
“ Yeah, what about him?” said Mick amazed by the apparently magical qualities of the lab coat
“Why do you think he was carrying an extra leg?”
“ I dunno”
“Maybe it’s a spare, just in case he loses one.”
“Probably”
“But, the one he had was a left leg. So what if he loses his right?”
“Well then I guess he couldn’t dance.”
“Why?”
“Cause then he’d have two left feet.”
Then, a silence. Not any normal silence, it was like a radioactive super silence. A silence so great it would be nye impossible to break for any normal human. Unfortunately for the silence, bob, an admittedly un-normal zombie, continued his useless howl.
“Why does he have to do that?” yelled Al who is desperately attempting to keep hold of his whisk and soda while holding his hands to his ears.
“Why does who have to do what?” responded Mick who was sitting very quaintly on an unordinary bent guitar case.
“The zombie outside. Why is he yelling?”
“You mean Bob?”
“He has a name?”
“Of course, haven’t you been paying attention?” said Mick before he grabbed the soda from Al’s hand, took a sip, then put it back “besides, you get used to the noise eventually”
“Really?” said Al before he cautiously removed his hands from his ears then immediately put them back because of the horrifying screech that can only be compared to a chorus of banshees all stubbing their toes simultaneously.
“Well” said Mick as he took another sip of Al’s soda “ at least I got used to it.”
Well, it turns out Al eventually did get used to the noise. The following hours were then filled with Mick and Al coming up with schemes to resolve the zombie situation. Mick’s suggestion dealt mainly with a very large and sophisticated contraption made up of two refrigerators, six toaster-ovens, an Alien ware laptop, sixty feet of electrical wire, twelve cans of silly string, and a colony of small blue mammals. Mick didn’t quite know what the machine did but he downloaded the blue prints for it last Wednesday and the website promised the machine was ‘X-treme’. Little did he know that the barley understandable machine is, in fact, a gateway, a portal if you will, that takes whomever goes inside it to a twisted backwards dimension where rock actually beats paper and where birds have human pets. Al’s suggestion was a bit more understandable, but was equally if not more useless.
“This is what we do” said Al accompanied by a series of non-comprehendible hand gestures “ we get a big drilling machine, then we tunnel underground until we find a big cavern. Then we live there, in the big cavern, and eventually we’ll evolve into mole people and rule over our dark mole kingdom with an iron fist.”
“Iron fist huh?”
“Yeah! Iron fist ruling.”
“Sure, next time I find a tunneling machine we’ll do that.”
They then continued talking and bouncing more and more useless ideas off each other. They continued talking well into the night and a little into the next morning. Not has such a long streak of useless conversation went on since the great fun sized vs. bite sized candy debate of ’89, and rather interestingly both conversations ended with the same debate.
“No, I’m telling you” said Al, with his heated argument face on. “The plural of bigfoot id bigfeet.”
“Your totally wrong.” Rebottled Mick “It’s Bigfoots, bigfeet seems more like an adjective.”
“Whatever, feet is plural for foot, so just adding the prefix big shouldn’t change that.”
“You are wrong, my friend.”
But, because Mick couldn’t think of any reason why Al was wrong, the conversation ended there. And yes, the return of the awkward silence, in theaters next fall. But this silence was broken fairly quickly by the sound of shattering glass.
“What was that?” asked Al, who was still in a relatively proud mood after winning the argument, or at least thinking he did.
“Not paying attention again? It’s the sound of shattering glass.”
“No, I mean what shattered the glass?”
“I dunno”
“Now who’s not paying attention?”
“The narrator hasn’t even said it yet.”
Well I would if you would just shut up.
Then a silence, after which Al finally worked up the courage to walk up to the door and investigate the sound. He slowly opened the door and after a few seconds of calm observation he closed the door and sat back down next to Mick.
“Crap.” Al said very casually
“What?” asked Mick with a pre-panic face on, the kind of face rabbits or dogs get when they sense an earthquake
“Ohh… nothing.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“Just some zombies”
“Some what?”
“Sorry, I mean some ‘undead Americans’”
“No, no. I mean how many zomb… undead Americans?”
“Just a few...”
“Ohh, that’s OK.”
“Thousand”
“What?”
Mick immediately sprung up and went for the door to see for him. After taking a look he closed the door calmly and sat down next to Al.
“Crap.” He said
“We should do something maybe.” Said Al as he finished off his drink.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Then it finally clicked, what I mean is up until now Mick and Al couldn’t grasp the whole situation. When being faced down by an armada of zombies it starts a sort of egg timer in the brain and until the timer goes off the brain cant understand what’s happening. Well, Mick and Al’s timers just went off.
“There are freakin’ zombies outside!” yelled Al as he jumped out of his seat and held his whisk at battle position.
“We’re gonna die.” Shrieked Mick
“No, you are. I’ve got a weapon.”
“You have a whisk.”
“Well, what do you have?”
“I, umm…” Mick searched around the room for anything he could use as a weapon “here I have this!”
Mick then opened the guitar case they were sitting on and whipped out an orange bow guitar with the word ‘Ubukid’ written on it in big red menacing letters
“Ubukid?” asked Al
“Yeah, it’s a specially made bow guitar.”
“Yeah, but Ubukid? What the hell is that?”
“I dunno a nickname or something.”
“You’ve got to be ubukidding me.”
“Whatever, I didn’t choose the name. I would never choose a nick name that weird and orange, who likes orange.”
“So, what are you going to do with that thing any way? Hit them over the head because I think you’d get more accuracy from a normal shaped guitar.”
“No, I’m gonna do this!”
Mick then went to a different part of the room and picked up a drumstick, no not a discount deformed drumstick. He then brought the end of the stick to the strings of the guitar and pulled back a bit. Then he walked up to the door and kicked it open. “Take this you zomb… uhh, undead Amer… no screw it, take this you zombies!”
He pulled back further and aimed the stick by placing it on the finger of the hand holding the neck. He picked a zombie with a fairly large target shaped head and released the stick. The stick flew like a heat seeking missile toward the large headed zombie. It continued on its way and the bigheaded zombie was so shocked he could do nothing but wait for his inevitable fate. Finally, the moment came and like an ACME rocket piloted by Wile E. Coyote the stick missed the bulbous zombie head. Not only that but it also somehow missed all the other 427 zombies in the room. Mick just stood there with a blank look on his face and Al turned to him and said, “Dude, that sucked.”
“Man, I thought that would go better.” Mick said with a disappointed face
“Better?” asked Al “ your shooting a drumstick out of a guitar, a bow guitar but still, a guitar. What did you think was gonna happen.”
“I dunno, I thought it would at least ricochet and hit a zombies ankle or something.”
“Well you did a good job there buddy.”
“Whatever, at least I tried.”
Then, because Mick and Al were too busy bickering to notice, the zombies started heading towards their makeshift fortress of solitude.
“Crap!” yelled Mick and Al simultaneously
“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?” said Mick
“Yeah” said Al who was failing an attempt to put his game face on “ but I’m gonna kill umm…unkill…rekill…Luxadundurate… whatever, I’m gonna take out as many zombies as I can before I go.” Al then got into attack position, but before he could go and commit suicide a voice cut through the madness, and no it’s not Bob.
“Sempur fidelus tyrannosaurus” said the voice
Then, the source of the voice started cutting through the wave of zombies by bashing them out of the way with a very expensive, limited edition blue and green sunburst Gibson les Paul. The guy holding the guitar took care of all the zombies and went into the room Mick and Al are in.
“Hey guys, need a hand?” said the guy
“Wait, I know you. You’re umm…” said Mick as he searched for a name to match the face he obviously recognized “that guy.”
“Call me Greg”
“You’re the one who’s always hanging out around the store.”
“Yeah, good times. Anyways, I cleared a path back to the guitar section where you work. You can barricade yourselves there for a while.”
Mick and Al didn’t argue and followed Greg to the familiar guitar section and then barricaded the hallway that leading to it with a few large trunks and one smell, moist new model platinum lined guitar case. Now the only zombie left in the room was Bob, who oddly stopped yelling. And when Mick and Al were relatively secure Greg turned to them both and said, “I’m not staying.”
“What? Why?” asked Mick with the kind of eyes a puppy gets when he finally understands that getting ‘fixed’ is not a good thing.
”Well, I have to follow my path of destiny. Wherever the path leads, I know there is where I must be. Whether I end up in the candy store of happiness or the septic tank of despair or even the cold operating table of death. I know lady destiny will not let me down, or cheat on me with the mummies fear and self-loathing. I must jump on that train car of fate and become a vagabond of life. I must grab my canoe of adventure and paddle through the rapids of fate to reach my waterfront house on the beautiful lake of destiny. I am like a piece of seaweed in the ocean of the universe, going wherever the current of life takes me. So farewell my friends, I look foreword to the day our paths may once again meet.”
Greg then moved the barricade and went through before placing the barricade back up. Mick and Al just stood there in silence hoping to hear something of Greg’s fate. They hoped to hear Greg’s voice coming in clear yelling ‘I’m Fine’ or ‘ take that you undead bastards’ but the only thing they heard were Greg’s gargled scream as he was torn apart by the zombie hoard.
“Goodnight sweet prince.” Said Mick softly
But before anymore grieving could be done Al began to push Mick away from the barricade, which was now shaking.
“What are we gonna do now?” asked Al, whisk still held firmly in hand
“I dunno, we…” said Mick who glanced at the stand where the guitar Greg used as a weapon once stood. Now upon the pedestal that once held the expensive instrument there was a stack of cash equaling the exact amount the guitar costs, including tax “he could pay for it.”
“What?”
“ He could pay for it!” yelled Mick
“Whatever, we should go.”
“Fine, we can head for the roof.”
“What good’ll that do? We’ll still be trapped.”
“But we’ll have the advantage.”
“What? How?”
“We’ll have the higher ground, makes our attacks more effective.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Of course it does, haven’t you ever played tactics?”
But before the argument could continue the shabby barricade busted open and zombies poured into the room.
“To the roof!” shouted Al “It’s the only way.”
The pair then left to the roof, and from the roof they could see an ocean of zombies all converging on The Musicstore.
“Wow” said Al “ there’re thousands of them.”
“Where did they all come from” asked Mick, who was having trouble getting through the conveniently placed hatch leading from the guitar world section to the roof.
“Huh?”
“I mean, there are only about five hundred people who live here, where did the others come from.”
“Well, all the people in the cemetery”
“The nearest cemetery is ten miles away and those things move at like two inches an hour, plus our cemetery only has about two hundred people in it.”
“Maybe people were visiting for the holidays”
“ The closest holiday was flag day”
“Yeah, the families came over for a nice flag day dinner.”
“Sure, we got two thousand visitors for flag day.”
“Well” Al then thought for a while for other alternatives and displayed a shocked face when he thought of one “they could be naturally born zombies”
“What?! Like two of the zombies had a baby. Dude, I don’t even want to think about that.”
“I wish I never did.”
The zombies, in fact, did not come from a weird form of necrophilia or form Flag Day visitors. They did come from visitors though, but these visitors were all on their way to a convention where world renowned writer of the hit series “Tryals” was set to premier his sequel to the best selling book Save the World. It’s just bad luck that the only road leading to the Conventiadome cuts through this town. But because of these travelers the town is now home to three thousand seven hundred and forty two zombies and our two wayward companions who, at this moment were on the roof of The Musicstore hoping either that zombies forgot how to use ladders or that the zombies had the memory span of a gold fish and forgot Mick and Al were up on the roof.
“We seem safe.” Said Al cautiously
“NO!” yelled Mick “why’d you have to say that?”
“What?”
“That we were safe, you’ve incurred the wrath of the inverse statement theory.”
The Inverse Statement Theory (IST) was developed in the year 2004 by two geniuses, they might have won or made up an award for it. The theory states that when you make some kind of precognitive statement such as ‘we’re never gonna find this place’ or ‘the day’s lookin’ up’ then the opposite has a high probability of happening. Sometimes the IST is beneficial like when you’re looking for something and say you’ll never find it. But more likely then not the IST comes around and bites you in the gluteus maximums, like it’s about to do with our half-cocked heroes.
“What’s the worse that can happen?” said Al confidently “ the zombies can’t even get up here.”
Just then, out of seemingly nowhere, a large hatch on the roof opened up and zombies came flooding out towards Mick and Al.
“Just so you know.” Said Mick angrily “this is all you’re fault.”

Message from the Author:
OK, so you guys reading my story know that this is the best zombie story about a music store associate and a go-kart attendant on the Internet. So, as it stands now, our heroes, Mick and Al, whom we’ve all come to love and cherish are now in some deep crap. They’re currently stuck on a roof surrounded by zombies, what’s going to happen next? You may ask. Well, I was so filled with inspiration by this masterpiece I thought up a few different endings, three actually. I couldn’t choose which one to put in because, like children, I love all the things I write equally, except I like zombie weekend the most. Sorry other stuff I’ve written, you will all be put up for adoption. So now, alternative ending #1 or as I call it the “happy” ending.

The zombies continued to surround the precocious pair while they fought off as many zombies as they could. Al ‘beat’ all the zombies within reach and Mick finally got the hang of the bow guitar and continued to fire, he almost never hit the one he was aiming for but he usually hit the next one over. But, Al’s whisk was bending out of shape and Mick was nearly out of ‘arrows’. Even still Mick and Al continued to simultaneously fight off zombies and urinate on themselves. After about an hour of fighting the zombie hoard began to grow thinner and thinner. Soon all the zombies around them dropped to the floor luxadundurated, which, incase you forgot, means they’re dead.
“What happened?” asked Mick
“Well isn’t it obvious?” said Al proudly “they knew we would win in the end so they all decided to commit suicide.”
“Right” Mick said sarcastically “that’s probably what happened.”
Al’s assessment was predictably false. What really happened was, the zombies starved to death. Now, it may be asked ‘how could a zombie starve to death in such a short time?’ well the answer is simple, zombies have extremely fast metabolisms, hence the reason they need to constantly feed, so all they need is a day or so without food for a zombie to Luxadundurate. And since zombies are too polite to eat each other it doesn’t take too long for the zombie uprising to end.
So, in the months that followed what would affectionately be called the ‘zombie weekend’ Mick and Al discovered that, through a series of inheritances, they now owned the whole town and all the land ten miles around it. It also turns out that the grease in zombie skin is the single greatest dermatological discovery ever. It seems that the infected skin grease reanimates the dead cells on the skin of a living person, making the skin silky smooth. So Mick and Al became multi millionaires from their cosmetics company Zombetics©. Bob, the only zombie survivor, eventually became the mascot of Zombetics©, his picture now adorns many a billboard and TV commercial accompanied by the slogan: if you don’t want to look like Bob, you’ll use Zombetics©. Mick now owns the newly rebuilt Musicstore and has the largest collections of bow guitars in the United States. His collection is second only to that of the Zansh of Nash, ruler of the extremely tiny country of Nashinstein, the Zansh apparently has some sort of disturbing bow guitar fetish that would be impossible to describe without projectile vomiting. Al later renamed the town Nowhere, found the exact center, and made a theme park called “the middle of nowhere”. He made six million dollars in the first year alone just by selling ‘ my [friend and/or family member here] went to the middle of Nowhere and all I got was this stupid t-shirt’ shirts.

Another message from your author:
Wasn’t that ending nice, a tad too obvious, but nice. This next one you’ll never see coming.

Mick and Al now had their backs to the wall, not literally because their on a roof, surrounded by zombies. Al continued to fight as best as he could and Mick still couldn’t get the hang of the bow guitar. After about a half hour of fighting Al’s whisk bent so much out of shape it broke apart and before realizing he was now weaponless he attacked again and was bitten badly by a zombie.
“Crap! That hurt” wailed Al
“Are you OK?” asked Mick
“Are you seriously asking that question after I just said ‘crap that hurt’?”
Al then fell to the floor, presumably dead. Mick was so enraged at the sight of his fallen comrade he began using his bow guitar to beat down almost every zombie on the roof. He then looked back and saw Al getting up off the ground.
“You’re alive!” Mick said ecstatically, but Al didn’t respond “Al, you good?” still no answer and Mick walked closer to Al who was looking away from him “Al?” Mick then turned Al around and revealed his extremely damaged looking face.
“I’m gonna eat your brains!” yelled zombie Al before he bit Mick. But, opposite to his remark, Al did not eat Mick’s brains.
Eventually the zombie infection spread to the four corners of the globe, not literally because the world has no corners, and for the first time in the history of mankind, all countries were at peace. There were no longer such things as different races, religions, or creeds, there is only zombie. And the world was finally brought together. As for Mick and Al, they went back to their jobs the next day and everything was back to normal, sort of.

From the non-existent desk of your supreme ruler (Author):
Wow, wasn’t that ending just… neat. I bet some of you were crying when Al died, if so you’re really not gonna like this last ending. This last ending will be a tad shorter and you may think this ending would be me “coping out” which it pretty much is. But whatever, I wrote the other two just so I could cop out with this last one.

The zombie hoard approached our two brothers of fate, yes I mean Mick and Al, who tried desperately to stay alive. Neither the zombies nor our heroes knew about the approaching calamity. The heated battle continued as the sky began to darken. The event was such a sight to behold that even the brainless zombies stopped to see the giant piece of space crap being dumped out of the sky. Yes, that means the earth got hit with a meteor and the world ended before the year 2012, take that conspiracy theorists.

And now a message from you friendly neighborhood Author:
That last part always tears me up. So yeah, that’s all of zombie weekend, I hardly knew ye. It was fun writing this story and I bet all my many readers are crying themselves to sleep knowing there’s no more zombie weekend. Well fear not my fans, I shall be writing again soon so tune in frequently and tell your friends.

Author’s log: star date- whatever
Hello again people. Guess what, there’s a whole new ending. This one is more mature because I’ve grown since I finished zombie weekend originally, one month ago. My definition of ‘mature’ may be different from the general definition, but whatever. If you need an example of my definition of mature then read the message from P.I.Z.Z.A. because I think that’s about mature as it gets. So now, the new Platinum special late anniversary edition alternative ending.

We rejoin our heroes on a sunny beach, the calm waves are crashing softly. Mick is out swimming a sea marathon and Al is chilling in a fancy beach chair surrounded by beautiful women and drinking a coke. At least Al is imagining this scene while he’s trying to defend himself from the army of zombies. Mick is actually able to use the bow guitar with some manner of accuracy, enough to not get devoured for now. After about an hour of fighting and ten minutes of self-urination a slight taping noise started out of nowhere. The noise became louder and louder and eventually it became apparent that the noise is the furious whirling of helicopter blades.
In fact several helicopters appeared from the horizon and began to hover above the Musicstore. Then several men in full HAZMAT suits and heavy earmuffs repelled from said helicopters. They went up to Mick and Al and put a pair of heavy earmuffs on each of them. Then one of the HAZMAT clad men took out what looked like a bullhorn and pulled the trigger. Instantly, all the zombies dropped to the ground, even more lifeless than before. Then Mick and Al removed their earmuffs and began gawking at the scene.
“What the hell was that?” asked Mick
“That was a Device for Acoustical Ranged Killing” said one of the HAZMAT guys
“It’s a DARK?” questioned Al
“Yep” said the guy “ basically, it produces a sound that kills.”
“In this case a sound that luxadundurates.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask” said Mick “ by the way, who are you guys.”
“I believe I can answer that,” said a mysterious voice from the hatch the zombies appeared from “ we are P.I.Z.Z.A.” then the man dressed in a black suit and sunglasses walked into sight and was immediately recognized by our heroes.
“Greg! Your alive.” Said Mick
“Yes, at least I hope so.” Said Greg
“But he heard you die”
“No, that was just my battle cry. It only sounded like I died, it’s pat of a secret Panamanian martial arts technique.”
“Ok, so what’s P.I.Z.Z.A.?”
“P.I.Z.Z.A. is the People’s Initiative for Zealous Zombie Allocation.”
“Uh-hu”
P.I.Z.Z.A. was founded in seventeen eighty-nine after the first great American zombie outbreak. P.I.Z.Z.A. was created by many of the founding fathers and was the first official government agency. Because they must stay a secret they can’t leave any living survivors after an outbreak, so they recruit them. Now, Mick and Al are their newest recruits.
After two months of grueling training they became full operatives and after just three short years they rose through the ranks and are now important P.I.Z.Z.A. executives. Mick now runs research and development and is improving the design of the standard field issue bow guitar. Al is now the executive culinary liaison for giant utensil appropriation. The pair go down in history as the most decorated agents of P.I.Z.Z.A. ever.