Author’s Note: This story was written in response to the following prompt in the WritingPrompts subreddit:
This story was first posted on Reddit. Oh, and I’ll most likely be writing short stories in response to writing prompts more in the near future. Doing stuff that’s as big as sakiyama feels too much for me right now, see. And about this short story, well, I went spontaneous again, I think. Still, I think I should try writing down my plans for bigger works, along with doing that via handwriting too. Oh, and of course, honest constructive feedback is highly encouraged and will be highly appreciated!
Now, on to the story!
“Hold on, I have a question: How are they drinking all that fermented stuff? Shouldn’t they be eating fresher stuff, like brains?”
It was bewildering, really. To be honest, I don’t really know much about zombie behavior and biology, but I do remember some bits of stuff about the making of alcoholic drinks. They popped up after I decided to just let the zombies raid the beer stash. ‘Sides, they keep my dad from being a drunkard.
“EAT BUCKSHOT, YOU ROTTEN BEER THIEVES!”
I wouldn’t say that they kept him from being a raging man, though.
Anyway, alcohol. I remember them being made through fermentation, a.k.a. intentional and fancy spoiling. That alternate description for fermentation was something that sounded funny and catchy in my mind right after remembering wine being one of the things made through fermentation. And speaking of spoiling, how do zombies even take that stuff? I mean, them eating wounded and helpless people makes more sense, but alcohol? Shouldn’t that burn them down or something?
“HAHA! SHOULD’VE USED YOUR BRAINS! OH WAIT, YOU DON’T HAVE ANY! HAHAHA! BURN, BABY, BURN!”
Huh. That makes sense. But that leaves me with…
“And now, time for some VICTORY BEER!”
Okay, back to dodging Dad again…Wait.
I have an idea.
“Ah yes, Victory Beer, the beer for ma–WHAT THE HELL, SERENITY!?”
Piss Dad off, all while killing zombies. Two birds with one stone. Or maybe several rotten and moving dumbasses with one popular and flammable chemical.
I threw Dad’s half-finished bottle of Victory Beer, and its mouth landed right into a zombie’s open and hanging mouth. I dodged to the side, and while I kept running, I heard the explosion of buckshot and the hissing of a chemical reaction.
Now, I’m gonna need more alcohol and more comrades.
“RAID ALL THE ALCOHOLIC DRINK SECTIONS!” I shouted as I approached the local supermarket, which was being raided by people, both living and rotting.
I then heard a chorus of “YEAH!” from the living people, followed by the hissing and burning of rotting people.
Indeed, for the first time in my life, love for alcohol blossomed within me. Eat that, all you peer-pressuring dumbasses!