Tag Archive for: 100 ways to stop a zombie apocalypse

Cover Your Ears

by Karen Thrower


It’s been a year since the dead began rising from their graves, hunting whatever humans they could find. We tried to get them to eat animals, but there was something about us that they craved. It didn’t take long before we lost hope and shuttered ourselves in our homes. Then one bright day, we found our solution. A happy accident really, during a zombie attack in Switzerland. As someone just happened to run into an old Victrola, the music that spilled forth had the zombies scrambling to get away. Who knew that yodelling would be our salvation against the undead.

Karen Thrower

Karen Thrower is a native Oklahoman, wife, and mother to a rambunctious eight-year old.  She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Deaf Education from The University of Tulsa.  She is also a member of Oklahoma Science Fiction Writers and serves as the Facebook ‘Wizard’.




Season of the Zombie

by Shane Sinjun


“Revenge is a dish best served hot.” Rico turned from the campfire and flipped the pan-fried zombie brains onto Cat’s plate.

It hadn’t taken long for word to get around. Cooking zombie brains altered the proteins in the meat. It tasted rich and salty, but this delicacy offered something even more delectable—immunity.

Cat skewered the seasoned meat and held it aloft. “Here’s to the best zombie chef in town.”

They chewed, swallowed, savoured.

Rico grabbed two burning branches from the fire and handed one to Cat. They turned and faced the approaching zombie horde.

Cat roared, “Bring on dessert!”

Shane Sinjun

Shane Sinjun writes dark quirky fiction from Melbourne, Australia. He has a heart of gold. The rest is mainly base metals. Follow him on Twitter: @Shane_SJF




Joe’s Bar

by Jodie Angell


Joe’s Bar had changed considerably since the zombie apocalypse first broke out. He’d learned rather quickly that there was a shift in the market—instead of Sex on the Beach, mojitos, and piña coladas, his menu offered a variety of Molotov cocktails.

He grabbed his firebombs from behind the bar and positioned them side by side.

“Going to need them today, bud.” Max exchanged cash for cocktails.

“Aye.” Joe grinned.

Together, they strode outside, facing the encroaching crowd of screeching zombies.

They lit the rags, then launched the fiery weapons. Bloodied limbs, severed heads, and guts erupted from the flames.

Jodie Angell

Jodie Angell grew up in South Wales, U.K. She started writing at the age of eleven, entering children’s anthologies. Her first book, Crimson Kiss, is published with Champagne Book Group.

Jodie explores all genres, including dark fiction, fantasy, and romance.

Instagram: @jodieangell_author




The Door

by Alden Terzo


The cellar door creaked and flexed as the hungry zombies outside pushed against it. Alone in the cellar, Olivia sliced a hunk of rotting meat and tossed it through a small opening high in the wall. It hit the ground outside with a plop. The noise and smell drew the zombies from the door.

She’d bought some time. Before her father died, he’d promised her help was coming. Olivia needed the door to hold until then.

Grimacing, she cut another hunk of putrid flesh to distract the zombies. She hoped help arrived soon. There wasn’t much of her father left.

Alden Terzo

When Alden Terzo isn’t reading, he’s often writing. Or procrastinating. There is usually coffee involved. Find him on Twitter @AmbassadorAlden 




The Cellar

by Tracy Davidson


My arms ache from swinging the scythe so often. Must have decapitated fifty already today, and it’s not even lunchtime.

They outnumber us now. Most human survivors shelter offshore. Zombies don’t seem to like oceans. But I’m still a hundred miles from the nearest coast.

Dammit, here’s another one, drooling at the sight of flesh. My scythe’s by the door. I throw the nearest object, running for my weapon. But don’t need it. The zombie’s head melts away.

A salt cellar? Salt! No wonder they avoid oceans.

I stock up. I’m gonna make it after all. Maybe we all will.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.




I Guess Grannie Will Be Fine

by Greg Beatty


After Johnny’s parents died, Grannie raised him.

She helped him with algebra, bullies, and dating. When the zombies came, it was time for Johnny to return the favour.

“Grannie’s tough,” he told his wife. “But these days she just sits and knits.”

When he got to her cottage, Grannie was sitting on the porch. Knitting.

“Careful!” she called. “Only walk on the white stones.”

Johnny did, joining her on the porch just as the zombies broke into the garden…where they fell to pieces, dropping arms here and heads there.

Grannie said, “I used some of your grandpa’s special monofilament wire.”

Greg Beatty

When he’s not writing, Greg Beatty walks with his dog, dabbles in the martial arts, plays with his grandchildren, and teaches college.
You can find a number of his stories on Payhip: https://payhip.com/GregBeatty




by Pauline Yates


Desperate to stop the zombie apocalypse, the latest plague to afflict humanity, I draw my knife across Annie’s wrist and fill a bucket with her blood.

Annie sways. “Will it work?”

“It better or we’re dead.” Grabbing the bucket, I open the door and throw the blood over the advancing zombies. It’s an insane idea, but attracted to the blood, the zombies mistake their festering bodies for fresh flesh and rip themselves apart in a feeding frenzy.

“It worked,” I shout, euphoric. “Annie, they’re dead. Annie?”

Anne lies on the floor, white-faced and lifeless. No blood drips from her wrist.

Pauline Yates

Pauline Yates lives in Australia and writes horror and dark speculative fiction. Links to her publications can be found here: https://linktr.ee/paulineyates



A Zombie’s Guide to Alcoholism

by Sophie Wagner


I was bored; what can I say? Not like there’s anyone to judge me besides Martin, and he doesn’t do much.

The first day I ran out of realistic solutions to cure him of the zombie virus, I injected him with orange juice. No result. Same with pineapple juice. However, vodka might do the trick.

At first, he was still. Then, he hurtled towards the desk and began to bash out his brains until they joined him on the floor.

Interesting. Either I’m going to need an ocean of vodka to save myself, or I’ll just follow in his footsteps.

Sophie Wagner

Sophie Wagner is an emerging student author who has had multiple short story and poetry publications. You can find her work at The Macabre Ladies, Black Ink Fiction, Eerie River Press, Iron Faerie Publishing, Black Hare Press and more. She hopes you have a horror-filled day!



Instructions to My Past Self

by Liam Hogan


Don’t study microbiology at university.

Definitely don’t take Dr Meadow’s course on recombinant DNA.

Whatever you do, don’t volunteer to look after her lab rats during summer break. Certainly don’t name one of them “Nipper”.

Take July the 13th off. Any excuse will do. Someone else can feed her damned rats for one miserable day.

Don’t let the mail-boy stick his hand in Nipper’s cage. And DON’T mix up the iodine solution with Dr Meadow’s untested serum.

If you do end up doing all of this (again), at least make sure you’re wearing a good pair of sneakers. And RUN!

Liam Hogan

Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer, with stories in Best of British Science Fiction and in Best of British Fantasy (NewCon Press). He’s been published by Analog, Daily Science Fiction, and Flame Tree Press, among others. He helps host Liars’ League London, volunteers at the creative writing charity Ministry of Stories, and lives and avoids work in London. More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk




by Ria Rees


The last city sprawls below—a hodgepodge of rooftop slums. With the deafening thump of helicopter blades pounding in my skull, I radio the pilot. “Target below. Keep us steady.”

One finger trembling on the switch, I repeat my mantra. We tried everything.

A small group hails us from a hospital helipad, arms flailing madly. Leaning out, I spot a single child, starved and dirty. My breath catches. The remains of a plushie dangle from their hand. I swear they look right into my eyes.

I swallow my guilt, convince myself they’re infected, and drop the payload.

We tried everything.

Ria Rees

Ria Rees writes from her cosy cottage in Wales, praying that her creations will never become sentient. www.riarees.com