Sad COD Zombie Stories That will make you Cry

The Middle Arc

Created by Archiveofourown.org writer InkEngineCompany.

If the bus broke down for any reason, they were fucked. Absolutely fucked.

The undead kept on crawling from the depths and surging their way in waves that mounted hundreds. Bullets soon seemed useless against the decaying hides and they all but satisfied the survivors’ hunger to hear the satisfying pop of skull and the shrill death cry of a zombie. Soon those bullets would run out, and then what? Distantly, that notion rang a low note on Samuel’s conscious. It may have rightly been the only thing on his mind if the coppery taste of his own blood wasn’t distracting as it was.

He’d voice his concern over the matter had his mouth not been occupied with swearing and coughing and spitting. The voices of the other three near him were but faint echoes and incomprehensible gurgles amongst the likewise raucous shrieks of the undead…not that he was missing anything too important by not paying them any attention; not even little studious Darlington took the time to form comprehensible sentences anymore.

There was denting of metal and the splitting of boards and other horrible reminders that the zombies had found their way onto the bus. The driver continued on, unaware of what insanity was unfolding around him. His only concern was that the occupants of the bus were rough-housing and that it was not tolerated. Samuel would’ve laughed at that if it weren’t for the situation he was in.

His pistol clicked loudly to tell him that he was about a couple bullets closer to death. Swearing, he reached into his vest to retrieve another clip. When he found that his well had run dry, he staggered away from the window he was guarding and announced that he was out. The other survivors simply made noises of acknowledgement and went on shooting, edging closer to the middle of the bus. Biting his lip in anger, Samuel threw down his pistol and took out his knife for his last line of defense. As much as he wanted to feel useful, there’d be no point in playing carpenter and rebuilding the barriers that would just as quickly be taken down again. The zombies were going to pour in and there was nothing he could do about it.

A feminine cry drew his attention and he turned to witness Misty throw her empty gun aside and wield her knife. Marlton soon followed. The three took their positions behind Russman, the only remaining member with a half decent weapon, and awaited their fate. Samuel could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and his heavy breathing choked with anxiety. The others looked to be in the same state, or at least no better. The only one who spoke a word now was Russman who continued to unload on any zombie that made its way into the bus. It seemed that to the moment of his defeat he’d be howling out curses of his defiant nature.
Samuel watched his friend at the zenith of his progression and he might as well have been their knight in shining armor. Unconventional as he was, it seemed that the group had somewhat of a glimmer of hope resting on the man.

“Russ…” Samuel thought he had something to say to him, but his mind was blank. He’d thought that maybe, if he was going to die right there next to that slut Misty, his last words could be something worthwhile. He must’ve thought wrong.

“Fuck!”

The three turned to see the regression of their savior’s strength. That hopeful zenith was now a slippery slope and as Russman dropped his last empty clip, they were all heading down it at a breakneck speed. Samuel’s breath hitched in his throat. The others lunged for the windows and dug cold steel into warm flesh, but he just sat there in shock, knife in hand. He looked towards Russ, then to Marlton and Misty and then to the zombies outside and the bus driver. He exhaled with a shudder. The fog outside was thinning.

“Guys…”

The bus was slowing.

The warm glow of neon and the shimmering haze from lava soaked earth came into view; they were approaching the town. More zombies leaped onto the bus and blindly reached in through cracks in the metal. Their ever slowing prey was now easier to seize. The group joined Samuel and sunk low in the middle of the bus and watched themselves be encircled as the last seconds of their lives were chipped away. Their transport was rocked from side to side from the vast number of bodies crawling over it like an infestation of roaches. A decidedly cheerful staccato beat sounded from the bus’s horn and signaled that they were arriving at their stop.

“Now arriving at the island of Hawaii!”

After this announcement, the driver spun around at his base near the wheel and the bus skidded to a halt.

The zombies were in the bus now. One by one they poured in like fluid and filled the space around the survivors. Samuel peeled himself off the floor and dodged outstretched hands as wailing and screaming bubbled around him.
“Out the door!” He yelled, but was heard by no one.

The undead had piled onto the others including his only friend. Russ, he was gone…They were all gone beneath a writhing construct of flesh and sinews. Samuel fought the urge to give up too. It wasn’t the time to be emotional, though, emotions killed people if they let them. He wasn’t ready to die yet, not now. Samuel crawled to the door and slammed his bodyweight into it, forcing it open. He tumbled out amongst a horde of zombies oblivious to his presence.

Pulling himself up, he found his footing and leaned into a sprint with a few of the undead hot on his heels. His heart pounded in his chest cavity, his lungs felt constricted. When he found himself in the town square, he didn’t know where else to go, if he had anywhere to go. He slowed his pace and cooked a grenade before releasing it and unleashing a rain of seared flesh and bone fragments. The zombies that had swarmed the bus were now focused on him, no doubt already finished feasting on his allies. They seemed like one single being, a hive mind crawling its way towards him at a speed he couldn’t match.

He was going to die.

His body didn’t want him to though. Even through all of the mournful screaming of the undead behind him, he couldn’t face the compromising idea of his own death; he’d never particularly considered his own mortality, even if it was always the thought of the hour. He vaulted over the hood of a derelict car and turned a corner only to find himself halted by a mound of broken asphalt and junk piled about two stories high.

He was finished…

Samuel turned around and held his knife in hand. His grip was so shaky and unstable that the blade dug into his flesh and a stream of crimson dripped down to the pavement, but he didn’t notice. The only thing he felt was the rushing of endorphins and adrenaline and stupid, blind euphoria that came with them. He didn’t hear the zombies, their cries or their moaning. He no longer heard his heartbeat or his breath as it swept into his lungs. And as the undead slammed into him and he fell back into darkness, he didn’t hear the foreign voice in his head that was licked with sarcastic animosity…