davywavy | David writes a story about zombies.

They did not turn the lights on when it got dark. There was no sense, they thought, in drawing attention to themselves – assuming that the power stations still ran and the lights would come on if they tried. Instead they would sit in the gloom and talk of the old days. Occasionally one of them would try to rally the group – talk of a brighter tomorrow, or of military plans to take the world back.
Tonight was one of those nights. The man with white hair sat and watched in bemusement as one of his companions strode to and fro, talking excitedly.
“Now, let’s recap what we know,” he said. It was the same start to a talk as they had heard before. “It’s pretty much a moot point, these days, when they started to appear. It seems a long time ago now. At first, nobody really noticed them appearing, until it was too late.”
The group shifted. They were bored. The man with white hair stood up and went to the window, watching as they passed in the street outside. His companion continued.
“We know they have no higher brain functions or fine motor control. Instead they appear to be motivated only by some faint, vestigial memories and the hind-brain. Certainly they are not capable of problem solving or independent thought. To put it bluntly, what keeps them going is, you might say, only the basest, lowest part of human nature.”
At the window, the man with white hair watched them shuffle by outside. “I wonder,” he mused to himself, “where they are going.”
“Where they went in life,” said another. “They aren’t capable of doing anything else, not now.” He shuddered as the low moaning from outside penetrated the room. “God, listen to them. All they want is to destroy, to make others like them. It’s like Hell.”
“Perhaps we’ve died, and this is Hell.”
“Perhaps.”
“So you think there is no hope?”
“Do you?”
“I think that there is always hope,” said the white-haired man. “There seem to be fewer of them than there once were. Perhaps, if they cannot feed, they die off. Perhaps, one day, there will be none left.”
“We still have to destroy the brains of our own dead to stop them coming back as one of them, though.”
“Not too difficult. For the living, there will be life, and thought…we just need to prevent the dead becoming…that.”
The room fell silent, the only noise being the monotonous chanting from the street outside, and the soft, leaden shuffle of footfalls.
“What do you suppose they’d do to us if they knew we were here?”
“I think we all know.”
Silence again.
“What is it that they say?”
“I always thought it was “brains, brains, brains?”
“You haven’t listened to them very closely, have you?” asked the white haired man. “Listen.” He slid the window open and the inhuman muttering from outside could be heard more clearly; “Blaiirrrr….Blaaaaaiiiirrrr….Bllllaaaair….”
“By God, it’s true. No higher brain functions at all.”
“And where was it you said they were going…?”
“Where they went in life: jobs in local government, mainly. I think I saw a community outreach worker out there earlier. And a cultural issues awareness officer.”
“Local Government? What do they do there?”
“Take fewer days off sick, mainly. And although they’re no more efficient in responding to requests from members of the public, their overall service ratings against central government targets have rocketted. They're certainly more polite and helpful than they used to be.”
The white haired man walked briskly to the corner and seized up a shotgun from the table. “I’m damned if I’m standing for this,” he said. “Somebody has to fight them, otherwise we’re doomed.”
“I always said you were mad, Boris.”
“Good luck, Boris. Don’t shoot until you see the green of their skins.”
“I don’t plan to.”
With that he walked out. A few moments later the shooting started.