Writing Prompt from /u/BS9966:
Suddenly various living dinosaurs start appearing all across the planet. No one knows how or where they are coming from.
“Breaking news at the top of the hour: Lady Gaga has been mauled to death by, what seems to be, a living Majungasaurus.”
Our friend James has been preparing for the end of the world. He was betting on an EMP from a nuclear warhead detonated in the stratosphere. But nope: dinosaurs. Close enough.
Deep underground, we can observe how James intends to survive the end times. His bunker measures eight feet by twelve feet – about the size of a shed – and has enough food and water for about four months.
I told ’em. I told ’em they needed to prepare.
Yes, James, you did tell them. And what of your mother?
Poor Ma… but it’s her own fault! Now she knows…
Ah, hum. Her own fault, eh? Well… let’s not push the issue. Time for lunch anyways.
What’ll it be this time, James? A can of corn, covered in sugar and spice, followed by explosive diarrhea? Or a 20-year old MRE?
Oh, going for something new! A handful of nuts, covered in honey – you sly dog, you.
“We go live to the President, in an undiscolsed location.”
“Fellow Americans, as Commander in Cheif, my highest priority is the security of the American people. And I’ve made it clear that threats to the United States, whether human, biological, or Jurassic, will be met with relentless opposition. We’re moving ahead with our campaign of airstrikes against these reptilian terrorists, and are working at building a broad coalition of humanitarian relief for areas affected the most…”
What do they know? They’re probably behind this anyways…
Unfortunately, other than eating and shitting, there isn’t a whole lot to do down here. Powering a television would have required too many watts, and James was too busy hoarding canned vegetables to consider buying a deck of cards. Oh well – at least he has his AM radio to keep him company.
“…I would like to thank Dr. Lowery and his team for their outstanding work at the CDC, where they work tirelessly to locate the origin of the dino-outbreak…”
That’s quite a fucking outbreak! Excuse me… A Tyrano-Rex roaring in the cul-de-sac fixin’ to make a meal out of poor Sara’s dog ain’t no “outbreak”, Mr. President.
Hah, that was a good one. The little yorkie, bless his heart, as James would say, couldn’t seem to grasp the consequences of taking a stand against an Albertosaurus. Don’t worry – he wasn’t eaten. Just crushed by the debris of the collapsing garage he scurried into.
It did provide a nice distraction for James to get to his bunker, though. He had been starting to get sick of his mother’s rotting corpse in the living room. Of course, now he’s basking in the perpetual auroma of his own fecees… so I’m not sure the big move was such an upgrade after all.
Checking for your gun again, eh Jimmy? Don’t worry, it hasn’t gone anywhere… still safe and sound under your matress. Though I’m not sure how much damage a 9mm can do to an animal with 2 inches of skin. But that’s not the idea, is it? Or are you even aware of your plan, Jimmy-boy?
“What did you think of the speech?”
“I’m not sure I like the message the President’s choice of suit was sending.”
“I couldn’t agree more – look, it would be one thing if the President delivered a reassuring speech in an Oxxford or Hickey Freeman suit. But coming on the national stage in a Brioni is just un-American!”
A low rumble starts to hum in the distance.
James stops chewing, and tilts his head.
It sounds like a jetliner taking off at low-altitude. A gut-shaking wave of sound, penetrating the tiny bunker, causes the assorted survival items to rattle as the impulses increase in intensity. Something is happening out there.
Suddenly, a round of fire. Not pissy 9mm fire – this is serious artillery. James jumps in excitement, knocking over the radio, which de-tunes to static.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom… It continues. The steady pounding of each round, like an anthem of survival.
The rounds stop. James notices the rumble is now gone, too. The radio’s white noise plays in the background.
What in God’s name was that…
And then, somehow… talking! Really? Someone’s mumbling something out there… though it’s hard to tell.
There comes a moment, now, where James begins to make a realization. His conscious mind cannot bear to hear it, so the idea remains burried inside the depths of his subconscious – but the realization is processed, all the same.
Maybe, just maybe, he’ll get out of this alive.
And it’s this little seed that starts to grow in his imagination. What if, somehow, some way, the humans pull their shit together, and kill these fuckers? What if the humans make a species go extinct on purpose for a change? What if Uncle Sam isn’t a complete fuck up? What if he actually gets out of this bunker and emerges, broken, beaten, but alive?
The talking gets closer. In fact, it could easily be right outside the bunker hatch. And when it couldn’t get any closer, it does – he can almost make out the words, even though he’s under six feet of dirt.
He reaches for the gun, puts it in his mouth, and pulls the trigger. The sound reverberates in the bunker.
And here’s where we leave ol’ Jimmy boy. Brains splattered all over the wall of his tomb, with an open bottle of honey on the table. Sorry, pal.
I wish I could feel sad for the fat fuck, bless his heart. But I don’t. You deserved that bullet. I guess shooting your mother in the head to save food wasn’t really a good survivalist move, huh Jim? Didn’t think you’d have to actually live with yourself afterwards. Good riddance.