The Adventures of Bartleby Joe -THAT is what you decided to name me??-

On a dark and stormy night, Bartleby -Now hold on a second. I will NOT be called Bartleby, and how dare you start my unbelievably original story with such a cliché? I demand a refund.-

(Wait, what's going on? Rob, is this you playing a prank on me?)

-ROB?! You think I sound like ROB?!? I am obviously the main character of this story that you've been failing to write. Now please, get back to explaining my gloriousness.-

(Again, what?? how did you even get in here?)

-Well, it's actually a long story...-

(You know what, it doesn't matter.)

The night sky was dark, clouds obscuring even the moon so that the land was steeped in near tangible darkness. It was on this moonless night that the noble knight Sir Bartleby set off on his quest to -Woah, woah, woah, let me stop you right there. I'm more of a modern-day thriller kinda guy. I think I should get some cool gadgets and shit!-

(Seriously?? I have literally a whole plot already planned for the noble knight Bartleby to save the world, why are you trying to change it??)

-Here, try something like this: Sir Bartleby snakes through the underbrush, relying on his ultra-cool night goggles to see through the super dark night that was already described. Oh no! He cracked a twig! They know he's here now...-

(Who are these 'they' people? Where is this even coming from, you're supposed to be a gallant MEDIEVAL knight!)

-Just go with it, it'll totally be fine! Pleeeeeeeeease?-

(Ugh, fine. But I'm blaming you if this story doesn't win.)

-Oki doki artichoki! :) -

Holding his breath, Bartleby presses his back into a tree as a drone scans the ground he was just laying on. His heart is pounding. That was too close. The only way to recover the stolen painting without alerting the target was to sneak in under the cover of night.

-WHAT. I'm stealing a PAINTING? How. LAME. I should be stealing data from scientists who started the zombie apocalypse, or pulling off a heist to-

(Fine. Zombies it is.)

The only way to recover the antidote would be to sneak into the lab where it all started. Bartleby gets moving again, his friends are counting on him to find this cure before the next surge hits.

-Ooh ooh ooh! You should call the place Zom.B Labs Inc.!!-

(Don't you think that's a bit on the nose?)

It was said that Zom.B Labs Inc once employed the leading minds in medicine and technology, until one day they went too far. Rumor has it that the test subjects turned violent, clawing their way out of the laboratory to get at any living brain they could get their mutilated hands on. Bartleby could see the evidence of these stories in the disfigured fragments of chain-link fence still clinging to the gateway. It certainly looked as if some wild beast had torn themselves free, leaving bits of torn flesh and hair where the sharp metal dug into skin.

-Eeeew, why are you being so specific? This is booooorinng. You should get back to me, I'm perfect and always entertaining.-

(Really? I don't feel like you've been that helpful or that nice to me.)

-Well that's because you're telling my story wrong! If you just listened to me you would see how flawless I really am-

(Well, actually, I disagree. Let me show you.)

-Wait wha-

Bartleby readied his gear, facing the dilapidated building where an unknown number of zombies lay in wait. With one final deep breath, he crept in.

The reason he was here was because one of his friends had been bitten. Now, they had discussed going in to get this information before, but almost everyone had agreed that it was too dangerous to try alone. Bartleby thought differently. He knew he could do it, and he knew he'd do whatever it took to get the antidote.

As he passed hallway after hallway of nothing but patient rooms, Bartleby began to feel even more confident. Why had everyone been so worried about this mission? There weren't any zombies to be seen, and he hadn't needed to break a single thing.

After jogging for some time, he finally reached the main stairwell to the basement level. Peering downwards, it seemed to somehow grow even darker down below the ground. Everything was completely still, so Bartleby began his descent. Though, as he walked down the steps, he had the strangest feeling. It almost felt as if he was descending into the maw of some giant beast.

About halfway down the long stairwell, his night-vision goggles began to fail, as there was no longer enough light to see anything. With no other option but to use his flashlight, Bartleby clicked it on and continued forwards.

He reached the bottom of the stairs after a bit more walking, and came face to face with the lab he was looking for. The only reason he knew this was because it had a massive label on the door that read: ZOM.B VIRUSES & ANTIDOTES. And, even better, the door was already open. This should be easy, Bartleby thought.

-I really don't see what you're trying to prove here. It seems to be going pretty great for me in that zombie lab.-

Confidently, Bartleby crept forwards. The darkness inside of the lab room was oppressive, almost seeming to eat up all of the light from his flashlight. Though, as the light passed over the room and multiple glowing eyes reflected back at him, Bartleby realized that the darkness may not be the only hungry thing in here. He freezes, hands shaking, as he finally hears the iconic loud breathing of the undead as they lurch towards him.

-Hey, wait a minute! I thought I was alone down here! Where did all of these zombies come from?-

(Yes. You thought you were.)

With a burst of confidence, Bartleby whirls around, hoping to make his way back up the stairwell before they reach him, but his gut sinks as he realizes that the stairwell is covered in bodies. Pale green, oozing bodies as they stumble down the steps, moaning, clamoring for flesh.

-No! I'm not going to die right? Ri-

Bartleby screams as the zombies pile on top of him in a savage pile, a frenzied mob of greenish limbs and dark, sticky blood. Then, all of a sudden, everything is quiet again. The only evidence that Bartleby was ever there was the steady beam of a flashlight, illuminating an endless sea of glowing, hungry eyes.

(You see Bartleby? Sometimes being too headstrong doesn't work out. No one is perfect, and it's time I've learned not to always write the infallible hero in my stories. Does that make sense?)

(Bartleby?)

(Oh. Oh dear. It seems as though I am also not infallible. Well, I mean... no one's perfect, right?)