Secret Santicore: Zombie Apocalypse(s)

David Williams sets this task for his  Secret Santicore: "A kickoff for a zombie apocalypse campaign that does begin with: 'That guy over there doesn't look well'; 'There's a checmical spill. Those guys in the hazmat suits seem a bit worried'; or 'Nanomachines are really neat, aren't they?'"  

Tina Rowand is up to the challenge:

One for a fantasy campaign:
When Monsieur Delacouer declared he had written his masterpiece, His Majesty Himself came to the mad musician to partake of the promised exquisiteness. He came forth declaring that M. Delacouer had written a piece of such beauty the angels themselves would descend from Heaven and the dead would wake just to hear it.

His Majesty was more correct than he knew, and far more correct than any of us would have wished.

Now, we hear them singing outside the walls. They pierce their windpipes to imitate the mighty organ in the Church that awoke them from their eternal sleep, and they sing to us. Deep within the palace, the Song is not so loud; His Majesty sleeps soundly, haunted only by his first hearing of M. Delacouer’s lifework. But here on the walls, the music pulses in our brains.

The temptation to join the dead below is growing, to fling myself into their embrace and emerge with my heart stilled, my throat gaping, my whole being vibrating with my own part of the Song. It’s missing, I know it is. And the Song wants to be complete.

And one for a modern campaign:
Thirty seconds.  That’s how long the Berkley Boys said the gamma ray burst lasted.

Thirty seconds to nuke half the globe.  Thirty seconds to fry the ozone layer to nothin’, thirty seconds to start big ol’ brawl in the atmosphere that pitted global warmin’ and cosmic winter against each other.  They came out about even – about the only break we got.  It’s warm, and it’s grey-brown, and it’s like that all the time.

Those first couple years, couldn’t nobody go outside without enough lead to poison a legion of Romans, and even then we lost a lot of folks to cancer.  Those of us who survived went underground, far as we could go, and only went out to scrounge food.  We shoulda been smart, shoulda brought more plants down with us before they mostly died.  We ate a lot of mushrooms, and the canned stuff we could find.  Those first couple years were hell.

Then the Berkley Boys showed up.  They rolled up outta the wastes, no protective gear, skin all smooth and unblemished and not even fuckin’ tanned from all the UV, and said they had some shots for us.  Shots that’d let us walk the surface again.  They said they’d pulled stuff outta some bacteria [ Deinococcus radiodurans] that’d let us take the radiation, take the UV, and not sweat a bit.  Oh, and they cured cancer.  Took the world endin’, but they cured fuckin’ cancer.

Lotta folks said no, they were just crazies sent to poison us and steal our supplies, bring ‘em back before they died.  But I said yeah.  I took the shot.  And then the others did too.  And the Berkley Boys, they talked about usin’ this bacteria stuff on plants and animals, maybe let us rebuild.  We saw hope for the first time in a long time.

The zombies showed up not long after.  Rovin’ in packs from the places that got the full blast, took ‘em a while to walk here.  And we could look at ‘em and see that they’d gotten some of the settlements up the way.  We found out not too long after that the shots didn’t stop whatever was makin’ the zombies walk, and gettin’ bit by one made you real sick, then made you one of ‘em.  So we went from worryin’ about the Big C to worryin’ about the Big Z.

Least the Big Z you can fix with a shotgun.