Holla Amigos (and Hewitt). So as you may have heard I've been spending the last couple of weeks putting together a short story. It's almost done besides some polishing here and there, so I will be releasing the "chapters" gradually over the next few days (gives me time to change anything major if need be). I have invested much of my time and effort into this project which I am truly proud of. I would absolutely love it if any of you are willing to read it and give me your thoughts on it. I'm also more then happy to answer questions about the story or show thought process, planning, struggles behind it if anyone is willing to see it; a behind the scenes if you will. Who knows. It can be useful.

Also to mods. Is it okay if I post my "chapters" as separate posts since this will simultaneously act as an update? Or should I just compile it into one post?

Is this a typical zombie story? No. I am aware of the redundant genre and do not wish to contribute. Nor is this about survival. It is a story about the struggles of 3 men who have barricaded themselves in a prison cafeteria. Inspired by Reservoir Dogs minimalist setting and non-linear story telling. Is it a poor attempt at dark comedy? Maybe. Does it stereotype? Yes! Enjoy the profanity ridden journey with M Night Shyamalan twists!


to be shit? Didn’t know it was to die for.”
“Now’s not the time for jokes T-bag.”
“I get it. My last name is Lipton. For fuck sakes, Is it so hard to call me Doyle? What happened to no j-“
“Shut the fuck up”, Con said. “I’m going check his breathing.”
Con walked slowly towards the body of the correctional officer. His face was buried flat into the serving tray directly in front of him, unnecessarily mashing the already mashed potatoes even further. “Can’t hear anything…”
“No fucking shit. You’re supposed to check the breathing from his chest. Not the back of the motherfucker.”
“Doctors place their stethoscope on the back.”
“Well that’s because they’re using a stethoscope! Why don’t you just flip him over and check?!”
“Fuck that. He’s the size of a small elephant. I’m checking his pulse.”
Extending both his index and middle finger Con prodded the side of the man’s neck. There was nothing. Maybe the fat was blocking his pulse. He proceeded to lift up the dangling arm of the fat unmoving man and touched the tips of his index and middle fingers against his wrist. One minute of silence passed and Doyle’s limited patience ran out. “Okay. I’m done paying my respects to the troops. Do you feel anything?”[/spoiler]


[spoiler=][font]Con shoved the mop back and forth agains[/font]t the teal floor of the cafeteria. His eyes were fixed on the small puddles of soapy water trailing behind the saturated hairs of the mop. A voice from behind him interrupted his work. “Hurry up. Its nine thirty already. Some people have freedom to get to,” Osborn whined.[/FONT]
[font]“Well Osborn.” Con continued mopping[/font] while maintaining eye contact with the floor. “You are free to leave.”[/FONT]
[font]“What are you nuts? I’m not looking [/font]to lose my job.”[/FONT]
[font]“Well it looks like your so called fre[/font]edom is mine so long as I have this mop.” Con grinned as he turned to relish in the annoyance he managed to paint across Osborn’s face. [/FONT]Sucker.
“…Get back to work,” Osborn muttered in defeat.

Con shifted around the grounds of the empty cafeteria passing the head of his mop under and around the sea of stainless steel tables and chairs. The hairs of the mop flicked against their worn and scratched surfaces. Con found peace in cleaning. It was like meditation. His mind was transported to a place where the passage of time blurred and the thoughts that crowded his mind were temporarily erased. Con snapped out of his trance upon hearing the sound of a panicked voice from Osborn’s radio. He was too slow to catch what it said. Osborn lifted the radio from his belt and pinched the buttons on either of its side. “I’m on my way.” He stuffed the radio back into its pocket. “Simon says stay where you are. Just remember you’re being filmed so try to smile.”

Con glanced at the camera mounted on the ceiling. Before he had time to conjure a sarcastic reply, Osborn had already jogged through the cafeteria door leaving Con to bask in the silence alone. Should I continue cleaning? Ah I got nothing better to do. Con dipped his mop back into the yellow bucket of murky grey water and slapped its hairs against the floor.[/spoiler]

[spoiler=][font]“That mystery meat... Kind of reminds [/font]me of the ones they sell at McDonalds. You were a Maccas fry cook before you fucked up? Am I right T-bag?” Wilson asked as he lay on the top bunk.[/FONT]
[font]“Of course boss! You have fine taste b[/font]uds boss!” Doyle whimpered.[/FONT]
[font]Doyle knew from months of experience tha[/font]t any other answer would have dire consequences. He wasn’t looking to lose another one of his molars to the unstable Australian brute. Even making the slightest movement in the bottom bunk would be enough to trigger his wrath. Wilson had conditioned him to lie as still as a stick. No tossing or turning. No getting up to use the toilet. It made for some very uncomfortable nights.[/FONT]
[font]“Stop trying to suck my dick Doyle. Yo[/font]u already did that yesterday.” Doyle tensed as he anticipated some pain. But none was felt. [/FONT]Thank god. “Although I suppose my palate is more refined compared to the other animals in here. How’s yours?”
“P-p-pardon boss?” Doyle was confused.
“How did my dick taste in your mouth?”
Shit. He’s toying with me. “Um… Uh…”
His mind suddenly blanked. [I]What the fuck do I say? [I]Think. THINK! “It…”
“Are you making me wait Doyle?” Wilson asked in a threatening tone.
“No boss! I wa-“
“Then answer me before I test my new toy.” Wilson dangled a screwdriver for Doyle to see down below, waving it side to side playfully from its head. “You’re screwed,” Wilson cackled.
“It was salty like McDonald’s fries,” Doyle blurted.
[/I][/I][I][I][I]I fucked up. Retard! Doyle’s heart was racing as his muscles tensed once again to brace himself for Wilson’s punishment. But there was only silence. [I]I’ve never seen him this quiet. What sadistic trick is he pulling? Doyle wondered whether to risk speaking up or remain still as a rock. Doyle’s eyes were glued to the bottom of Wilson’s bunk while his heart punched at his ear drums. Suddenly, there was a clang on the floor. The screwdriver had slipped from Wilson’s hand and rolled under the bed. Doyle could hear an abrupt shift in the bunk above accompanied by the sound of retching. [I]What the hell? A stream of red gastric juices smacked and splattered against the floor below. Then a thump followed. Wilson’s lean large body collided against the floor. Doyle sat up instantly and stared at Wilson’s body absorbing the puddle of bloody vomit through his orange jumpsuit. Wilson’s mouth was opened and smudged with the red liquid like a poor attempt at applying lipstick. [I]Better just wait a couple of minutes before calling the guards. In the mean time, I better get that screw driver. Doyle reached down under his bed patting the ground and praying that he would miss any of the liquid splatter. [I]Got it. Before Doyle could retract his arm, Wilson gripped tightly onto his wrist and with a mighty pull Doyle was thrown from his bed to the other side of the cell. His back crashed against the wall taking out the air from within his lungs. “I’m sorry!” Doyle wheezed. Wilson did not reply[I]. Instead he rose from the puddle and with a menacing frown and slowly shuffled towards Doyle who had retreated to the corner of the cell and lodged himself in between the toilet and the wall. The warmth had died from Wilson’s skin which was now ice white, his irises were an odd yellow and trails of fresh blood dripped down from his nose to merge with the red smudge around his lips and chin. Doyle with his back glued tightly against the wall slowly slid up. It was as though the impact had taken out all the energy from his legs. The light that had brightened his cell suddenly died leaving him and Wilson in complete darkness. There was only a bizarre yellow glow from Wilson’s eyes. [I]Great timing… “Let’s get this over with…” Doyle said as he gripped tightly on the screwdriver. A rumbling roar erupted from Wilson’s throat as the two yellow eyes rushed towards him.[/I][/I][/I][/I][/I][/I][/I][/I][/I][/spoiler]
[spoiler=]The cells are opened. The power is out in this block. The inmates are zombies who are slaughtering all the COs. Second day at work. Ten bucks an hour. Should’ve chosen that job at the Apple store. Osborn reflected on his life decisions as he shined his torch down from the third level of the prison block. Yellow eyed prisoners swarmed the prison guards as they shredded away their riot gear and tore into their flesh. Screams, gunshots and deep gurgling roars echoed through the jail block. Idiots. Shoot them in the head. And why do they have to be the running kind? My health insurance doesn't cover this. Osborn started for the exit, but was interrupted by a panicked voice. “Hey CO! Over here!” Osborn shined his torch towards the voice to see a white man covered in blood gripping the bars of his cell door. The body of a white bald man lay behind him with multiple stab wounds to his chest, face and neck.
“Open this cage!” Doyle begged.
“A please would be nice,” Osborn said. “Are you bit?”
“Don’t fuck around! No! I’m not bit! I won’t be turning into a ‘zombie’ if that’s what you’re saying. And who the fuck would say yes?”
“Good point. However, I am obliged to give those who require medical attention priority treatment like your friend over there.” Osborn redirected his torch to the corpse.
Doyle gripped his stomach and attempted to groan in pain. “Yes! Yes! I’m bit. Oh god it hurts so much! Don’t mind him he just fell off his bunk.”
“Prove it. Prove that you aren’t bit.”
“I’m covered in blood! How can I prove it?!”
“Good point.”

Osborn jogged through the exit. He could still hear the cursing of the inmate. [I]I wonder when he’ll realise that his door is already unlocked?[/I][/spoiler]

[spoiler=][font]Con wiped the beads of sweat from his fo[/font]rehead as he admired the outcome of his hard work. [/FONT]Should I mop this place again? Con contemplated for a second. Ah fuck it I got nothing else to do. Con lifted the head of his mop and stuffed it into the yellow bucket once again only to find that it was empty[I]. Perfect. Now there was truly nothing for him to do but wait for his watcher to return. Even alone, the eyes of the cameras prevented him from appreciating his rare moment of solitude. His boredom however was short lived, as he heard the echoing of running footsteps moving towards the cafeteria. [I]Good timing. Con took a seat at a nearby table awaiting the eager COs to guide him back to his cell. Two voices bickered outside.[/I][/I]
[I][I]“You cocksucker!” one voice cursed angrily.
“Well at least I know how to open doors” the other voice said.
“When was the last time a prisoner opened up his own door?”
“Today. Ninety nine percent of them did except you and the dead guy next to you.”

The two men slammed opened the door of the cafeteria. Oblivious to the wet floor, their backs quickly met the ground as they slipped and skid across the cafeteria ground to collide against the stalls. [I]Well I did need help drying the floor. Looks like Osborn brought me Wilson’s whipping boy. “I think I’m bleeding,” Doyle moaned.
“Does it really make a difference when you’re already covered in blood?” Osborn said as he lay clutching the bump swelling on his head.
“Welcome back and hello,” Con said hoping they would recognise his presence.
“Oh. I forgot about you.” Osborn carefully picked himself up weary of the very likely possibility of another slip while Doyle remained on the ground moaning and rubbing his left arm. “Good work with the floors.”
“Well it looks like I’ll need to do some more work thanks to T-bag over there.” Con looked at the blood trail Doyle had left. “Care to explain what’s going on?”
“The short version. We have a zombie invasion. Crazy I know. All the exits were swarmed and the only place with food is here. ‘T-bag’ over there decided to follow when he finally figured out how to open his cell door.” Osborn paused for a second as though he was missing something. “Why the hell is he called T-bag?”
“His last name is Lipton,” Con said.
“What are you five?”
“And he is familiar with Wilson’s testicles in his mouth.”
“Now that’s understandable,” Osborn nodded. “You seem to be taking the idea of a zombie invasion quite well.”
“It’s been 6 months can you just let it go?” Doyle shouted.

[/I][/I][/I][I][I][I]Suddenly echoes of multiple footsteps rushed towards the cafeteria. But instead of bickering, there were roars and growls. Osborn exhaled a deep sigh. “That’s them. Time for your new job inmate. Barricade that door.” [/I][/I][/I][/spoiler]

[spoiler=][font]Doyle and Osborn sat across from one ano[/font]ther at a table near the cafeteria stalls. They had been arguing for hours much to Con’s dismay.[/FONT]
[font]“Why the fuck do we have to call them [/font]zombies?.” Doyle exclaimed.[/FONT]
[font]“They eat flesh. They chase after you.[/font] Bit people become bite people. They’re zombies. End of discussion.” Osborn rebutted.[/FONT]
[font]“You don’t even know if the last par[/font]t is true.” [/FONT]
[font]“Well that is why you are cuffed to th[/font]at chair. We are testing a likely hypothesis.”[/FONT]
[font]“I wasn't bit. It was a scratch that h[/font]appened when I slipped.”[/FONT]
[font]“Scratched, bit, touched. Potential tr[/font]ansmission of virus.”[/FONT]
[font]“Fuck it!” Doyle surrendered. “How[/font] about we just call them Zees? Less syllables.”[/FONT]
[COLOR=#333333][font]“Well you see that will cause too much[/font] confusion for the British. Zees. Zeds. Potential for conflict.̶

Hmm, I can't really say much since its just the prologue but so far so good. So far, all I have a feel of the Prologue is that they're in some sort of place with trays and that there are three of them. I don't know where they are currently or whats happening. Its all mainly dialogue.

For me Prologues set the atmosphere, like background, the sounds or what some of them look like. It gives the reader something to grasp on rather than just the characters voices. I will look forward to your chapters, Envoy.

When the chapters start rolling out, plots start to show and comments and questions start to pour in with it. Until then. :D

Con shoved the mop back and forth against the teal floor of the cafeteria. His eyes were fixed on the small puddles of soapy water trailing behind the saturated hairs of the mop. A voice from behind him interrupted his work. “Hurry up. Its nine thirty already. Some people have freedom to get to,” Osborn whined.
“Well Osborn.” Con continued mopping while maintaining eye contact with the floor. “You are free to leave.”
“What are you nuts? I’m not looking to lose my job.”
“Well it looks like your so called freedom is mine so long as I have this mop.” Con grinned as he turned to relish in the annoyance he managed to paint across Osborn’s face. Sucker.
“…Get back to work,” Osborn muttered in defeat.

Con shifted around the grounds of the empty cafeteria passing the head of his mop under and around the sea of stainless steel tables and chairs. The hairs of the mop flicked against their worn and scratched surfaces. Con found peace in cleaning. It was like meditation. His mind was transported to a place where the passage of time blurred and the thoughts that crowded his mind were temporarily erased. Con snapped out of his trance upon hearing the sound of a panicked voice from Osborn’s radio. He was too slow to catch what it said. Osborn lifted the radio from his belt and pinched the buttons on either of its side. “I’m on my way.” He stuffed the radio back into its pocket. “Simon says stay where you are. Just remember you’re being filmed so try to smile.”

Con glanced at the camera mounted on the ceiling. Before he had time to conjure a sarcastic reply, Osborn had already jogged through the cafeteria door leaving Con to bask in the silence alone. Should I continue cleaning? Ah I got nothing better to do. Con dipped his mop back into the yellow bucket of murky grey water and slapped its hairs against the floor.


“That mystery meat... Kind of reminds me of the ones they sell at McDonalds. You were a Maccas fry cook before you fucked up? Am I right T-bag?” Wilson asked as he lay on the top bunk.
“Of course boss! You have fine taste buds boss!” Doyle whimpered.
Doyle knew from months of experience that any other answer would have dire consequences. He wasn’t looking to lose another one of his molars to the unstable Australian brute. Even making the slightest movement in the bottom bunk would be enough to trigger his wrath. Wilson had conditioned him to lie as still as a stick. No tossing or turning. No getting up to use the toilet. It made for some very uncomfortable nights.
“Stop trying to suck my dick Doyle. You already did that yesterday.” Doyle tensed as he anticipated some pain. But none was felt. Thank god. “Although I suppose my palate is more refined compared to the other animals in here. How’s yours?”
“P-p-pardon boss?” Doyle was confused.
“How did my dick taste in your mouth?”
Shit. He’s toying with me. “Um… Uh…”
His mind suddenly blanked. What the fuck do I say? Think. THINK! “It…”
“Are you making me wait Doyle?” Wilson asked in a threatening tone.
“No boss! I wa-“
“Then answer me before I test my new toy.” Wilson dangled a screwdriver for Doyle to see down below, waving it side to side playfully from its head. “You’re screwed,” Wilson cackled.
“It was salty like McDonald’s fries,” Doyle blurted.

I fucked up. Retard! Doyle’s heart was racing as his muscles tensed once again to brace himself for Wilson’s punishment. But there was only silence. I’ve never seen him this quiet. What sadistic trick is he pulling? Doyle wondered whether to risk speaking up or remain still as a rock. Doyle’s eyes were glued to the bottom of Wilson’s bunk while his heart punched at his ear drums. Suddenly, there was a clang on the floor. The screwdriver had slipped from Wilson’s hand and rolled under the bed. Doyle could hear an abrupt shift in the bunk above accompanied by the sound of retching. What the hell? A stream of red gastric juices smacked and splattered against the floor below. Then a thump followed. Wilson’s lean large body collided against the floor. Doyle sat up instantly and stared at Wilson’s body absorbing the puddle of bloody vomit through his orange jumpsuit. Wilson’s mouth was opened and smudged with the red liquid like a poor attempt at applying lipstick. Better just wait a couple of minutes before calling the guards. In the mean time, I better get that screw driver. Doyle reached down under his bed patting the ground and praying that he would miss any of the liquid splatter. Got it. Before Doyle could retract his arm, Wilson gripped tightly onto his wrist and with a mighty pull Doyle was thrown from his bed to the other side of the cell. His back crashed against the wall taking out the air from within his lungs. “I’m sorry!” Doyle wheezed. Wilson did not reply. Instead he rose from the puddle and with a menacing frown and slowly shuffled towards Doyle who had retreated to the corner of the cell and lodged himself in between the toilet and the wall. The warmth had died from Wilson’s skin which was now ice white, his irises were an odd yellow and trails of fresh blood dripped down from his nose to merge with the red smudge around his lips and chin. Doyle with his back glued tightly against the wall slowly slid up. It was as though the impact had taken out all the energy from his legs. The light that had brightened his cell suddenly died leaving him and Wilson in complete darkness. There was only a bizarre yellow glow from Wilson’s eyes. Great timing… “Let’s get this over with…” Doyle said as he gripped tightly on the screwdriver. A rumbling roar erupted from Wilson’s throat as the two yellow eyes rushed towards him.

So far so good!! Had me laughing when you compared his dick to tasting like fries. Effort to create effects were great to me. Do take note I'm not an English teacher lol. But for me this piece of writing entertained me real good! I like your style of writing keep it up!!

Haha, glad that the joke worked. I debated whether to include it in there due to its crudeness. Thanks for the feedback! Means a a lot.

Eh, I'll probably leave a disclaimer. I keep assuming that the people on here are all 15+. But in terms of changing tone, nah. It's too late for that.

The cells are opened. The power is out in this block. The inmates are zombies who are slaughtering all the COs. Second day at work. Ten bucks an hour. Should’ve chosen that job at the Apple store. Osborn reflected on his life decisions as he shined his torch down from the third level of the prison block. Yellow eyed prisoners swarmed the prison guards as they shredded away their riot gear and tore into their flesh. Screams, gunshots and deep gurgling roars echoed through the jail block. Idiots. Shoot them in the head. And why do they have to be the running kind? My health insurance doesn't cover this. Osborn started for the exit, but was interrupted by a panicked voice. “Hey CO! Over here!” Osborn shined his torch towards the voice to see a white man covered in blood gripping the bars of his cell door. The body of a white bald man lay behind him with multiple stab wounds to his chest, face and neck.
“Open this cage!” Doyle begged.
“A please would be nice,” Osborn said. “Are you bit?”
“Don’t fuck around! No! I’m not bit! I won’t be turning into a ‘zombie’ if that’s what you’re saying. And who the fuck would say yes?”
“Good point. However, I am obliged to give those who require medical attention priority treatment like your friend over there.” Osborn redirected his torch to the corpse.
Doyle gripped his stomach and attempted to groan in pain. “Yes! Yes! I’m bit. Oh god it hurts so much! Don’t mind him he just fell off his bunk.”
“Prove it. Prove that you aren’t bit.”
“I’m covered in blood! How can I prove it?!”
“Good point.”

Osborn jogged through the exit. He could still hear the cursing of the inmate. I wonder when he’ll realise that his door is already unlocked?


Con wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead as he admired the outcome of his hard work. Should I mop this place again? Con contemplated for a second. Ah fuck it I got nothing else to do. Con lifted the head of his mop and stuffed it into the yellow bucket once again only to find that it was empty. Perfect. Now there was truly nothing for him to do but wait for his watcher to return. Even alone, the eyes of the cameras prevented him from appreciating his rare moment of solitude. His boredom however was short lived, as he heard the echoing of running footsteps moving towards the cafeteria. Good timing. Con took a seat at a nearby table awaiting the eager COs to guide him back to his cell. Two voices bickered outside.
“You cocksucker!” one voice cursed angrily.
“Well at least I know how to open doors” the other voice said.
“When was the last time a prisoner opened up his own door?”
“Today. Ninety nine percent of them did except you and the dead guy next to you.”

The two men slammed opened the door of the cafeteria. Oblivious to the wet floor, their backs quickly met the ground as they slipped and skid across the cafeteria ground to collide against the stalls. Well I did need help drying the floor. Looks like Osborn brought me Wilson’s whipping boy. “I think I’m bleeding,” Doyle moaned.
“Does it really make a difference when you’re already covered in blood?” Osborn said as he lay clutching the bump swelling on his head.
“Welcome back and hello,” Con said hoping they would recognise his presence.
“Oh. I forgot about you.” Osborn carefully picked himself up weary of the very likely possibility of another slip while Doyle remained on the ground moaning and rubbing his left arm. “Good work with the floors.”
“Well it looks like I’ll need to do some more work thanks to T-bag over there.” Con looked at the blood trail Doyle had left. “Care to explain what’s going on?”
“The short version. We have a zombie invasion. Crazy I know. All the exits were swarmed and the only place with food is here. ‘T-bag’ over there decided to follow when he finally figured out how to open his cell door.” Osborn paused for a second as though he was missing something. “Why the hell is he called T-bag?”
“His last name is Lipton,” Con said.
“What are you five?”
“And he is familiar with Wilson’s testicles in his mouth.”
“Now that’s understandable,” Osborn nodded. “You seem to be taking the idea of a zombie invasion quite well.”
“It’s been 6 months can you just let it go?” Doyle shouted.

Suddenly echoes of multiple footsteps rushed towards the cafeteria. But instead of bickering, there were roars and growls. Osborn exhaled a deep sigh. “That’s them. Time for your new job inmate. Barricade that door.”


Doyle and Osborn sat across from one another at a table near the cafeteria stalls. They had been arguing for hours much to Con’s dismay.
“Why the fuck do we have to call them zombies?.” Doyle exclaimed.
“They eat flesh. They chase after you. Bit people become bite people. They’re zombies. End of discussion.” Osborn rebutted.
“You don’t even know if the last part is true.”
“Well that is why you are cuffed to that chair. We are testing a likely hypothesis.”
“I wasn't bit. It was a scratch that happened when I slipped.”
“Scratched, bit, touched. Potential transmission of virus.”
“Fuck it!” Doyle surrendered. “How about we just call them Zees? Less syllables.”
“Well you see that will cause too much confusion for the British. Zees. Zeds. Potential for conflict.”
“Are you ladies done with your trivial shit?” Con grunted as he pushed a fridge against the double doors. 1 mop, 2 broom sticks, 100 meters of electrical cables, and a fridge. That should do it. Whatever was on the other side of the door had stopped their attempts at breaking through. “Thanks for your help fellas. It’s not like you’re directly affected by what’s on the other side of that door.”
“My hand is chained to a chair,” Doyle said.
“I’m supervising the guy who could turn into a zombie,” Osborn said while flicking through his iPhone.

Bloody procrastinators. Con took a seat at the table with the two other men. "So were you able to call for help," Con asked.
"No credit. Besides those who need to know would've known by now," Osborn replied.
"How about Internet?"
"No wifi."
"3G?"
"Nope."
"Then why the fuck do you have a phone?"
"He's fucking lying," Doyle pointed out. "He was on Facebook 10 minutes ago."
"I told you the only thing iOS updates don’t ruin is Facebook."
"You have two friends."
"I just made my account last week."
"They're your parents."
"My mother took my phone and decided to add herself and my father without my knowledge. Why on earth would I do that voluntarily?"

Con palmed his face and released a disappointed sigh. What did I do to deserve this? "Did they say anything?"
Osborn glanced at his phone. "I’ve sent them a message and they still haven’t replied to me. Although strangely my father made an update a few minutes later asking how he can change his profile picture.”
An isolated incident? Con snatched the phone from Osborn's hand and accessed the internet browser. "I have 4% battery life. By the time the page loads that phone is dead," Osborn warned.

The dialogue's alright, but you should really describe the setting a little bit more.

I'm not telling you to pull this apart, just put in about a paragraph per chapter that completely explains the room they're in.

You're jumping the gun on action, and since there's no build up or suspense, the zombie thing falls flat and doesn't feel threatening.

Noted. Where did you feel that this mainly occurred? 7.25? I was probably focusing too much on dialogue/internal monologue that I felt that drawing out too long of descriptions (which were not long enough in this case) would have been boring to read. I'll keep that in mind. Thanks.

Mainly the Prologue.

When people read, they build the setting in their head, so what you want to do is that when a setting is introduced, you explain everything about it. If it helps, draw a map and label where the characters are, and explain what's in your mind to us, so that we're on the same page.

I have no idea who the main characters are, why they're talking, where they are, any of that.

This is probably the biggest piece of advice i ever got on writing:
EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN THE PLOT NEEDS A WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY AND HOW.

For example, if the characters decide to enter a room, I need to know EXACTLY why they're entering the room, what they're trying to do in the room, when (how long they're going to do it for, predicted), where they're trying to go, why they're doing it and how.

I know you're trying to get dialogue, but if you put too much readers skim over it, because dialogue is like commentators on Let's Play videos. Sure, they provide insight and knowledge, as well as notifying the audience of what's going to happen, but the majority of the time I want them to shut up and actually show me the game.

TL;DR
Your characters are talking too much, and the dialogue isn't very crisp either, and due to the lack of continuous, prolonged action it feels like the characters do one thing, stand around and talk about it, and then do something else.

Also, context. Half of the dialogue could be scrapped to a fifth of it's size and this would be much better.

LESS IS MORE.

EXAMPLE:

“Why the fuck do we have to call them zombies?.” Doyle exclaimed.
“They eat flesh. They chase after you. Bit people become bite people. They’re zombies. End of discussion.” Osborn rebutted.
“You don’t even know if the last part is true.”
“Well that is why you are cuffed to that chair. We are testing a likely hypothesis.”

From now on, you're not going to write a WORD without listening to this starting at 5:20 It should spook you.

You need to be fucking scared when you write. If your character gets cut, you literally either need to remember how it felt to be cut, or give yourself a small cut. When I write battle scenes, I shoot myself in the feet or arms with an airsoft gun to get a sense of what the stinging feels like. Now try and rewrite that like you actually would. I'll try it.

“Zombies? A-are you fucking ki-kidding me?” Doyle exclaimed.
“I don't fucking know, man! But they're fuck--fucking, fucking eating people, man!” Osborn rebutted.
“No! No, you don't know that!”
“I don't fu-fucking know! But they're fucking eating each other!"

It's not the best, but this was very contextual. But when people are scared for their lives, they don't work very well.

Writing horror should not be fun. The reason horror writers go crazy is because they're horrified when they write this, because it lives in their head.

So make the characters speak through their actions and nervous stutters, not well-phrased sentences. Make us fear for the characters.

[NOTE: POTENTIAL SPOILERS]


The phone laid in the middle of the table with a black screen.
"I told you," Osborn said.
"We've got several headlines. Better than nothing," Con said.
"Power outage at Malcolm maximum security prison 5 minutes ago, Warden retires 3 weeks ago, Malcolm prison food below health standards 3 days ago, and something about a scandal involving a guard. So we know that Malcolm has bad food, bad security and bad people. I thought everyone knew that. How does this help our situation?"

It doesn’t…There was an awkward moment of silence as the men dwelled on their failure. Osborn stood up from his chair and made way towards the kitchen. Doyle was using his free arm to rest his head with his palm pressing against his cheek and elbow standing on the table. "What are you in for?" Doyle asked.
There was a pause before Con decided to reply. "Manslaughter," Con said plainly.
"Well shit. What made you do that?"
"Self defence."
"What were you before?"
"FDA. Researcher."
"Ah, we got a smart one over here. I thought you nerds were supposed to be the ones outta jail? "
“I told you it was self defence,” Con snapped. “Not my fault the law was unconvinced.“ Con’s tone indicated that he did not wish to delve further into history.
“Calm down it was a joke. Seesh,” Doyle insisted. “Last question and I’ll stop asking. How long have you been here? Three years? Four?”
“Close. Five years.”
“Wow! We got an old man over here.”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
“I’m naturally curious and easily bored. I got nothing to say to that fat fucking guard over there and we inmates gotta stick together.” Doyle’s overbearing friendliness was painful for Con to endure. “I think I remember a good story five years ago. One of my good ones, I promise.”
Con released a deep sigh. “Get it over with.”
“I knew you were interested.” Doyle’s smile stretched further. “I used to be a top notch dealer while I was working as a fry cook. I mean high level. Pro league. It was going for 6 years straight without buckling.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’ll get to that. Just listen. To order a batch of weed through the drive through you had to make an order of 3 Cheese burgers, large fries, a Happy Meal, 8 Garden Salads and a number of other things that match the value of what we’re selling. I mean who the fuck orders salads at McDonalds right? Different drugs, different combinations. But it just happens that one day I got unlucky and a guy got what he wasn't after.”
“Seems like an awful lot of work for something you can just do on the streets.”
“Listen. I bring in more customers to the fast food joint, the manager makes more money, and we split the cash 60 40. We get money that we can bank and still hold onto whatever is in the fridge for those who are looking to get full instead of high.”
“And why isn’t he in here? Your manager?”
“He was but he got shanked by Wilson three months in. Anyways, I’m getting off track. Five years ago there was this Asian dude who wanted me to help him out for one hundred bucks. That was only my second year of dealing and I wanted more connections. I said I’d hear him out.”
The conversation began to catch Osborn’s interest and he returned to his seat munching on an apple. “Please continue.” Osborn insisted.
“Did you get anything for us?” Doyle asked.
“Couldn’t find anything.”
“I worked in that kitchen today. I know for a fact that there is plenty back there.”
“Well you can go back and get some yourself,” Osborn said with a mocking smile.

Doyle leaned over the table trying to get himself as close to Osborn the cuffs on his wrist would allow. Doyle spat towards Osborn’s face, but the guard’s quick reactions allowed him to shift to the side leaving the wet globule of spit to meet the floor. Not bad for such a big guy. “I’ll find you something later. Just get on with it,” Con urged.
“Fine.” Doyle calmed himself and sat back down on his seat. “Where was I?”
“You were young and naïve and you were discussing a deal.”
“Right. So I said it depends on what he wanted me to do. Turns out all I had to do was to empty this small spray into the bag of whoever was ordering. One hundred bucks for something that simple? Little fishy if you ask me. I told the guy I didn’t want anyone dying on me, but before I could even get to declining he opened a case filled to the brim with one hundred dollar notes.” Excitement filled Doyle’s voice and his eyes widened as though he was reliving his past. “Once you see something like that it flips a switch in your brain. You start breathing. Your heart starts punching your chest yelling ‘take it’. And your imagination goes fucken haywire. Imagine the hottest girl in your class just came up to you and said she would ride your dick right now in the bathroom stall.”
“So you said yes?” Osborn asked.
“I said fuck yes! He handed me a photo of the guy along with the case of cash. He said he trusted me and assured me there would be no traces and if I did well I could expect more future transactions. A few days later, I spotted the guy in the photo with one his buddies. They ordered weed and some actual food. I did what I had to do and gave them what they wanted.”
“That’s it?” Osborn asked.

There was a pause from Doyle as though he was uncomfortable with the ending of his story. “There were reports of 4 deaths the day after. A man in his twenties and… 3 children. The murderer was the same guy that was on the photo.”
The room fell silent once again.
“What did you do with the money?” Osborn asked.
“I burnt it.”

The dialogue is fine and I agree with Capt. Cook.

But its a bit much, you need to catch the reader's attention. You did a bit in the prologue but its slowly dragging a bit. Pepper the dialogue with action, like some twiddles his fingers and the other finds it annoying somewhat. The thing is with the films you mentioned is that we could see them: we could see their face's reactions, how their body moved and basically some of their personality from their body language.

Here, its sort of different. All we get is dialogue and a bit of action. We need a bit more of you're to pursue that.

Are there any specific moments in time that you think would have needed more action? I think that's the main thing I struggled with during this scene; deciding where to put it. When you limit the amount of things your characters can interact with, you consequently limit their actions. The guys in this scene are just sitting around the table listening to someone tell a story. Imagine trying to write about a father telling his son a bed time story, the emphasis would be on what he's saying rather then what he's doing. Towards the end of Ender's Game, for example, there were 4-5 pages of just continuous dialogue with a few sentences of actions here and there. I can see that I might be able to add a few sentences, here and there, but not anything more then that (a paragraph for example) in this scene.

I was thinking that perhaps the limited action could be forgiven by an interesting dialogue, but since you mentioned it was "dragging a bit" perhaps the real issue here is that what the characters were talking about was not interesting enough to captivate your attention which is of course the fault of the writer for not coming up with a riveting discussion. While writing this chunk of dialogue (and this story in general) I was aware of the risk of bias where I find what they are talking about way more interesting then the readers would.

I also want to ask a few questions. How did the tone feel? Were you able to feel the emotions of the characters when speaking or did it need more description? I've read in a few writing articles that I should minimize adverbial tags and keep things simple ,i.e. asked, said, since they could be distracting.

Did you feel that there was too much exposition from Doyle? Did it seem natural?

And at this point in time, are you able to describe the characters in terms of personality and traits? If so how would you describe them?

The dialogue is fine but its beginning to drag on but from the current chapter it isn't yet, at least for me. They're talking about their history which is fine but if it goes down another path it may not. I've read pages of dialogue from books too, mostly they were flashbacks or a retelling of history which in this case fits it. Its history about the characters told in their own voices and bias which is good.

The tone? The actions you wrote were okay and it might just be my personal preference to add a bit more action.

Maybe Osborn could've shrugged when he said he couldn't find anything in the kitchen. Small things, body language.

I could feel their emotions through dialogue, yes. I think I've read that article too when I first began to write.. I followed it too. [So the additional actions may be my bias. Sorry.]

Hmm.. You left Con's history a mystery, a bit which gives a small hook. His years in prison has given him a sort of attitude that just goes with the flow of things. Doyle is his complete opposite, talkative and friendly. He seems to accept he's here unlike Con who [understandably] is bitter to the world for locking him up. Osborn looks to be open-minded, a bit on the sarcastic side and seems to have seen a lot of dire things to keep his calm in a zombie invasion.

Doyle's exposition is natural, the flow of conversation is smooth and it doesn't just stop and start on another topic.

Okay so Doyle gave the guy in the photo the weapon he needed to murder four people?