The Final Ward. A variation on the Last Word
Drink a lot prior to mixing. Drink some more. Drink so much, in fact, that you pass out on your kitchen floor. Pass out hard.
Wake a week later, shivering and hungry. Get up. No electricity. Strange. No running water. Double strange. Tug at the beard forming on your face and scratch at your junk with vigor. No one else seems to be in the house. Huh.
Momentarily ignoring your confusion for the sake of getting stuff done, locate the nearest (half-full) jar of peanut butter and devour it in no more than ten minutes. Still hungry... Fruit? All the fruit is rotted. Well. Fridge? Open the fridge: it's warm; everything is rotted. Damn.
A noise. Your neighbor is at the door, yelling about something you can't quite understand or clearly make out. Schmearing palm 'cross forehead—which is now starting to expand and contract in a painfully pronounced 1-2 rhythm—tiptoe softly to the door.
Oh. Shit. Your neighbor's face is peeling off and he won't quit clawing at the glass window. "Braaaaiiiiiiiinzzzzzzz." Oh. Shit. Your neighbor's a zombie. Shit shit shit.
Retreat to the kitchen. Grab a shaker. Pour one part rye, one part Chartreuse green, one part Luxardo, and one part lemon juice. Shake well, with a sense of post-apocalyptic urgency. Take a sip and try to remember where you placed your boyhood baseball bat. You might need it pretty soon. For brain smashing, of course. Another glance out the window: "Shit." Another taste of your drink: *yum*. Zombies: unexpected. No food: damned unfortunate. State of thirst: well-satiated.