NIGEL
Nigel saw the girl at the side of the road and slowed down, turning off his lights so as not to blind her. The girl was young, early twenties, and had hair so blonde that it seemed to light up the darkness around her.
Nigel pressed the switch for the passenger window and leant over. “You need a lift?”
The girl looked at him and smiled. To Nigel the expression seemed to have a hint mischief about it. She sauntered over to his car and placed a hand on the roof. “Hey honey! I surely do.”
American? Nigel frowned. What was a young American girl doing walking along an English country-road at close to midnight? Guess, it doesn’t matter, Nigel thought. If the gal needs a lift. I’m happy to oblige. He unlocked the passenger door and pushed it open. “Get in.”
“That’s mighty fine of ya darlin.” The girl hopped into the seat beside him and offered her hand. “My name’s Marline.”
Nigel accepted the handshake and introduced himself back. “My name is Mark,” he lied.
“Well, Mark,” Marline pulled shut the door on her side. “Where ya heading?”
Nigel pressed down on the accelerator and pulled the car away, putting his lights back on a moment later. “I’m just on my way to work. I’m a lorry driver and I gotta take a delivery to Amsterdam, so I’m off to pick up my truck.”
“Amsterdam? Betcha going there for more than jus’ business.”
Nigel examined the girl. The cheeky grin was still on her face and for a moment he didn’t know how he should respond. He wanted to say whatever he thought she would like the most. “I…er, may find the time to fit in a little bit of pleasure.”
“I know exactly what ya mean. Life’s too short to miss any chances to party.”
Nigel nodded, keeping his eyes on the road, but catching brief glimpses of the young body sat beside him. In the darkness of the car’s interior, the only thing he could see clearly was the pale flesh of Marline’s thighs. He cleared his throat as he took a shallow bend in the road. “So, you like to party then?”
“Uh huh, every day of ma life.”
Nigel snuck another quick glance at the girl’s thigh and felt himself getting hard, the fabric of his jeans fighting back against his growing erection. “How do you like to party?”
“I like ta fuck! How bout you?”
Nigel’s grip on the steering wheel tightened momentarily and the car swerved back and forth. After taking a deep breath, Nigel forced out a reply. “I like to fuck too. In fact I’d like to fuck you.”
Did I really just say that? Shit, she started it.
Marline was silent and Nigel felt as though his beating heart would burst right through his chest. He felt sick.
After another agonising moment, Marline finally replied to his comment. “Well pull on over and let’s find ourselves somewhere nice and quiet then.”
Nigel swallowed and a lump stuck in his throat. Without speaking, he pulled the car onto the verge, beneath some trees. He was a bag of nerves, which was surprising as he had fucked hundreds of women in his lifetime (and not all of it was against their will). Sometimes women liked to have sex with him voluntarily, but they weren’t usually so young and feisty.
Gonna enjoy having my way with this one. Might even let her live.
“You okay there, honey? Looks like I’ve lost you to the fairies.”
Nigel turned off the engine and looked at Marline’s beautiful face, full of soft features and gentle contours. He composed himself; didn’t want to scare the girl by allowing her to glimpse at the beast beneath his mask. “Come on let’s find us a place to party,” he said.
“Hell yeah!” Marline squealed in delight and pushed herself out of the car, slamming shut the door behind her.
Nigel shut his own door and pressed the central locking button his key fob. The car squeaked and lit up before going dark and silent. Nigel rubbed at the stubble on his chin and grinned. Time to get to work.
When he looked up Marline was not there.
“Marline, sweetheart. Where’d you get to?”
“I’m over here!” Her voice seemed to float out of the nearby trees. “Ya gonna come find me, sugar?”
Great, she expects me to play childish games just to get a bit of pussy. Obviously she doesn’t realise that I’m having it whether she likes it or not.
With a sigh, Nigel entered the treeline of the woods, watching his step carefully as he navigated his way over tangled roots and fallen branches. “Come here, sweetheart. This isn’t the way to party.”
“Sure it is, honey. Gotta have you work up a sweat before we get down to the main event. You want the prize, gonna have to work for it.”
You’re testing my patience, bitch.
As calmly as he could, Nigel laughed and said, “Okay, sweetheart, but don’t make me wait too long or else I may lose interest.”
“Oh you won’t lose interest in what I got. It’s ta die for.”
Yeah, and that’s exactly what’s gonna happen to you, sweet Marline, just as soon as I hump the shit out of every one of your holes. Even your ears will be bleeding once I’m done with ya.
Up ahead, Nigel caught sight of something, a flash of something lighter than the surrounding browns and greens of the shadowy trees. Nigel made towards it. “I see you, Marline!”
“Oh no, what ever will I do if ya find me. Please be gentle, now.”
That’s the last thing I’ll be.
Nigel couldn’t help but laugh as he picked up speed, more and more certain that he could see the young girl up ahead.
“Jeepers, the big strong man found me. Now what are ya gonna do with me?”
Nigel’s jaw dropped. Marline was backed up against a tree, with her arms behind her, and was completely-
Naked!
“Hell girl,” Nigel quipped. You don’t waste no time!”
Marline smiled, the same mischievous smile that she’d shown him at the side of the road when he’d picked her up. “Like I said, life’s too short to miss out on partying. Come get me, big boy.”
Nigel’s grin was so wide that it stretched the skin at the corners of his mouth. Can’t wait to kill you sweetheart. Only question is if I gut you with my knife or strangle you to death. Think I’ll go for strangling; let you look into my eyes while I murder you.
Nigel reached Marline and instantly reached out for her breasts. The girl put her knee up to block his advance. “Not so quick, sugar.”
Nigel sighed. “No more games.”
Marline shook her head. “No, no more games I promise. Just close your eyes because I have a present for you.”
Nigel shook his head. “No.”
Marline pouted, her plush lips bunching up into a moist circle. “Pwitty pwease! I just wanna give you something to remember me by.”
“Fine!” Nigel shook his head, impatient, but did as she asked of him; eager to get started. He closed his eyes.
The pain was blinding. The sharp stab at his ribs seemed to radiate through his entire body until even his fingertips were aching. He dropped to the floor, trying to catch his breath. But couldn’t.
“How’s that feel mate?”
Mate? Nigel looked up at the girl – who had suddenly lost her American accent – and saw that her mischievous grin had become a malevolent smirk. The girl had planned this all along; the blood-soaked blade in her hand made him sure of that fact. “W…Why?”
“Why what, you fat fuck?”
Nigel gripped the gushing wound in his side and felt hot blood run through his fingers. “Why…this?”
Marline (if that’s even her real name) began to laugh so loud that the sound added to Nigel’s already-substantial pain, rattling around inside his skull. The young girl – now a mask-less monster, the same as Nigel – stared down at him with disgust etched across her face. “What? You mean it’s okay for you to go around murdering young girls, but it’s not okay for me to go and stab you back. You fucking hypocrite!”
Nigel tried to rise up to his knees but failed and fell back down onto his side. “H-How did you…know?”
“Cus you killed my girlfriend!” Marline spat at him, but there was too much pain seizing Nigel’s body that he didn’t have the capacity to feel it his face. “Name was Dannielle and all she wanted was a lift, but you gave her a lot more than that didn’t you? Good thing she managed to make a secret phone call before you raped her.”
Nigel put a hand up in front of him. “You have…me mistaken.”
To Nigel’s horror, the young girl ran her tongue along the blood-drenched blade, savouring his blood, and then she pounced again. The blade entered Nigel just below his collarbone. It didn’t hurt as much as the first stabbing, but was enough to knock the wind out of him again.
Marline crouched beside him and got right in his face. Absurdly, Nigel was aware of the smell of peppermint on the girl’s breath. “I don’t make mistakes,” she said to him in a whisper. “I’ve been watching you for a long time, Nigel; seen the girl’s you’ve raped and murdered. It ends now.”
But that was a lie, Nigel found out, because an hour later Marline was still hacking away at him with her blade and squealing with delight.
The girl really does like to party, thought Nigel, as he screamed for help that would never come.
THE PEELING OF SAMUEL LLOYD COLLINS
Thursday
My big toenail fell off today. That leaves three on my right foot and two on my left. It stung at first, but now my toe just feels…hot. I’m keeping the nail in an ashtray in the kitchen.
My name is Samuel Lloyd Collins and I suppose, in a way, this is my last will and testament, except I don’t have anybody to leave anything to, so I guess this is really just my last testament. Or maybe writing this is merely the closest thing I have to company.
I don’t have to be alone. I could go next door and take part in one of their endless political debates that echo through the walls and keep me awake at night. Sometimes I think about yelling at them to ‘keep it down’, but what would be the use? Politics are high on everybody’s agenda right now. One would expect them to be.
Everyone has their own theory on how ‘The Peeling’ started, but I personally think it was the Arabs. It’s always the Arabs, isn’t it? Saddam is dead and the Yanks finally got Osama. So what choice did they have left but to go for broke? Everyone assumed their master plan would culminate with a nuclear attack on a major city, but in many ways this virus is worse. We may have snuffed out the leaders, but their passion for killing, it seems, will never die. You cut the head off a chicken and it runs around like a maniac, spraying anyone nearby with blood. That’s what ‘The Peeling’ is: arterial chicken blood spraying us all with its infectious filth. I guess the Arabs won in the end…
I came down with the sickness on Tuesday. Two days ago. I’ve already lost a bit of hair and some skin off my testicles, and you already know about the toenails. Funnily enough, my fingernails are currently unaffected, probably the only reason I’m able to write this. I thought about typing this on the computer, but somehow it felt like a man’s final words should be in ink, don’t you think? Maybe when it comes right down to it, paper is more permanent than a collection of cheap circuits.
My future is laid out for me now. I’ll be dead within a week, give or take a day. The beauty of the Peeling is that it leaves no room for hypothesising. No room for hope. It kills every time, no exceptions. In a way that certainty has allowed me to come to terms and accept my fate. This time next week I will be a bubbling oil-slick of rancid, dissolving flesh. Somehow I’m fine with that.
But I need to know who is responsible for the pain I’m in. I already told you I think it’s the Arabs, but unless I know for sure…Well let’s just say that knowing for definite would bring a certain degree of closure to the situation. Of course, the honourable men and women of the Government’s various agencies are urgently investigating the origin of this disease and those responsible, but as each second passes, Great Britain withers and dies beneath its second great plague. I just hope to be alive when they determine the guilty party.
Already know it was the Arabs, just need to know for sure…
Friday
I woke up this morning stuck to my pillow. Not because I had been drooling in my sleep, but because the skin below my left eye had rotted and fused with the cotton. I had to rip the pillow away and half of my face with it. The resulting meld of infected flesh and sickly white cotton reminded me of a surrealist painting, beautiful in a way. Maybe I’ll have it framed before I die.
What an odd thing to muse upon! It would not surprise me if I have gone quite mad. I’m already starting to feel delightfully delirious (or maybe that’s just the throbbing and burning where my face used to be).
Such good bone structure I was blessed with, but did not know of, until I was today faced with it in the mirror. The bone of my cheek now shows right through, covered only by several, thin slivers of sinewy gristle. I look like the Phantom of the Opera (albeit a grizzlier version). I wonder what part of me will dissolve tomorrow. That’s the fun part of this sickness, I suppose, not knowing which chunk of skin will decompose next. It isn’t like typical flesh-eating diseases; they have a point of infection and usually spread systematically. But The Peeling strikes the body at random, necrotising a man’s feet before popping up a day later and doing the same to his ears. I’ve seen hundreds of case photographs and no two victims follow the same path of infection. The only non-variable: it’s always fatal. No one understands this disease at all…
…and no one can stop it.
I think it’s starting on my chest…
Saturday
I can see my ribs. Two of them, glistening at me like curved piano keys. It’s amusing, in some morbidly fascinating way, to see one’s inner workings. The pain is starting to subside, and thankfully only throbbed for a few hours in the morning, but the cloying odour inside the house is repugnant. Ideally, I would open the curtains and windows, but I don’t wish to be disturbed by the outside world. I would only become resentful of those who still have all of their skin. Besides, it was being around other people that infected me in the first place, sealing my fate, and I hate them for that! But retaining my humanity is all I have left to focus on for now and resentment will only make that task harder. I have decisions ahead of me that should not be made in temper…
I have been corresponding all day with a trusted associate that is supplying me with up-to-date information on the current pandemic, along with the progress of the on-going Government investigations into the crisis. So far it seems clear that this was a premeditated and focused attack on the western world. The Peeling has, so far, hit 90% of Europe and is seeping its way into the East. USA and South America are also stricken, worse than we are in fact, but it is unsurprising to me that, as yet, the Arab world is unaffected. I am eager to see just how far into the East the disease spreads before ceasing its journey of human pestilence. I’m guessing that it will be shortly after it runs out of Christian nations to infect.
Sunday
I lost a hand today. Thank God it was my left and that I can still continue writing this. I now have a withered stump that drips periodically with a viscous yellow discharge. It looks similar to the contents of a Cadbury Cream Egg but smells worse than anything I could ever hope to describe to you now. I suppose it’s the aroma of lingering death.
Next door are still at it. Talking incessantly at all hours. I need peace and quiet right now. Time to think. I already informed my colleagues that I would be working from home for the next week and am not to be disturbed under any circumstances. They were not happy, but I’m the Boss, so they’ll have to cope. They don’t know that I have the sickness, of course, probably too wrapped up in their own fear of it to even consider the possibility. People only worry about themselves nowadays.
My associate emailed today and told me that the infection was definitely engineered – Wow. What a revelation! – and that it was unleashed upon the world at strategic locations: Major cities, along coastal areas so that the disease would work inwards from all directions, eating around the edges of England as though it were a Jaffa Cake with a chewy orange centre…
God what I would do for a box of Jaffa Cakes right now! The stump of my wrist is itching just thinking about it. Perhaps it’s excitement?
Anyway, I have sent a reply email asking what is currently known about WHO engineered the disease. That is what I have to know.
Then maybe I can do something about it.
Monday
I have lost an eye today. It is indeed unfortunate, but in a way I am blessed to have persevered this long anyway. Many do not, and at least I have the other eye. My left one just dribbled out of its socket today like an under-boiled egg with its top sliced off: all foamy white and custardy-yellow. I almost laughed when I looked in the mirror. I look like a zombie-pirate.
At least it doesn’t hurt. Not physically.
I suspect I have little time left now and I am anxiously awaiting news from my associate. I can feel the illness seizing my internal organs in its corrosive grip and it’s only a matter of time before they start to decay completely. I have already taken to soiling myself involuntarily, so I assume that my intestines are already rotten. I would take a shower to get clean, but the pressure would only shred what remaining skin I have left. For now I will sit and wait for my associate to provide me the information I so desire…
Who is responsible? Who turned me, and most of the free world, into a quivering mass of mutilated flesh?
I wonder if there’s any Jaffa Cakes in the pantry.
Tuesday
It has now been one week since I first noticed the skin under my armpit was peeling away in pus-filled chunks. One week since I realised I was a dead man walking.
Dead man peeling! Ha!
But I am still alive, devoid of nearly all my skin, granted, but alive nonetheless. Moist splatters of pungent flesh litter my home now, whilst foul scabs fall from my body constantly. The only merciful thing about this disease is that I feel nothing.
Nothing except for the soft scraping of insanity inside my fleshless skull.
Wednesday
Today will be my last. I can feel it. My lower legs snapped today when I got out of bed, too rotten and malformed to bear what little weight my frail body has left. It is of no importance however, as I awakened to something wonderful: You have mail.
I am about to drag my withered limbs over to the computer right now, to see what my trusted associate has for me. I will record the email, and my response, for you right here, as I feel it will be important.
Dear Prime Minister.
I sincerely hope that you are keeping well in this time of dire need. Great Britain is within the talons of great turmoil and despair, but I trust that your inspired leadership will see us through as ever. This shall not be the end of our endless empire and the good people of this nation will go on stronger than before. That is our way and always will be. May Angels sit on our shoulders as God guides our souls through the times ahead. Long live Great Britain.
But without further ado, Prime Minister, I will provide you with the Intel you require. It was discovered at 0300 GMT today that the disease is not contained to western nations as first assumed. In fact we now have reliable information that the infection, commonly referred to as ‘The Peeling’, was contracted in Turkey and has quickly spread as far east as Japan. I’m sure you can appreciate, that with the USA also affected, it effectively means the disease has travelled the entire circumference of the world… Yet there is one country that has shown no effects of the illness, despite being surrounded by it on all borders. We have tried to contact that nation’s Government but they have declined all opportunities to reply. It now seems a reasonable assumption that the country in question is responsible for this worldwide plague.
That country is North Korea.
As always, I await you orders on how to proceed, but I implore you to act wisely.
Yours,
General Harvey Whitehead
---------------------------------
Dear Harvey
I was certain it was the Arabs! Guess we can all be wrong sometimes…
Regardless, since my dear Martha and the children were taken from me by this wretched sickness, I have had no time to mourn them, so I regret to inform you that this will be my final act as leader of this nation. I hope that you and your family are well, and remain so. I wish the same for Great Britain.
Without continued procrastination, my orders, in regards to the Godless entity of North Korea, are as follows:
Send the Nukes.
Send them all…
They will not take this world as their own.
Yours regretfully,
Prime Minister Samuel Lloyd Collins
ANIMAL KINGDOM
My goldfish tried to kill me today. On a typical day, that would be concerning, but today there are worse things to worry about. Still, the sight of little ‘Ora’ launching herself out of her bowl like a throat-seeking missile was an unusual way to start my morning. Luckily, goldfish lack teeth, and as such my former pet bounced harmlessly off my jugular and flopped on the floor like a…well like a wet fish. I swear she gave me death-stares the whole time she lay there gasping for breath. But like I said, there are worse things to worry about today.
Take the view from my bedroom window for example. Right now I can see Mr Patterson from number 32 being ripped limb from limb by number 12’s two cocker spaniels, Charlie and Lucy. His screams have become so high-pitched that they have started to sound like an old-fashioned kettle on the boil (I think my Nan used to have one).
I can also see some poor soul trapped in a black Range Rover, unable to get out because of a relentless bombardment of nearby birds. Like Kamikaze pilots, they splat themselves against the windscreen, trying to get at the man inside as if he were an oyster inside of a clam.
Everything happened so quickly and I’m just glad that my only pet was a goldfish, because it seems that every animal, big or small, has turned its teeth and claws on humanity. It’s insane, but perhaps just, in its own twisted way. Maybe the animal kingdom took a vote and decided they don’t wish to be pets or dinner anymore. Perhaps they have decided it’s time to fight for their lives.
I may have survived a killer goldfish attack this morning, but I don’t hold much hope for the future. The lion walking down the middle of my road would be reason enough to assume that we won’t make it.
Perhaps if I’m lucky, the animals will spare me. After all, I am a vegetarian.
ANIMAL KINGDOM - Zombie Edition
My goldfish tried to kill me today. On a typical day, that would be concerning, but today there are worse things to worry about. Still, the sight of little ‘Ora’ launching herself out of her bowl like a throat-seeking missile was an unusual way to start my morning. Luckily, goldfish lack teeth, and as such my former pet bounced harmlessly off my jugular and flopped on the floor like a…well like a wet fish. I swear she gave me death-stares the whole time she lay there gasping for breath. But like I said, there are worse things to worry about today. For one thing, it’s been three hours now and the fish is still moving, flip-flopping on the carpet. The world has gotten very strange very quickly.
Take the view from my bedroom window for example. Right now I can see Mr Patterson from number 32 being ripped limb from limb by number 12’s cocker spaniel, Oscar. His screams have become so high-pitched that they have started to sound like an old-fashioned kettle on the boil (I think my Nan used to have one). What disturbs me more, however, is that Oscar got run over by a plumber’s van two months ago. The little dog was very very dead when the family at number 12 buried it in their yard.
I can also see some poor soul trapped in a black Range Rover, unable to get out because of a relentless bombardment of nearby birds. Like Kamikaze pilots, they splat themselves against the windscreen, trying to get at the man inside as if he were an oyster inside of a clam. But the impact doesn’t kill them – not at all – they just slide off the bonnet and hit the tarmac, lying there in a wriggling mess of blood-soaked feathers. Dead but still moving. Always moving.
Everything happened so quickly and I’m just glad that my only pet was a goldfish, because it seems that every animal, big or small, dead or alive, has turned its rotten teeth and claws on humanity. It’s insane, but perhaps justified, in its own twisted way. Maybe the animal kingdom took a vote and decided they don’t wish to be pets or dinner anymore. Perhaps they have decided it’s time to fight for their lives (even if it means continuing the battle after their deaths).
I may have survived a killer goldfish attack this morning, but I don’t hold much hope for the future. The pus-covered, undead lion shambling down the middle of my road would be reason enough to assume that we won’t make it. The animals are all zombies and they’re going to eat us all.
Perhaps, if I’m lucky, the animals will spare me. After all, I am a vegetarian.
ZOMBIES ARE DEAD
Zombies are dead. They are beyond redundant, even lamer than the angst-ridden vampires that suck away at the tortured souls of teenage outcasts. Take a breath though, before you start getting crazy at me. Chill out before you start spouting out Dawn of the Dead, 28 Days Later, and Dead Alive. Yes, those were kickass movies, but for each of them there were a dozen or more lame-ass, low budget, zombie-by-numbers pieces of garbage – and don’t even get me started on the number of reprehensibly-bad undead novels that get written each year.
So, as I have tried to tell you, zombies are dead. Their time has come and gone, shambling away in a rot of tired cliché’s and corn-syrup gore. If you ask me, Werewolves are the future…but therein lays the problem.
There is no future.
The world is on its final chapter.
And to top it all off, it’s all happening because of the same, unoriginal, walking corpses that I had already grown so undeniably sick of. There are zombies outside my door and they just ate my neighbours. That’s actually pretty cool because Alan Morgan from number 12 was always a total douche. He looks much better now, walking around with his intestines trailing behind him.
So there you have it, my very own zombie-apocalypse. It’s all so…underwhelming. Don’t get me wrong, when I saw on UK-Midlands news that the dead were rising from the grave and devouring the living – the report delivered by the same dour, grey newscaster that could have been from countless horror movies – I was freaked! I watched scenes from the entire world, from Australia to Peru, England to Austria. Death. Destruction. Blood, gore, and guts. In most major cities, the army patrolled the streets with their mean-looking guns, but here, in a small town suburb, we were left to fend for ourselves. My parental units never came back from work. They never called either. In fact the phones don’t even work anymore. Same goes for the power, the Internet, and the gas heating. At least the water still works (not that I can have a shower with all the noise the pipes would make).
I tried writing this at first on my laptop, but realised that after a few hours the battery would go flat, unable to be recharged. So I am writing it in an old notebook, taking as many notes as possible, so that I can use it for my next line of comic books. I’m bored of writing the Amazing Lucas anyway, and it’s not like any of the comic-book companies were showing any interest in it. But when things finally get back under control, Zombies are Dead: annual one is going to be a worldwide best seller. Even bigger than Superman – or Super-douche they’ll be calling him then.
It’s been pretty mundane so far. I’m looking out my window right now and watching Tracy Miller, from down the road, gnawing on what looks to be a severed dog’s leg. It’s all tattered and matted in her mouth, but she seems to be enjoying it. Her clothes are hanging off by blood-stained threads and I can see…well, I can see everything. When she had been alive, I would have given anything to see Tracy naked, but now that she’s dead I wish she would cover up. There’s nothing sexy about grey, mottled breasts. Especially ones that seem to be leaking some sort of foul discharge from the nipples. Kinda looks like hummus.
What I wouldn’t give for some chips and dip right now. I haven’t eaten all day. Mom never came home, so there has been no shopping. I ate through the scraps in the fridge, but everything in the tepid freezer has spoiled. I already lost a pound or two from starvation, which is no bad thing. I’m starting to look kinda hot in fact!
There are perhaps ten zombies outside now and I am trying to make notes about them all – despite the fact they act like boring hunks of meat. The corpse of a tall, Black man was the most recent to appear. I dunno where the dude came from, but he seems to like it here in my neighbourhood, mingling and jockeying with the other undead in a relentless battle over whatever they could find to put between their yellowing teeth. Currently, he’s rooting through an overturned wheelie bin. God knows what he hopes to find. All of the other bodies are just what you’d expect – stumbling clichés of limping legs, outstretched arms, and hungry faces. Not even their wounds are much to speak of. With the exception of Mr Morgan, dragging his intestines around, most of the corpses are just sporting dried up bite-marks on their necks.
Christ! It’s just so unimaginative.
The boredom is driving me crazy.
I even considered getting my action figures out of their boxes – original packaging – but haven’t quite lost my mind just yet. The sight of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman, and various Resident Evil characters (now those were zombies!) staring down at me from the shelves that line my room is one of the only solaces I have left. As long as I can keep them pristine, the world still makes sense. When all this is over, they will probably be the only ones left in any sort of condition.
I’m sure it will be over soon.
Before the television went off, there were reports of the army cleansing large areas of the undead in ever-widening circles from their various base camps. It must only be a matter of time before one of these circles reaches my street. Coming in with all guns blazing. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. It’s been about three days since I last saw a living soul. A couple were trying to flee in a cramped minibus, but careened into one of the houses along the side of the street as they sought to avoid the bodies in the road. The dead were on them in seconds, dragging them out and tearing them apart like gift-wrapping. It’s incredible how quickly a human body can turn red. Totally and utterly red. An hour after the couple’s death, I heard a baby start to cry from one of the rear passenger seats of the minibus. It was getting dark by then and I didn’t want to watch, so I lay in my bed and put on some headphones. When I took them off, the baby wasn’t crying anymore.
Help will come soon.
My Edward Scissorhands figurine isn’t that valuable. Maybe I could get him out for a play. Not quite sure quite what fun I could have with him, but I need to do something. My head is aching from so much thinking and I should really try to do something else with my time, other than writing in this journal. I wonder if people will read it a hundred years from now, like a real-life World War Z (God, that book ruled).
I think the epitome of being a survivor in a zombie-apocalypse is boredom. If a vampire or werewolf plague were upon us then there would be brief respites, during daylight or in the absence of a full moon – Survivors could regroup and replan – but in a zombie holocaust you really are stuck. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. And no one to talk to. There is no safe route to a well-supplied supermarket, and there are no roving gangs of zombie-killing bikers either. There’s just you and the four walls that surround you (or entomb you).
The sun is going down once more, falling like a slow moving comet. Funny how I never paid much attention to the sunset before all this happened. I guess I can appreciate the simple things now that my Xbox is junk. Things like clean bed sheets and the taste of an apple. Simple stuff is what I miss the most.
I should go to bed soon. My hand is aching from all this writing and my eyes are beginning to strain. I’m peeking out between the gaps in my bedroom curtains one last time to see what I can see. The horde outside is growing. Perhaps they sense life nearby, could even be hearing my heartbeat. If help doesn’t come soon, they may spot me. And if they don’t, then I may just be crazy enough with boredom to go out and join them. I’m probably losing my mind by now. Especially with what I’ve just seen.
My parents are home.
Mom and Dad are slithering down the middle of the road, clawing themselves along on their bellies by splintered fingernails. Their legs are missing and all that remains of their lower halves is a slick bunch of entrails hanging out behind them like noodles from a pancake roll. The desperate grimace on each of their faces make them seem like inhuman strangers, but something rational in my mind can identify their features enough to be sure. My parental units are now undead monstrosities, edging down the street towards my house.
Towards their house.
Do they still remember? Are they simply trying to make their way home?
Are they coming for me?
I’m going to go to bed now. Help will come soon. I just have to be patient. I’m safe inside my bedroom – safely wrapped away like so many of my wonderful figurines. They will watch over me while I sleep. Angel, Buffy, Spiderman, and Hulk – all of them heroes, and tonight they will protect me.
Zombies are Dead.
And I’m not ready to join them.
