Our Undead Read online

  Who would think that a zombie could ever get upset with one of it's own kind? It seems improbable, but it is in this way that our zombie reacts. He reaches down and pulls the intruding zombie back up on to its feet. When he gets him stood up, he thrusts him roughly away, and his competitor goes stumbling off into the crowd. He looks down at the meal that was rightly his in the first place. The poor young man writhes from his initial injury, plus the added bites cause by the intercepting zombie. You can tell that it was making its way up to the brain by all of the bite marks on the top and side of the boy's neck and head. Our zombie throws himself upon the man and finishes the job. The walker who had been defeated comes back and takes a secondary feeding position a little lower down by the collarbone, but gets shoved away by our zombie, demoted to the ribcage.

  The waiting room slaughter continues until the room is practically void of any human life. Our zombie finds himself fighting for scraps, discovering that some of these dead walkers are stronger than he is, namely, the muscly ones who were either athletes or body builders in their previous lives. One of the brawnier beasts actually lifts our zombie a few inches off the ground before tossing him backward through the thinning crowd. He gets back up, but something in his mind keeps him from trying to share with the bigger ghoul again. Perhaps, some spark of common sense. He stares blankly at the big monster finishing it's meal, and then around the room. Not only does he not see anything worth eating, he doesn't sense the delicious zest in the air. The room is barren and boring. He roars in either frustration or victory, and some of the other zombies join in the chorus.

  Desperate for another taste of his new favorite dish, our zombie makes a slow and deliberate scan of the conquered waiting room. He takes notice of a few of his kinsmen at one of the broken windows. Having forgotten all forms of etiquette, the three of them clamber and struggle with one another, fighting to be the first one to get back outside. Our zombie has never been outside, at least not in his current form, but if these three infected men wanted to get out there so bad, there must be something amazing to be had, hopefully, something delectable. He makes his way over to the window, walking passed many undead vessels who are staring intently into space, and others who are still chewing idiotically on bones that have already been fully stripped of any of the good parts. Our zombie pays them no mind, for the closer he gets to the window, the more that sweet smell, once again, begins to radiate. It must be what his impatient friends are after, the poor fools. They are so beside themselves trying to satisfy their craving, that they don't notice the free broken window that is right beside them. The fragrance is pouring in from the free window in gusts, it's a wonder the three stooges don't simply back away and take the better exit, but it works out in our zombie's favor. He puts his right leg up on to the sill and levers himself up and over into the outside world.

  He ends up exiting with a front flip, and lands with a bang, his buttocks meeting the pavement. With his new eyes, our zombie looks upon a changed world. Even if he could remember what life had been like, he still wouldn't be able to recognize the environment that surrounds him. The waiting room was only a preview. The city is on a whole other level when it comes to being infested, to the point of being overrun and half way to ruin. The sun is closing in on the horizon, setting on corner store businesses gone ablaze, car accidents, gushing fire hydrants, people running every which way and their brain starved assailants close behind them. Truly, a suitable end to a long and horrible day for the men and women of this town, but a lavish welcome for our zombie who feels a mixed storm of jealousy and desire circulating through his system. He must become more like them. He must make them a part of him. He must eat.

  The town is on the verge of becoming theirs. Previously, he had been a mere average Joe, working for the man in an office cubicle cage. When he gets to his feet, he walks out into a world that he is now a ruler of and gets to eat freely as the supply of humans is still plentiful. It is as though the outbreak has only recently reached its climax. Body traffic is everywhere, and our zombie easily joins many feedings and starts some of his own. He indulges in a seemingly endless buffet, on all of the different flavors and physiques. He gets the most flesh he can off the leg of a grey haired African-American man, before getting up to look for a more robust selection, but an unexpected incident brings his plan to a dead halt.

  YoungCivilian: NOOOOOO!!!!

  Like a ton of concentrated bricks, the flat side of a shovel comes down on the crown of our zombie's head and lays him out on the ground. Everything fades to black. Can this be the end? Already?

  THE ORIGIN - PART 1

  On a beautiful evening in mid July, the sun shines down on everything and gives a shimmer to all that it touches. Everything is soft and candescent as if observing a memory in someone’s mind, or a flashback in a film. A clean, average looking blue car is driving down a moderately busy street in a happily populated neighborhood; a handsome older man in the driver's seat. He looks to be in his late thirties, or early forties with a suitable tan and dark hair down to his ears that sport tinges of auburn in the dominant brunette. He drives slowly, watching all of the teenagers parade the sidewalks, going home in their individual couples and cliques. He pulls up to the front of a high school and turns into its driveway, making sure not to hit the idling kids that pretend to not see him coming. He shakes his head at their youthful inconsideration.

  Ah, to be young and aloof. This is the school system his daughter is immersed in, such a change from the days when he was a teenager. Kids these days seem to be getting more and more disrespectful, and it frustrates him the most when he sees the effect it has on his daughter. At home, her outbursts have become more frequent, and she is liable to snap at him regardless of what he might be trying to tell her. The other day, he had only wanted to offer her some of the brownies he had brought home from work, but when he opened her bedroom door without knocking, he was battered with shot after shot of how selfish he was and how she can "never have any privacy in this house", to get out, because she didn't want any of his "stupid brownies". What torture, not understanding as a parent how to communicate in a decent manner with your children. As he parks, he spots her in a group with three of her girlfriends and toots the horn.

  When she sees him, she sighs a deliberate sigh he would've been able to see if he were sitting miles away. Confused, he thinks of what he possibly could have done this time. Her friends seem to know, because they giggle at her and cast haughty glances toward the car. All three of them look like they've been cut out of some tabloid magazine, the type of girl he might've called "plastique" back in his high school days. It's hard for him to believe that that is the group that his daughter has chosen to consort with. Gone are the days of her wearing comfortably fitted jeans and dresses that go past the knees. Now, she wears these tight things that leave nothing to the imagination, and worse, she wears short little skirts like the black one she is wearing right now. He's told her before how he feels about her wearing that kind of stuff, even fair about it, he feels, compromising that the jeans are okay, but one little gust of wind in those short skirts and everyone is seeing everything. After almost minutes, she begrudgingly bids her friends farewell and starts casually making her way to the car.

  She opens the door, enters, closes it and clicks her seat belt in place without saying one word to her father. He makes a comment about it, and she throws him a sympathy salutation. He sighs in response to her attitude.

  The ride home is silent for the most part. He wants to talk to his daughter, but the only thing on his mind is that damn skirt. Every time he looks over, thinking about taking a shot at conversation, he sees his daughter’s thighs blatantly staring at him. They are almost fully exposed as she sits there, and he can't get it out of his head, the image of her sitting at her desk, surrounded by all those perverted adolescent savages, all of them gawking at her. He can't help himself, and the next thing that comes out of his mouth is about her skirt and how she could ever wear something like that.
Doesn't she know that these boys have selfish intentions? Doesn't she have any respect for herself? She responds with the notion that he just doesn't understand her; times have changed since he was her age, and she isn't stupid. She isn't about to get taken advantage of by some guy. He tells her that he believes her, but some of these boys can be aggressive. Give them an inch and they take a mile. He just doesn't want her to get herself into any situation where some douche thinks she's open for business like some floozy. That skirt she's wearing might give them the impression that she's ready to act like some sort of hooker.

  He didn't mean to say it. He knows that his daughter isn't a hooker, not even close to being or having the same personality as one. He didn't mean it in that way, it's just that he gets a bit passionate when it comes to his daughter's sanctity. He didn't mean it that way at all, but it is too late, the short-haired blonde firecracker is exploding in the passenger seat beside him, hollering about how she can't believe that he compared her to a street walking whore. She can't believe that's what he thinks of her. He tries to interject, to explain what he was trying to say, but she leaves no break for the opportunity. The last thing he wants to do now is attempt to talk over her, not while he is in full-out rage mode, flinging her arms around and shaking her head fiercely back and forth as she yells. Her hair soon becomes a fluffy blonde mess, and her father decides to retract into silence for the rest of the ride.

  When they get home and pull into the driveway, his daughter gets out of the car, slams the door and scurries off to the front door of their house. As she does, a short gust of wind rolls through and blows up the back end of her black skirt, exposing her light pink cotton undies to her father. He rolls his eyes while disappointedly shaking his head again, and gets startled when she slams the front door of the house. He sighs to himself and gets out of the car.

  HARD TIMES

  When he opens his eyes again, nighttime has fallen upon the city. Instantly upon regaining consciousness, he feels the monster inside of him callout to be fed, and he obeys it now, willingly. He gets to his feet, but is welcomed back by disappointment. Most of the streetlights are still functioning, so visually things can be seen quite clearly. The reach of the infection must not be that grand, but still, there is no sign of human life. The chaos has died down considerably in these, his surroundings that now lay in the early stages of ruin-hood. However, a diverse population of dead walkers are still patrolling and wandering around, a complete replacement of the citizens. Trying to find a human in this can be compared to trying to find Waldo, but Waldo is most likely a corpse, one of the many scattered about, and most likely in pieces.

  With nothing to eat, some zombies fight over the left over meat on the bones of the slaughtered. There isn't much of it, but nonetheless, they claw and bite at each other to get a taste. Some zombies are staring into broken store windows, at products and appliances as if window-shopping, and some stand around the fires, staring intensely into their pits as if hypnotized. Some zombies don't even need a meal to fight over. They naturally seem to dislike each other and push and shove one another, like over-excited young men wasted in the bar scene. In this city, they have actualized their sovereignty, but to what end, when the land is barren of sustenance?

  Our zombie looks around at the layout of flowering blazes and blinking car lights, shining through and over the zigzagging heads of his people, under the night sky where the healthier stars have put themselves on display, despite the interfering lights of the street. It's almost beautiful in a sinister sort of way.

  Perhaps he doesn't sense the human essence in the atmosphere anymore. Maybe he is drawn to something in the metaphysical. Perhaps there is some memory swimming around in his grey matter, beckoning for him to travel to a place lost in his internal oblivion, a place he used to know. Or maybe the city is just too crowded for our claustrophobic zombie. Any of these reasons could be the one to explain why he walks ignorantly past the space-cased ghouls gazing blankly; past the fires, crumbling buildings, and broken down cars, their alarms wailing as if crying out for their missing owners. He walks past them all, dodging the dog fights, while at the same time managing to avoid tripping over the many bodies laying about the ground. He walks until he is no longer surrounded on all sides by moving bodies, until he doesn't have to push any zombie out of the way. He walks through neighborhoods that have been just as devastated as the inner core of the town, if not worse. He goes even further, past the neighborhoods and far off from where the death had been so concentrated; he walks past it all and finds himself on the outskirts of the city.

  Out here, there are not nearly as many of the cursed ones. Still, if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to look in any direction without seeing one or two, even with the cloak provided by the night. There are even a few standing dead still on the highway he comes to. Walking past them all as well, he is the only zombie who seems to have some place to go. On this highway, cars outnumber the amount of zombies and humans put together. The roads are lined with them as far as the eye can see. Most of them are empty. Some contain dead bodies, recently killed. There is evidence all around of people who have tried and failed to escape. The less brave ones have locked themselves inside their cars. One hopeless woman has herself crouched down on the floor where the front of the passenger's seat has her crushed in between the glove compartment. Her dead boyfriend or brother is sprawled out on the driver's side. She cowers when our zombie walks by his window, but only passing and paying her no mind. Perhaps, she would survive the night hidden there. He walks by another car with an abandoned man who has turned. The poor trapped soul bangs half-heartedly on the window as if saying, "Let me out of this car!!!" Sadly, he would stay in there forever, for our zombie ignores him as well, and continues walking.

  He walks for a long while down this highway and soon the sun rises, bringing light to the morning. Being about six to eight hours into his journey, our zombie begins to show signs of getting tired. His pace has slowed significantly. The sun is so blazing hot, even for the morning time; it can wear out even the undead with its heat. The rotting of his flesh is definitely being helped along, being cooked by the heat wave as he travels. If one would listen closely to his skin, they might be able to hear a sizzling. He walks by a dozen more cars until he hears a sound that brings him to a sudden stop.

  He waits for a few seconds, and then hears it again. It sounds like the high-pitched whine or whimper of a dog. He turns his head to the left and heads in the sound's direction. It seems to be coming from the far side of the car our zombie is standing adjacent to, and when he gets to the other side, he sees that it is actually a dog. It looks either seriously injured or extremely tired and hungry. It's understandable. With no master to feed it any longer, the domesticated animal is completely disoriented in the wild. At the sight of our zombie, the canine's whimpering becomes much heavier. It tries to back away when our zombie approaches to pick it up, but can't make it far due to its frailty. It gets lifted up by it's front under arms, much like a baby or small child and is held there for a moment, in the air, by our zombie. He examines it, eyeballing it quizzically up and down, trying to decide whether or not this mutt is fit to be eaten. The dog doesn't want any part of it. It has seen what these "new human beings" can do, so it gnaws frantically at our zombie's hands and wrists, however, with inactive pain receptors, our zombie can't feel it and makes his decision patiently.

  After a few more seconds of thinking about it, he sinks his teeth into the dog's neck. It squeals in agony as its throat gets ripped out from beneath its fur. It is a gruesome scene, our zombie dining on the dog. It doesn't take too long for it to fall silent, and then our zombie eats in peace. The dog is nowhere as flavorful as the human flesh had been. Not to mention, the fur that is getting stuck in his mouth and on the sides of his face. What a troublesome meal, but it would have to do.

  When he is through with the carcass, he simply drops it and continues on down the highway. A couple of late-coming zombies close in on the leftovers as
he leaves the scene.

  He spends the rest of this day walking, from when the sun sits on it zenith, to the commencement of its descent, and then one more day. He walks until the highway becomes a country road and then further, until the road comes to an end. By the time the sun has set, the concrete road has been replaced with dirt, twigs and leaves, and he has obviously lost some weight.

  Moving forward at a steady but leisurely pace, our zombie starts the third night of his new life, trudging through the woods. It's relatively easy to make his way through the trees and their protruding limbs, but he can't help but run into a trunk every now and then, or get a big mouth full of leaves from time to time. He never bothers to avoid them, just barrels through them, until something catches his eye.

  Through the thicket, he thinks he sees something, and then is sure of it when the object moves and makes a rustling in the bushes. He pushes his way through more trees, making his way closer to the thing deeper inside and exits the thick into a small clearing, wherein he discovers a doe. Unfortunately, it was not the female deer that he saw, that was making all of the noise. It has already been caught and is pinned down on its side, the lower portion of its belly being eaten out by another zombie. It looks like the kill has been recently made. There aren't many bite marks on it yet, and the feeding wound isn't that large. As he gets closer, he notices that the deer is actually still alive. It's head and mouth make small movements, but no sounds escape it.