An idea for a new book. Love me some zombies, and this would be my take on them!
The world has crumbled. Literally. Metaphorically. Figuratively.
On every conceivable level.
Civilisation is no more. Although life before could hardly be called civil - death, disease, war, pollution, the endless struggle for power. At least now the struggle is raw and honest.
And brutal.
There's a hidden value in living moment to moment; hidden, because it wasn't something I discovered until all other options had been exhausted; value, because my own life is the only thing I have left of any worth.
I feel the thud of my heart, the rasp of my breath, the shiver of goosebumps down my arms as I wait ...
I hear the lumber of footsteps as it approaches, the wheeze of breath that rattles through it's lungs. That sound never ceases to perplex me. How can something dead still breathe? How does air still move in and out of it's rotting form, allowing it to make a sound that stirs the fine hair on my arms as it brushes over my skin like stinging nettles.
I clutch my knife even more tightly in my hand. I always try to get a clean strike. One smooth, thrust of the knife through the temple and into the soft mush of whatever brain remains.
Is there any cognitive function left? Any spark of who it used to be, what made it laugh, who it had loved before the virus had consumed it and the world had gone to shit? Had it given its life for a loved one? I feel a twinge of envy at the thought that maybe it had laid its life down for someone else, something I wish with every cell of my being that I could have done for my loved ones.
It's free now from its earthly responsibilities, free of fear, pain and loss. Free of guilt and all the emotions that have shackled me for two years, emotions that rise in my throat like bile whenever I think of what happened. And I do think about it.
Every second.
Of every hour.
Of every day.
Which is how I came to be so distracted, wandering for days lost in a spiral of never-ending grief and suffocating solitude. I didn't see the empty can on the road as I weaved in and out of the abandoned cars on the highway. My booted foot sent it careening noisily across the asphalt, the sound echoing like a dinner bell through the still air.
It had been waiting - just waiting for a sound to rouse it from the stupor of non-death, appearing from behind the car directly opposite me.
I dropped to the ground immediately, settling my weight on my haunches and hoping that it wouldn't sense me, that it would take off in the direction of the offending soda can.
No such luck.
The rasp of my breath and the scrape of my boot against the ground was enough to alert its enhanced hearing of a far greater prize than a rusty old can.
Now it's heading my way.
The brief glimpse I caught of it as I dropped to the ground tells me it's somewhere between a Bloater and a Wasted. I know I can take it down - I've done it many times before. I'm tall and strong for a woman and I've had to use that strength to my advantage over and over again. Normally, I choose my fights, my usual course of action on encountering one of 'them' would be to avoid the fight in the first place, but my loss of concentration has robbed me of that option on this occasion.
If it was a Fresher, I'd be in trouble. They're still fast, not as fast as a reasonably fit living person, but fast enough to pose a serious threat to those who aren't. The Freshers still retain much of their nerve impulses and reflexes, making them a dangerous blasphemy of a human being, driven by pure instinct and a lust for flesh.
The weight of my knife in my palm reassures me anew and I take a deep breath, using the adrenaline that pumps though my veins to my advantage, honing my senses and sharpening my own instincts.
As its filthy jean clad legs and battered boots appear in my line of vision, I stand and whirl, sprinting in the opposite direction and circling around the car to approach it from behind, my knife twitching in my hand as it longs to sink into its target.
I'm only too happy to oblige as I force it up against the car and thrust the blade through its temple. There's a small area here that allows the blade of the knife to slide in with little resistance. Through the eye is another good spot, albeit messier. Despite the clean strike. I'm still covered with the splash-back of the blackish tar-like blood that explodes from its head as my blade finds its mark.
As the body slides to the floor, more hands claw at me and I realize with a stomach churning dread that I've been ambushed from behind.
I spin and swing my arm in a circle, barely comprehending that there are two of them, the emaciated remains of a man and woman. My knife slashes across the face of the nearest, the man, sticky black blood spurting forth from the wound as the blade cleaves flesh from bone, leaving a flap of skin hanging from its cheek.
The action results in absolutely no reaction whatsoever. No shout of pain or horror, just a ceaseless thirst for my flesh and blood as it presses forward toward me. I grab his arms, holding his putrid body away from me as his head moves toward my face, his teeth snapping at my vulnerable flesh.
The woman, if you can still call her that, pushes her weight against the man, her hands clawing at me as she reaches around him. Her features are barely recognisable, her hair matted, one eyeball resting on her cheek, held there only by the rope of optical nerves. Her added weight causes me to stumble backward, falling over the body of the already downed
Deader behind me.
I crash to the ground, my knife skittering out of my reach. The two bodies land on top of me, teeth gnashing, hands clawing as they seek a way through my leather clothing and I know it's only a matter of time before my fight is done. They're going to devour me until there's nothing left or I become one of them. There's no one left to put a knife through my brain like I did for my loved ones.
My Mom.
My Dad.
My brother.
I know I'm going to join them now, leave this shell behind and be with them again.
A sigh escapes me and I close my eyes tightly as my mind rejects the reality of what's happening to me as I feel the sticky splash of blood against my face.
It takes me a few seconds to realise that the blood isn't mine - it's too thick and viscous. The weight of the bodies is suddenly lifted away and I take a lungful of precious air, looking up into a pair of deep brown eyes in a very masculine face.
He holds out a hand toward me. a silent offer to help me up but I ignore it and haul myself to my feet, glaring at him as I brush myself down.
"You're welcome," he says in a deep, gravelly voice.
