I have always been very interested in zombies, but found that there are incredibly few stories told from the point of view of a zombie. When I did find them, they did not fit the George A. Romero standard that I so enjoyed. This particular story was written a few years ago by yours truly when I suddenly really wanted to write something. I asked my boyfriend at the time to give me a writing challenge, so he told me to write a zombie love story. This is what I came up with. I have written a few other installations, but really need the motivation to write them. Please tell me what you think.
Enjoy!
WARNING: There is some graphic violence and some topics that a few may be uncomfortable with.
I am dead. At least I think so. I can still see, I can still walk, and I can still eat. But I can't feel. There are a few others like me around, but they do not seem to notice each other.
As time goes on my mind seems to be slipping, but still maintains some thought. For instance, I am able to see just how horrible the others like me look and smell. Bits of flesh dangle loosely from their bones. Some are missing parts. And they smell rotten. I sincerely hope that I look nothing like them, but from the lack of three of my fingers I know I must not be far off.
Though my memory had slipped away, I couldn't help but recognize the streets in which I shuffled. The others did not seem to have a set destination; they merely followed the scent of flesh that filled the air, wafting from the homes that lined the desolate streets.
A fresh scent made my head stir. The bones in my neck creaked like rusty hinges. The intoxicating odor pulled me as though I was pulled by a physical force. I slowly tumbled towards a blue house, nearly identical to the other cookie-cutter houses on this quiet cul-de-sac. The windows had been broken and boarded up with what appeared to be cupboard doors and the door hung by one hinge, and was carved deeply by claw marks. Through closer inspection I could see coagulated blood and embedded fingernails in the hard wood.
As I finally got to the doorway I was thankful that the others did not smell the flesh. Sharing with them is not enjoyable because when so many are after the same source, one only manages to get a few mouthfuls before it dies and becomes undesirable.
I stopped. A crooked mirror's cruel reflection revealed my suspicion; I was one of the others. My skin had become ashen grey, save for the spots of green and white where mould grew and an oozing black crater in my throat where my own flesh had been taken. I must have died quickly as there were few other missing pieces.
Another whiff of living flesh distracted me away from the mirror and led me deeper into the darkened house. The home had been decorated with shining hardwood and wine-coloured furniture, which now lay astray. I stood in what was once a living room was now a scene of chaos, one of which I was very familiar with.
A large black stain covered much of the floor and a few small chunks of dried meat littered the area of the stain. A rusty brown spray reached the far wall and up to the ceiling. Clearly an artery had been severed in the attack. The spray is always impressive when it comes from terrified living meat.
But this is not what brought me in.
There was a small noise, a gurgle and a whimper. Quickly I snapped around and waited for the noise again. A staircase sat only a few paces away and from the stairs I heard a rustle of movement. Without a wasted second I rushed up the stairs. One of my fingernails tore off on the handrail and thick ooze seeped from the nail bed.
When I reached the upstairs hallway I looked both ways. The noise stopped, so I was left to search for myself.
I ambled slowly down the hallway and observed what my slowing mind could. The carpet was a pale purple and the walls had a number of framed pictures; the most recent being of a smiling infant with a pile of entrails upon its head. Though the entrails might just as easily be spaghetti.
I passed a door and pushed it open to reveal an all-white restroom. There was no flesh here so I moved to the next room. The room was decorated with blues and had a number of wolf figurines sitting on a high shelf. The sheets on the bed were disheveled, but alas, no flesh yet again.
I sniffed the air and smelled the flesh coming from the next room. I pushed on the door but it was firmly shut. Remembering the fact that many doors had knobs on them, I fumbled with the metal knob. It seems as though my motor skills were fading a bit.
Eventually the door clicked and opened slowly on its own. The strong stench of flesh hit me and I stumbled into the room. It was decorated with pastel yellow and had a number of brightly coloured stuffed toys piled in the corners. Next to the window was a crib; the source of the smell. I made my way closer to the crib and looked inside as I leaned over it.
The creature inside the crib was the same infant that I saw in a picture frame in the hall, only it looked significantly frailer. Its half-opened eyes gazed up at me and it whimpered.
I felt no rush, so I slowly reached towards it. Suddenly its head flopped to the side and its chest stopped rising.
The creature lost its appeal to me. I turned and left the room to continue my quest for flesh.
It took some time to remember how to get out of the house but I soon joined the hoard that flocked outside in the sun. I had been greatly disappointed by the creature in the house. The ratio of the members of the hoard compared to the number of creatures bearing flesh is great, and it grows increasingly difficult to find flesh. Even worse, if flesh is found the competition for it is violently fierce.
My disappointment was short lived and was replaced by a lightened feeling when across the street from the first house; I saw another that struck me as very familiar. This was the house that used to be mine. I moaned softly and trudged to my former home. On the way I bump into a member of the hoard, knocking it backwards. It grunts in annoyed protest and finds a new direction to walk.
I moved to the front door and pressed my hand on a bloody, muddy handprint that had been made previously one of us attempting to get inside the house. I looked upward and sniffed the air. The faintest smell of living flesh roused my senses and I felt a rise of urgency to get inside the house. I began clawing madly at the door, peeling off lines of white paint with my jagged fingernails.
My sudden burst of activity brought the attention of the hoard to the door, and soon a small crowd of us were all pounding on the front of the house. Soon the door splintered and cracked off of its hinges. We filed into the house and began our search for the flesh hidden somewhere inside. We had succeeded in breaking in, and so our activity slowed to us wandering to find the meat.
Part of me still knew where the flesh in this house would be hiding. While the others searched in the larger rooms, I went down a narrow hallway leading to a bedroom. The bedroom door was still opened a crack, as if in a hurry the occupant had forgotten to latch it shut. With a gentle push on the door it opened to reveal a thin woman. Her short reddish hair was plastered to her pale face by tears and she held a metal pipe above her head. She faltered.
"Tim?" her voice crackled. I recognized Tim as my own name. This woman used to be my wife.
She dropped the pipe and crumpled to the floor in despair. For a moment I remembered the love and devotion I felt for this woman and approached her. I rested my hand on her back and she looked up at my face. She stood up and made the slightest smile. We leaned in to each other and our lips met in one last kiss.
She began screaming and trying to break away from my embrace. When she tore her face away from mine a piece of her lip tore off in my mouth and blood poured down her front. The commotion brought the others into the room and in moments they were on top of her, tearing at her meat while she screamed through her blood.
I love you. But your flesh tastes so sweet.
