Chapter 1 - Do the Dead Dream?
Copyright 2015 by Arthur Roberg May not be reproduced in any way without the express written permission by the author.
Defiance and despair is a terrible combination to see on a man's face, especially if it was a man you were coming to love. I don't think I will ever forget it, being an image that has been burned indelibly into my mind. And then, to see that mixture of emotions give way to pure rage, as friends held him back, struggling with every bit of strength they had, to keep him from getting to me... as I held a sniper rifle in fists so tight, I'd felt I was going to break it.
But that was long ago, just a memory, and they were all gone now. I knew I would never see any of them again. I could feel tears trying to bud in eyes far too dry to give birth to them.
Such is the outcome in our changed world. A world where impossibility and fantasy, spawned of sick and fevered minds, had become the reality. A world where everything you'd thought you could depend on had... simply. ceased. to be....
I shook myself out of my morbid reverie and looked down at the can I held in my hand. A hand covered in dried blood and grime. Peaches, the label read, after I'd smeared the dust away. My longing for the fruit danced a square dance with equal amounts boredom and revulsion.
I used to love peaches. Raw, canned, in drink, in pies... oh, the pies....
My gut, however, craved something more visceral, something more raw, something made of protein.... It had been a long time since I'd eaten anything substantial.
I don't know if my sense of smell, or the sound of something falling to the floor of the abandoned supermarket and breaking with a wet smash, alerted me first. Honed habit made me crouch, grabbing for my long knife rather than the rifle, with its dwindling supply of ammunition, slung across my back. I quickly stashed the precious peaches into my dirty pouch, before I grasped and drew the other knife. They were a mismatched set, but the world of matching anything had gone bye-bye, along with the canned music that used to accompany shopping trips such as this one. At least you didn't have to worry about whether or not you could afford the groceries. You just had to worry whether you'd survive the effort.
I crept down the aisle, placing each step carefully, so as to not create any more noise than I had to. The floor was a veritable minefield of opportunities to announce my presence. Cans lay helter-skelter everywhere, along with plastic and cellophane bags containing all sorts of goods people used to spend good money on, mostly worthless nutrition wise.
Another sound, shuffling, on the next aisle over, told me what I was most likely up against. I relaxed and listened, trying to determine if there was more than the one shuffler, or if, as normal, there was a pack of them. Alone, Shufflers were no large threat, but together, if you weren't careful, they could be deadly. Worst case scenario, of course, is an Intense, masquarading as a Shuffler. Having one of them suddenly burst out of the crowd, as you are trying to sneak past, spelled almost certain doom.
I carefully crept around the end of the aisle, past a display of some kind of mass-produced pastry, most of which was smeared all over the floor. My knives were too rusted and crusted to be of use as a mirror, so I had to ease my way out slowly, so as to not draw attention from the Shufflers.
The nearest was a woman, somewhere under middle age, matted hair sticking out at odd angles, wearing a frock of some kind. Her body jerked to and fro, and shook, her eyes darting all over the place, never resting on any one thing.
Good, she wasn't aware of me. I looked beyond her and saw three others, exhibiting the same meth addict behavior, trailing a short ways behind, two men and another woman. I couldn't see them very clearly from my vantage point to tell ages, not that it had any importance. They were dead, and death was the great equalizer, they say.
Something, perhaps the sudden lessening of sound, drew my eye back to the nearest Shuffler, who was looking right at me, steadily.
Shit.
Then there was a sound, somewhere between a growl and a scream, as one of the men started running very quickly toward me.
Shit, Shit. Shit. An Intense. Abandoning all pretense of sneaking, I ran down the aisle I had just come from, wanting to put as much distance between me and the shufflers as possible. I wasn't going to outrun the Intense, it couldn't be done, but I wanted to make sure there was enough time to finish him off before the Shufflers could catch up. If they caught us before I killed the Intense, then I would be overwhelmed with numbers, and it would be time for me to say buh-bye.
I sensed him right on my tail, about to catch me, so I rolled to the side, ditching the rifle as I did, so it wouldn't tangle me up. Then I came up swinging the longer of my two knives at the back of his leg. As he was going down, I stabbed with the shorter knife up through his arm pit, disabling the arm.
The sound of more running feet drew my attention briefly. I turned to see the Shufflers--no longer shuffling--bearing down on me. I would have liked to dispatch the Intense, who was still trying to get to me, crawling with one arm and one leg--both on the same side--but that would leave me vulnerable. I quickly picked up my rifle and sprinted down the aisle, leaving the Shufflers to trip over the crippled Intense.
Man, I hated zombies.
The movies got most things wrong about them, of course, but then, I could hardly hold the moviemakers at fault, as previously, they had been imaginary things, something to watch as you clutched your tub of popcorn, waiting for the brain munching to commence. I've always hated zombie movies, and found it way beyond ironic that now I was starring in the worst one I'd ever seen, only I wasn't in a theater, holding popcorn.
I ran out the front of the no-longer-deserted store, looked quickly around, then ran east on the mostly deserted street, the mostly deserted part being several humanlike shapes to the west. I slowed to a jog, so I could better keep an eye out for nasty surprises. Then I climbed a tree, jumped to an awning, and clambered over a sign and onto a roof. I unslung my rifle, aimed it over the sign, down the street toward the market I'd just quitted.
The shufflers I'd encountered inside were milling around in front of it, back to shuffling, and the Intense was dragging himself in the midst of them, trailing a wide line of blood from the wounds I'd given him.
That was another thing the movies got wrong. Deadies, as I called them, having a hard time using the hated Z word, were both harder and easier to kill than their fictional counterparts. A head shot didn't necessarily kill them, and you could kill them in other areas, you just had to do a lot of damage. They didn't bleed as untransformed humans did, per say, they oozed instead, but if they lost enough bodily fluid, they would succumb, same as everything else would.
I wondered sometimes, if the almost universal love of zombie movies had somehow created them. If the combined subconscious manifested them in some way. I never could understand how people liked zombie movies, stupid things, catapulting them to best sellers and cult status. I had friends who would dress up every year and parade through the city during the zombie apocolypse. Most likely they weren't pretending now, now the real thing was here. I just wondered what type they ended up being.
There were, according to my experience so far, four main types of deadies. The first type, and by far the most plentiful, were the Shufflers. They are the closest to the stereotypical zombies in movies, though they aren't the blank-stare, walking-like-an-uncoordinated-rag-doll, falling-apart-at-the-seams, kind of creatures I'd seen on celluloid so often. Well, maybe the falling-apart-at-the-seams. They shuffled because they seemed more like meth addicts on steroids, and couldn't decide which direction to go. They jerked, and spasmed, and quivered constantly. That went double for their eyes, which couldn't seem to focus on one thing, bouncing balls trapped in eye-sockets. It was as if they were watching a completely different world than everybody else, and couldn't decide what little detail they saw deserved their attention.
There was one thing they could focus on, though, and they would stop shuffling. That was when they finally noticed a person, or persons, who had yet to go through the transformation to deadie. Then they focused real well, and moved with purpose. Not as much purpose as the Intenses were capable of, but deadly purpose, nonetheless.
The second type of zombie were the Hippies. Instead of being on intense, no-holds barred meth, like the Shufflers, they seemed to be on super-mushrooms. These super flaky deadies were the least dangerous to the moving untransformed, though they would cheerfully join in on the bloody feast once a person was brought down, they just wouldn't do the bringing down.
They were most often either staring into nothingness--even when something was right in front of them--or dancing to some ethereal tune playing somewhere in their heads. It seemed the only thing that could bring them out of one of these two states, was the smell of fresh blood. Or stagnant blood in the case of the zombies.
It seemed that when any of the zombie types got hungry enough, and there weren't any untransformed around to hunt down, they would gladly chow down on one of their own. It was usually whatever type was least plentiful in the group. Except Intenses. I don't think they ever got chowed on by their compatriots. Intenses could kick anyone else's ass.
Intenses. The third type of zombie, the real badasses of the deadies. When they weren't hunting, they would seem like one of the other two types, Shufflers or Hippies, but when they sensed prey, be it human or zombie, they took their PCP and went into hyperdrive. They were faster and stronger than anything alive or dead, and intent upon one thing: eating. Fortunately, for me at least, they were few in number.
I scanned quickly around, first by eyesight, then through the scope of my rifle. Aside from the dozen or so deadies down by the market, the area was clear. One thing Shufflers, Hippies, and Intenses didn't do, was climb, at least not well.
The fourth type of zombie I hadn't come up with a name for yet, and I wasn't sure if it wasn't just an aberration of the other three, as I'd only encountered one of them.
The sound of a bottle scraping against gravel, very faint, made me spin, aiming my rifle toward the other side of the roof. All I could see was the structure housing the stairway in the middle. Whatever caused the sound had to be on the other side of it. My first thought was that it had to be an untransformed human, taking refuge, but that was far from the only choice.
Months ago--years ago?--when this whole thing started, I would have called out. That was a hard lesson I almost didn't survive.
I kept the rifle aimed at the structure, ready to plug anything that came around either side of it. It was just large enough a whole horde of deadies could be hiding on the other side. If they got real close to each other. If they were prone to hiding.
I laughed at my paranoia. Zombies hide?
I slung my rifle back over my shoulder, and then drew my knives. Then I started walking to where I could see what was hiding on the other side of the stairwell. I gave the structure a wide berth, checked the top to make sure nothing was hiding up there. I was ready to attack deadies, or to signal that I was safe if it happened to be someone who was still human. Not that I thought they would believe me in my present state of appearance. I hadn't looked in a mirror for some time, but was fairly sure I looked just like one of the deadies. I had enough blood on me just from my run in with the Intense several minutes ago. My knives still had his blood on them.
Then I saw her. A lone woman on the far side of the structure. I knew instantly she was a Hippie. Hell, with the dress she was wearing, and the dead flowers in her hair, she looked like the old definition of hippie as well. A true flower child from the sixties and seventies of the past century. She was standing mostly still, just weaving back and forth, her arms held out slightly from her body, palms outward. I could almost imagine her humming. She wasn't, but I could imagine it.
If she was truly a Hippie, and not an Intense posing as a Hippie, I wasn't in any real danger from her, except that the deadies all had some form of extrasensory connection with each other. One deadie realized you were there, and everyone one of them within a certain distance knew it as well. What that distance was exactly, I hadn't worked out yet. The scientist I used to be wanted very badly to quantify it, but not badly enough to take the risks to find out.
When it came down to it I had two choices, kill her, or find another, less populated, hiding place. So, despite that fact she'd been here first, she lost the toss. I walked toward her, intent on slitting her throat, when she noticed me. Then I started to run toward her so I could kill her before any others who might be within sending distance would know of me as well. She held up her hand toward me, in a defensive posture, and stumbled a few steps backward.
"N-n-n... n-no," she said, stuttering with a harsh, croaky voice. I was shocked, and stopped. I don't know that I could speak any better, not having used my voice in so long. But it wasn't the clumsy way in which she spoke that stopped me, just the fact she'd spoken at all.
"Don... d-don... Don' k-killllll." She then looked at me with emotion that I hadn't come to expect from a deadie.
I stood there, knife poised to strike. Other than the fact she was very dirty, months worth of dirt and grime on her, minor cuts and bruises which didn't heal, she was unmarked by any kind of violence. Her eyes followed me, with very little of the wandering her type was prone to.
For some reason, I won't pretend to understand it, I decided to be merciful. I turned my back and walked over by the structure, where I'd noticed the remains of some kind of cage or coop. I decided to break some of the wood free so I could build a fire.
If the deadies down below noticed the fire, they would try to climb the outside of the building before they would think to go inside and take the stairs. What was the old term? They weren't rocket scientists. I don't know why rocket scientists got the credit the term eluded to, I was--or had been--a chemist, and my work was much more difficult than building a rocket.
I shaved off some of the wood for kindling and set about making the fire. Soon, just as it was getting dark, I had a merry little flame going. It was more for the sense of comfort it gave me, rather than for warmth. It was the middle of summer, so I wouldn't get cold during the night--probably wouldn't even notice if it did.
Fires had an interesting effect on the zombie population. Shufflers, Hippies, and even Intenses would simply stare at it, entranced, as if they couldn't see anything else, so, unless you were sitting in the middle of a horde, and they noticed you by bumping into you, sitting by a fire was safer than not. That is, of course, until the fire went out, at which time the entranced zombies would go, "Oh, hey, breakfast," and the munch fest would begin.
The Hippie surprised me again by actually sitting in front of the fire before she entered her trance state. She'd obviously not been transformed into a zombie by the usual sure-fire way, getting bitten. But, that's what the world found out to its dismay, getting bitten wasn't to only way to become a deadie. To my knowledge, they never did figure out what the various ways of transmission were, or even, exactly what it was. Be it curse, or virus, or something else, was still a mystery, one that wasn't likely to ever be solved, as all the surviving scientists, like me, were doing just that, surviving.
My wound started itching, so I looked down at my bandaged arm, and thought again of George, raging against our friends, trying with everything he had to get to me. I remember the words, spoken defiantly through tears, "If ever you see me again, kill me." Then the rush into the darkness to kill as many zombies before the transformation took place.
I looked over at the Hippie, sitting entranced by the fire, and wondered if her type slept, or perhaps, even dreamed. It was the type of thing you could never know, of course, not having the ability to crawl inside their heads. I'd never observed any individuals long enough to determine if they slept or not, so for three types I drew a blank. I could only speak for the unnamed fourth type. I haven't slept a wink since I died.
But that was long ago, just a memory, and they were all gone now. I knew I would never see any of them again. I could feel tears trying to bud in eyes far too dry to give birth to them.
Such is the outcome in our changed world. A world where impossibility and fantasy, spawned of sick and fevered minds, had become the reality. A world where everything you'd thought you could depend on had... simply. ceased. to be....
I shook myself out of my morbid reverie and looked down at the can I held in my hand. A hand covered in dried blood and grime. Peaches, the label read, after I'd smeared the dust away. My longing for the fruit danced a square dance with equal amounts boredom and revulsion.
I used to love peaches. Raw, canned, in drink, in pies... oh, the pies....
My gut, however, craved something more visceral, something more raw, something made of protein.... It had been a long time since I'd eaten anything substantial.
I don't know if my sense of smell, or the sound of something falling to the floor of the abandoned supermarket and breaking with a wet smash, alerted me first. Honed habit made me crouch, grabbing for my long knife rather than the rifle, with its dwindling supply of ammunition, slung across my back. I quickly stashed the precious peaches into my dirty pouch, before I grasped and drew the other knife. They were a mismatched set, but the world of matching anything had gone bye-bye, along with the canned music that used to accompany shopping trips such as this one. At least you didn't have to worry about whether or not you could afford the groceries. You just had to worry whether you'd survive the effort.
I crept down the aisle, placing each step carefully, so as to not create any more noise than I had to. The floor was a veritable minefield of opportunities to announce my presence. Cans lay helter-skelter everywhere, along with plastic and cellophane bags containing all sorts of goods people used to spend good money on, mostly worthless nutrition wise.
Another sound, shuffling, on the next aisle over, told me what I was most likely up against. I relaxed and listened, trying to determine if there was more than the one shuffler, or if, as normal, there was a pack of them. Alone, Shufflers were no large threat, but together, if you weren't careful, they could be deadly. Worst case scenario, of course, is an Intense, masquarading as a Shuffler. Having one of them suddenly burst out of the crowd, as you are trying to sneak past, spelled almost certain doom.
I carefully crept around the end of the aisle, past a display of some kind of mass-produced pastry, most of which was smeared all over the floor. My knives were too rusted and crusted to be of use as a mirror, so I had to ease my way out slowly, so as to not draw attention from the Shufflers.
The nearest was a woman, somewhere under middle age, matted hair sticking out at odd angles, wearing a frock of some kind. Her body jerked to and fro, and shook, her eyes darting all over the place, never resting on any one thing.
Good, she wasn't aware of me. I looked beyond her and saw three others, exhibiting the same meth addict behavior, trailing a short ways behind, two men and another woman. I couldn't see them very clearly from my vantage point to tell ages, not that it had any importance. They were dead, and death was the great equalizer, they say.
Something, perhaps the sudden lessening of sound, drew my eye back to the nearest Shuffler, who was looking right at me, steadily.
Shit.
Then there was a sound, somewhere between a growl and a scream, as one of the men started running very quickly toward me.
Shit, Shit. Shit. An Intense. Abandoning all pretense of sneaking, I ran down the aisle I had just come from, wanting to put as much distance between me and the shufflers as possible. I wasn't going to outrun the Intense, it couldn't be done, but I wanted to make sure there was enough time to finish him off before the Shufflers could catch up. If they caught us before I killed the Intense, then I would be overwhelmed with numbers, and it would be time for me to say buh-bye.
I sensed him right on my tail, about to catch me, so I rolled to the side, ditching the rifle as I did, so it wouldn't tangle me up. Then I came up swinging the longer of my two knives at the back of his leg. As he was going down, I stabbed with the shorter knife up through his arm pit, disabling the arm.
The sound of more running feet drew my attention briefly. I turned to see the Shufflers--no longer shuffling--bearing down on me. I would have liked to dispatch the Intense, who was still trying to get to me, crawling with one arm and one leg--both on the same side--but that would leave me vulnerable. I quickly picked up my rifle and sprinted down the aisle, leaving the Shufflers to trip over the crippled Intense.
Man, I hated zombies.
The movies got most things wrong about them, of course, but then, I could hardly hold the moviemakers at fault, as previously, they had been imaginary things, something to watch as you clutched your tub of popcorn, waiting for the brain munching to commence. I've always hated zombie movies, and found it way beyond ironic that now I was starring in the worst one I'd ever seen, only I wasn't in a theater, holding popcorn.
I ran out the front of the no-longer-deserted store, looked quickly around, then ran east on the mostly deserted street, the mostly deserted part being several humanlike shapes to the west. I slowed to a jog, so I could better keep an eye out for nasty surprises. Then I climbed a tree, jumped to an awning, and clambered over a sign and onto a roof. I unslung my rifle, aimed it over the sign, down the street toward the market I'd just quitted.
The shufflers I'd encountered inside were milling around in front of it, back to shuffling, and the Intense was dragging himself in the midst of them, trailing a wide line of blood from the wounds I'd given him.
That was another thing the movies got wrong. Deadies, as I called them, having a hard time using the hated Z word, were both harder and easier to kill than their fictional counterparts. A head shot didn't necessarily kill them, and you could kill them in other areas, you just had to do a lot of damage. They didn't bleed as untransformed humans did, per say, they oozed instead, but if they lost enough bodily fluid, they would succumb, same as everything else would.
I wondered sometimes, if the almost universal love of zombie movies had somehow created them. If the combined subconscious manifested them in some way. I never could understand how people liked zombie movies, stupid things, catapulting them to best sellers and cult status. I had friends who would dress up every year and parade through the city during the zombie apocolypse. Most likely they weren't pretending now, now the real thing was here. I just wondered what type they ended up being.
There were, according to my experience so far, four main types of deadies. The first type, and by far the most plentiful, were the Shufflers. They are the closest to the stereotypical zombies in movies, though they aren't the blank-stare, walking-like-an-uncoordinated-rag-doll, falling-apart-at-the-seams, kind of creatures I'd seen on celluloid so often. Well, maybe the falling-apart-at-the-seams. They shuffled because they seemed more like meth addicts on steroids, and couldn't decide which direction to go. They jerked, and spasmed, and quivered constantly. That went double for their eyes, which couldn't seem to focus on one thing, bouncing balls trapped in eye-sockets. It was as if they were watching a completely different world than everybody else, and couldn't decide what little detail they saw deserved their attention.
There was one thing they could focus on, though, and they would stop shuffling. That was when they finally noticed a person, or persons, who had yet to go through the transformation to deadie. Then they focused real well, and moved with purpose. Not as much purpose as the Intenses were capable of, but deadly purpose, nonetheless.
The second type of zombie were the Hippies. Instead of being on intense, no-holds barred meth, like the Shufflers, they seemed to be on super-mushrooms. These super flaky deadies were the least dangerous to the moving untransformed, though they would cheerfully join in on the bloody feast once a person was brought down, they just wouldn't do the bringing down.
They were most often either staring into nothingness--even when something was right in front of them--or dancing to some ethereal tune playing somewhere in their heads. It seemed the only thing that could bring them out of one of these two states, was the smell of fresh blood. Or stagnant blood in the case of the zombies.
It seemed that when any of the zombie types got hungry enough, and there weren't any untransformed around to hunt down, they would gladly chow down on one of their own. It was usually whatever type was least plentiful in the group. Except Intenses. I don't think they ever got chowed on by their compatriots. Intenses could kick anyone else's ass.
Intenses. The third type of zombie, the real badasses of the deadies. When they weren't hunting, they would seem like one of the other two types, Shufflers or Hippies, but when they sensed prey, be it human or zombie, they took their PCP and went into hyperdrive. They were faster and stronger than anything alive or dead, and intent upon one thing: eating. Fortunately, for me at least, they were few in number.
I scanned quickly around, first by eyesight, then through the scope of my rifle. Aside from the dozen or so deadies down by the market, the area was clear. One thing Shufflers, Hippies, and Intenses didn't do, was climb, at least not well.
The fourth type of zombie I hadn't come up with a name for yet, and I wasn't sure if it wasn't just an aberration of the other three, as I'd only encountered one of them.
The sound of a bottle scraping against gravel, very faint, made me spin, aiming my rifle toward the other side of the roof. All I could see was the structure housing the stairway in the middle. Whatever caused the sound had to be on the other side of it. My first thought was that it had to be an untransformed human, taking refuge, but that was far from the only choice.
Months ago--years ago?--when this whole thing started, I would have called out. That was a hard lesson I almost didn't survive.
I kept the rifle aimed at the structure, ready to plug anything that came around either side of it. It was just large enough a whole horde of deadies could be hiding on the other side. If they got real close to each other. If they were prone to hiding.
I laughed at my paranoia. Zombies hide?
I slung my rifle back over my shoulder, and then drew my knives. Then I started walking to where I could see what was hiding on the other side of the stairwell. I gave the structure a wide berth, checked the top to make sure nothing was hiding up there. I was ready to attack deadies, or to signal that I was safe if it happened to be someone who was still human. Not that I thought they would believe me in my present state of appearance. I hadn't looked in a mirror for some time, but was fairly sure I looked just like one of the deadies. I had enough blood on me just from my run in with the Intense several minutes ago. My knives still had his blood on them.
Then I saw her. A lone woman on the far side of the structure. I knew instantly she was a Hippie. Hell, with the dress she was wearing, and the dead flowers in her hair, she looked like the old definition of hippie as well. A true flower child from the sixties and seventies of the past century. She was standing mostly still, just weaving back and forth, her arms held out slightly from her body, palms outward. I could almost imagine her humming. She wasn't, but I could imagine it.
If she was truly a Hippie, and not an Intense posing as a Hippie, I wasn't in any real danger from her, except that the deadies all had some form of extrasensory connection with each other. One deadie realized you were there, and everyone one of them within a certain distance knew it as well. What that distance was exactly, I hadn't worked out yet. The scientist I used to be wanted very badly to quantify it, but not badly enough to take the risks to find out.
When it came down to it I had two choices, kill her, or find another, less populated, hiding place. So, despite that fact she'd been here first, she lost the toss. I walked toward her, intent on slitting her throat, when she noticed me. Then I started to run toward her so I could kill her before any others who might be within sending distance would know of me as well. She held up her hand toward me, in a defensive posture, and stumbled a few steps backward.
"N-n-n... n-no," she said, stuttering with a harsh, croaky voice. I was shocked, and stopped. I don't know that I could speak any better, not having used my voice in so long. But it wasn't the clumsy way in which she spoke that stopped me, just the fact she'd spoken at all.
"Don... d-don... Don' k-killllll." She then looked at me with emotion that I hadn't come to expect from a deadie.
I stood there, knife poised to strike. Other than the fact she was very dirty, months worth of dirt and grime on her, minor cuts and bruises which didn't heal, she was unmarked by any kind of violence. Her eyes followed me, with very little of the wandering her type was prone to.
For some reason, I won't pretend to understand it, I decided to be merciful. I turned my back and walked over by the structure, where I'd noticed the remains of some kind of cage or coop. I decided to break some of the wood free so I could build a fire.
If the deadies down below noticed the fire, they would try to climb the outside of the building before they would think to go inside and take the stairs. What was the old term? They weren't rocket scientists. I don't know why rocket scientists got the credit the term eluded to, I was--or had been--a chemist, and my work was much more difficult than building a rocket.
I shaved off some of the wood for kindling and set about making the fire. Soon, just as it was getting dark, I had a merry little flame going. It was more for the sense of comfort it gave me, rather than for warmth. It was the middle of summer, so I wouldn't get cold during the night--probably wouldn't even notice if it did.
Fires had an interesting effect on the zombie population. Shufflers, Hippies, and even Intenses would simply stare at it, entranced, as if they couldn't see anything else, so, unless you were sitting in the middle of a horde, and they noticed you by bumping into you, sitting by a fire was safer than not. That is, of course, until the fire went out, at which time the entranced zombies would go, "Oh, hey, breakfast," and the munch fest would begin.
The Hippie surprised me again by actually sitting in front of the fire before she entered her trance state. She'd obviously not been transformed into a zombie by the usual sure-fire way, getting bitten. But, that's what the world found out to its dismay, getting bitten wasn't to only way to become a deadie. To my knowledge, they never did figure out what the various ways of transmission were, or even, exactly what it was. Be it curse, or virus, or something else, was still a mystery, one that wasn't likely to ever be solved, as all the surviving scientists, like me, were doing just that, surviving.
My wound started itching, so I looked down at my bandaged arm, and thought again of George, raging against our friends, trying with everything he had to get to me. I remember the words, spoken defiantly through tears, "If ever you see me again, kill me." Then the rush into the darkness to kill as many zombies before the transformation took place.
I looked over at the Hippie, sitting entranced by the fire, and wondered if her type slept, or perhaps, even dreamed. It was the type of thing you could never know, of course, not having the ability to crawl inside their heads. I'd never observed any individuals long enough to determine if they slept or not, so for three types I drew a blank. I could only speak for the unnamed fourth type. I haven't slept a wink since I died.
Chapter 2 - Swallowed by a Rabbit Hole
The bandage had a large red spot on it, underneath of which was the original bite wound that put me in this sorry state. That was one thing I shared with the other three types, any wound we recieved, never healed. They didn't decay--don't ask me why, there was certainly enough unsanitary conditions, that they should. Our hearts didn't beat, but there was circulation. Our hearts just kind of... vibrated, causing our blood to ooze through our veins--and out of our wounds. An untransformed human would have bleed as much blood as was in my bandage in a matter of minutes, instead of the weeks it took me. And the vibration of our hearts? My heightened senses allowed me to detect it at any of the normal points one would check for a heart beat, but I doubted any human could.
There was the perk for me, I guess, the heightened senses. That and the increased speed and strength; like an Intense, without the insane drawbacks. I don't know, maybe that's what I was supposed to have become, an Intense.
I started to unwrap the gauze bandage. For what reason I'd bandaged it, I don't know. It didn't really slow down the progress of the oozing, and it wasn't as if I were going to get infected with anything. Anything beyond what I already was infected with, anyway. The problem with my situation, well, one of them, was that it is like being on drugs constantly. False colors, motion trails, things that aren't there. I wondered if someone were to look at my eyes, I would look like the Shufflers, eyes bouncing around like some early video game. I tried my best to concentrate past the inbuilt kaleidoscope on what I knew to be reality, but without an outside perspective, wasn't sure I was succeeding or not.
I felt a bit light headed, and didn't want to tackle re-bandaging myself until I was better able. I reached into my satchel and pulled out my newly acquired peaches, opened them up with my small piercing knife. I stabbed one and put it in my mouth. Sensation rushed through me, definitely not what I remembered peaches being like pre-trans. I wasn't sure I liked it, but that may just be my hanging on to old memories and wanting things to be the same. The peaches definitely weren't going to do the job protein would do for me. I should have gone for some peanut butter or something, or some canned meat.
Thinking about meat brought back the urge, and I looked at the Hippie, who suddenly looked very appetizing. A quick lunge, rip out her throat, drink the blood, tear at.... I closed my eyes and forced the urge down. I didn't breathe to focus as I would have in the old days when I was human. I had to be able to breathe to do that. My whole body worked differently than it had before. Everything worked on some process of osmosis or something.
I looked down at the peaches, which suddenly looked very unappetizing, something that shouldn't, no, couldn't be eaten. I sat them down on the gravel and cleaned my piercing knife, put it away. I kept from looking at the zombie sitting at the fire with me, and turned my attention to my bandaged arm. I took a deep breath out of habit, little real good it did me, and grasped the end of the cloth where I had stuffed it under the wrapping. I unwrapped it to see the bite mark, oozing blood.
Memory washed over me. The man I was falling in love with holding me after we realized I was a goner, that I was going to change into a monster. We were holed up on a rooftop, very similar to the one I was on now, but it was surrounded by deadies, at least fifty of them. They wouldn't sleep, they wouldn't give up, because there were too many of us together. The bigger the group of humans, the easier they were to sense. We had only realized that fact a few hours before, too late to break up and go separate ways in smaller groups. The zombies had hit us hard and though we were a smaller group when we fought off the first wave and made it to the roof, we were still too large. And I had been bitten on the way up.
"You've got to let me go," I whispered into his neck, pushing gently against his shoulder.
"No." His voice was more vulnerable than I'd ever heard it before, but there was still a stubborness to it. That stubborness had kept us alive, past all odds
It took different periods of time to change for different people, some changed within minutes, some took days. I could feel it changing me. It was very much like the one and only time I'd done any drugs, it was making me warm, and I felt as if my senses were fraying just a bit at the edges. I didn't want to leave. I was scared--terrified actually--but I wanted to do some good for the group--for this man--if I were to die.
I looked up past the side of his head at the others. They all knew, and were handling it in their various ways, most with tears. That made me feel good, that they cared enough for me to shed tears at my impending death, despite all the death they'd seen already, all they'd lost. I gestured toward him with my eyes to them, and a couple of the men nodded. I quickly kissed him on the cheek as they reached down to grab him.
"No," he yelled as they lifted him away, "No, you can't do this, it's not going to happen to her, Get your fucking hands off me."
"If you ever see me again," I said through my tears, as I took my rifle in hand. "Kill me." There was a moment, as desperation and defiance fought in his eyes, then the rage hit. Others in our group rushed to restrain him, to keep him from stopping me. I really didn't want to go. I wanted to spend as much time with them as I could before I changed, but that was already happening, and I really didn't want to belong to the group that would eat them. So I turned and ran for the way we'd gotten to the roof.
Things got real fuzzy at that point. I know I fought. I changed, and the stupid zombie vision took hold, and I fought. I really couldn't say how I survived, if you can call this survival, why I didn't end up as zombie chow. Except that, it seemed that most zombies went through an Intense phase when they first change, they were almost unstoppable berserkers. One thing I do know for sure, I didn't end up eating anybody else. The urge has been powerful, and there were times I'd almost succumbed, but, so far, it hadn't happened.
I don't know if my group survived, if he survived, that night. I don't know if my reckless charge swayed matters either way for them, but I do know I didn't harm any of them. Well, not physically, anyway.
I felt like tears were going to well in my eyes, as the memories released their hold on me, but knew it wasn't going to happen. This feeling was the closest I'd ever come again.
I looked down at the bandage I was unwrapping and suddenly knew why I'd put it on in the first place, just as I had "fixed" the other wounds I'd gotten that night. It was my attempt to feel normal, to cling to what I'd been, a refusal to accept my new state.
I wasn't like any of the others, to be sure, other than the oozing wounds, increased strength and speed, and, of course, the damned zombie vision. Other than that, as far as I knew, I hadn't changed. And, they all seemed to sense me as still human.
The bandage came away, and the angry wound stared up at me. The zombie, a Shuffler who'd bit me while I was fighting an Intense, had meant business. She hadn't torn a chunk out, she'd gotten a club to the head before she could, but not for lack of trying. The wound looked brand new, except.... There seemed to be something metallic in it, something that glinted in the firelight. I turned my arm so the fire could show it better, but that actually made it show less. I turned it away from the fire, and it showed up again, glinting as if it were reflecting the fire, only it wasn't.
I touched the edges of the wound, spread them to see if I could tell what it was. The light increased! I spread further, hoping the chunk wouldn't come free and was stunned. About a centimeter under the skin, my inside was glowing. I looked on the other side of the mostly circular wound. That side hadn't been quite as deep, but in a couple of tiny spots, I saw the same thing.
I looked over to see the Hippie staring intently at me, her mouth hanging open. Then she reached inside her voluminous blouse with clumsy hands, looking very frustrated at her difficulty. As I watched her, I realized I might have to recatagorize her. Though she shared a lot with the type, she wasn't really like any others I'd seen. But then, I'd never spent as much time with any of them that I had with her, maybe all the Hippies were more like this.
She brought out a small book and then handed it to me over the fire. I had to grab it quickly to prevent it, and her arm, from being burned. It was dirty, and beat up, but appeared to be a journal.
Then she stood and came toward me, at a speed that alarmed me, like she was attacking me. I jumped back, dropping the book, and reaching for my knives.
"Mmmmm... rrrrea," she said, grabbing my arms. I paused.
"W-what?" It was the first word I'd spoken since I'd turned. My voice cracked from disuse, but I was gratified it came out as well as it did. I hadn't been completely sure I was still able to speak.
"Mmmmm," she repeated, patting herself on the chest.
"You," I said. She nodded eagerly, if a little unsteadily.
"R-r-reaaatheeee," she struggled.
I shook my head, not understanding. "I'm sorry."
She shut her eyes with an expression of concentration.
"Reeaa... deee."
"Ready?" I repeated what I thought she said. Her eyes popped open. "You're ready? Ready for what?"
She reached down and took my hand. I released my hold on my knife, and she pulled my hand up and placed it over her heart. Just when I'd been about to let go of the stereotype of her being a Hippie, she goes and acts like one. I shook my head, not understanding what it was she...
I felt my eyes pop wide open, as suddenly, my hand was incredibly warm. And glowing! Her face, as she closed her eyes, took on the look of total euphoria. Then she started to come apart.
Not the falling into pieces and gobbets come apart. Tiny pieces of her started to glow and drift away. It was slow at first, and all I could do was stare, doubtless with my mouth wide open. Then the process sped up as more and more tiny pieces lit up and flew away.
Soon, I was left standing there, hand held out to where the Hippie had been standing, but she was gone. I don't know how long I stood there, in that position, with my mouth hanging open.
"Ready for what?" I asked the empty air.
The Bizarre Story of How We Met
My mind rebelled. I could not have seen what I thought I had. This had to be some new hallucinogen my zombie life inflicted on me. I quickly packed my stuff and got off that roof, killed the unlucky Shuffler who happened to be in my way at the bottom. Then I pointed my back to the center of town and ran. Morning found me partially up a mountain side, surrounded by woods.
Forests on ZombieVision is not a pleasant experience if you are trying to do anything but enjoy the trip. It is just too much. Too many sounds, too many visuals, too many smells, more than the human brain can handle, or, in my case, a brain that used to be human. I was spending a tremendous amount of concentration just focusing on doing what I wanted to do. I found a small group of Shufflers--or maybe Hippies--just standing in the trees, their heads going back and forth as they watched the sounds and listened to the colors. It gave me hope that maybe there were survivors in the woods around the world, people who'd escaped to areas that partially incapacitated the Deadies.
I was famished, and getting weaker. I sat down by a log, though it took me a few moments to make sure it was a log, and not a rock, or a sleeping bear. Then I focused my senses, trying to bring them under control. I caught a whiff of a deer, exactly what I was looking for, and concentrated on it, trying to shut everything else out. When I achieved that, mostly, I unslung my rifle and aimed it in the direction I felt the animal was. Then I focused on that area, concentrating to separate trees from leaves from mountainside. Then I caught sight of an eye, a does eye with incredibly long lashes. I concentrated to keep myself from getting lost in what I saw, moved the scope down the neck and into the chest area.
I had heard there were tricks to hunting, and skinning dear. I'd never done it before, the only things I'd shot were ex-humans. I didn't have to do the normal tricks a sniper would use, that I had learned post apocolypse, any longer as I no longer breathed. I pulled the trigger and the deer stumbled and fell. I'd heard that quite often hunters had to chase down their targets after shooting them, but I was using a much larger caliber bullet than they usually did.
I started running toward the deer, barely managing to get my rifle slung in my haste. A red haze started to color everything, and suddenly, instead of barely being able to see it, I saw the deer as if it were highlighted against everything else. It pulsed with every dying beat of its heart, weakening rapidly. It was suddenly very important I get to it before it died. I got to it before its heart stopped and dug into its neck with fervor, its blood washing over me. I don't know if it was endorphins, or some special zombie juice, but I'd never felt better. The sensations running through my body were overwhelming, intoxicating, powerful.
I ate until long past full, and then I laid there on the ground, looking into the sky past the kaleidoscopic leaves. I felt as if the world had increased its spin a hundredfold, and I was laying at the axis of the rotation, spinning one way, while the leaves and sky spun the other. If I stood, surely I would be thrown by the centripedal force--or was it centrifugal, I'd suddenly forgotten my physics--far into the forest, breaking me against trees.
The opposing spinnings slowed, the earth faster than the sky, since it always seemed to be spinning somewhat. I didn't move for some time after the spinning underneath me had stopped. I could feel my body doing whatever it was it did in the place of digestion, now I was dead. I know my heart now operated on some form of vibration in the place of pulsing, my lungs on some form of osmosis. How did digestion work? The others zombies didn't stop after they'd eaten one... meal, so they must have some way of digesting what they ate, some way of processing, or purging. That the system was different, there was no doubt, but it was still a system that kept us dead operating. There had to be.
Didn't there?
I saw again the Hippie dissolving into glowing particles. How was that possible? I could see it being done in a movie, but it wasn't reality.
I caught myself at that thought.
Like zombies were any more real?
Then I sensed--smelled, felt, heard--something I hadn't for some time, a human. Perhaps it was because of the meat and blood I'd just ingested, but the normal druglike feeling of the woods was greatly decreased. I sat up and looked over at a man next to a tree, aiming a rifle at me.
"If you can understand me, little lady, I would suggest you not move, or your brains will join the mess you made of that deer."
"I can understand you," I said, as I raised my hands.
"Sensible," he said. He must have been in his late forties, early fifties. "Now, stand up. Keep them hands high in the air."
Standing up from a sitting position while keeping your hands in the air is not an easy proposition, I discovered. I had to swing my feet around to the side of me, get into a kneeling position, and then stand from there. I looked at the man once I'd finished. He was highlighted just as the deer was, and pulsing in time with his heart beat. This was the first time I'd seen a surviving human since my transformation. Now I understood how the zombies found live humans so easily.
"I've been watching you since you came into the woods, walking right past that little group of nasties at the bottom of the hill. Can't decide what you are. You're not as clumsy as most of them, but something strange about the way you walk and look around, like you're trying to imitate them, but not doing the best of jobs. You use a weapon, but then you go running after the deer like you was one of those fast ones. Then the way you tore into that deer." He shook his head while he was looking at me intently, as if he were trying to make a decision. "What's your name?"
The question shocked me. Not because he'd asked it, but because I didn't know. After the intitial shock, I tried recalling the names of my ex-party. Other than George, I couldn't remember any of them either.
"I don't remember," I stated.
"Mmm-hmm," he mumbled and looked me over. Then he started approaching me, carefully, darting his eyes to and fro. "How long ago did you get bit?" He indicated the bandage on my arm. By the tone in his voice, I knew he expected me to be turning at any time. "Thought maybe you were already a nasty, the way you move, and eat, but zombies don't shoot, and they don't--"
I didn't want to hurt him, but there was no way I could see to keep him from knowing I was what he called a nasty. He was only several feet away, I focused everything into one charge. I was on him almost before he could get a shot off. Almost. The bullet ripped through my side. I felt it, kind of like someone punching you in jest, but there was no pain. Now I was going to have another oozing spot to leak through, maybe two if the bullet went all the way through.
I drove him to the ground and wrestled the rifle from his grip, threw it away from us. Almost my entire being was driving me to sink my teeth into his flesh, preferably the throat, so the blood could wash over me. Again, almost. I wrestled with myself to keep from doing as I was driven. I'd lasted this long without eating either a human or used-to-be-human, and I didn't want to start now, even though I was pissed I had another hole or two in me.
"I was bit months ago, big man, but you can thank whatever it is you worship that I'm not like the rest of them."
Terror was swimming in his eyes as he looked up at me, his gaze darting back and forth between mine.
"W-what are you?" he stuttered out, I could taste his fear. Much as I hate to say it, it felt good.
"I guess I'm a nasty, just not a particularly nasty nasty."
"I've never seen anything move that fast."
"Oh, there's faster, believe me," I said. "Now, if I let you up, are you going to behave? I'd hate to have to knock you out and take your rifle, leaving you defenseless."
It took him a few moments to register that last sentence, as if I were speaking a different language that he had to translate. I felt like an old school marm, waiting for a slow student to understand. I even nodded my head and opened my eyes wide, encouraging him to respond.
"Y-you're not going to kill me?"
I almost sighed exageratedly, only my lungs didn't work that way anymore, as it was I shook my head.
"If I was going to kill you, it would have been when I first tackled you, don't you think? Especially since I'm a nasty. I haven't killed any humans yet, and don't particularly want to start with you."
"Uh, okay... I mean yes, I'll behave."
I got off of him, though I think it was his terror mostly that kept him from throwing me off before. Even with my extra strength, I still wasn't heavier, and lighter by at least seventy pounds than he was. My mind wrestled in the background with why I was stronger, without having gained extra muscle mass. It played with ideas of adrenaline, endorphins, etc. I let it play while I paid attention to him.
He glanced over at his rifle. He couldn't help it, I know, so I didn't take it personally.
"Uh-uh, not yet, big guy. I don't want any more oozing holes in me. They're starting to effect my looks," I joked as I walked over and picked up the rifle. A hunting rifle. "Where do you stay?"
He got a fearful look on his face then. Even more fearful than he'd had since he worked himself down from stark terror a minute ago. Meant to me that he was protecting someone else. I would have said my heart sunk then, but had to examine the language, since my heart was different than it used to be, so shouldn't the cliches be different? I was actually surprised at the emotion I was feeling. With all the differences in my body, shouldn't that be different? I hadn't realized how much I'd missed having company, and somehow I'd built up hope for some in the last few minutes.
"How many?"
"H-how m-many what?" he evaded.
"Don't lie," I said, shaking my head. "You're not very good at it, and I could tell even if you were."
"Two. My kids."
"Mmmm. Yeah, bringing a nasty to meet them wouldn't be a good idea. You got extra ammo in there?" I indicated his pack with a point of my chin. "Maybe some cloth I can bandage myself up with?"
"I need that rifle and my ammo to protect myself and my kids with," he protested.
"Don't worry, big guy, I'm not taking them. I just want to make sure you don't shoot me in the back as I leave."
He pulled the pack off, searched through it. He pulled out a box of ammo and a rather nice first aid kit, and handed them over. I opened the kit and pulled out some gauze and tape, then handed the kit back to him. I put the items in my satchel.
"Why don't you take what you can off that deer while I stand guard. Then we'll part ways."
He looked surprised.
"Are there more like you?" he asked as he got out his hunting knife and walked over to the deer.
"Not that I've encountered. Just the Shufflers, Hippies, and Intenses."
He nodded, processing the names I'd given the different types. I could tell he'd only catagorized two types, nasties and fast ones. He set to work on the deer. It was obviously not his first time.
"Keep you and your kids in the woods," I said. I almost asked his name, the way he'd asked mine, but didn't. It was probably better. "The nasties don't operate as well in the woods. Too much information for their drug addled brains."
"Is that what caused all of this? Drugs?"
I chuckled. "No, though the effect of the transformation has a similar effect on them, a kind of permanent high."
"You as well? Or are you different that way too?"
"Me as well."
"How are you different, I mean, why?"
"I wish I knew," I said, hearing the wistfulness in my own tone. "I've thought about it constantly, come up with a lot of theories, but without empirical evidence; a lab to test those theories, and a larger sample than just one individual."
"You a doctor, or a scientist?"
I chuckled again, "That obvious, huh? Scientist, actually. Chemistry."
"Maybe that's why."
"No, believe me, I've seen plenty of deadies in lab coats."
"Deadies?"
I laughed, and as I did, I wondered how I was able to, laughter having the function of forcing air past your vocal chords more explosively than talking. So much of this just didn't make any sense scientifically.
"You call them nastys, I call them... us... deadies."
We talked for a while, him working on the carving out pieces of the deer, me standing guard, even though I was sure there was no real danger. My senses had doubled since I'd eaten. The world was still a kaleidoscope, and I had to concentrate to not get lost in it, but that concentration was becoming easier, almost like a state of being. I know my sensei would have told me to relax into my new state, to be one with all around me, but I was afraid that if I did, I would lose myself and become the nasty this guy feared.
He finally finished with what he thought he could carry.
"So, how do we make the transfer of the rifle? I really do need it to protect my kids."
I hesitated for a moment, then just handed it to him. Then I fished out his ammo and handed him that as well. He juggled everything in his arms, trying to carry it all, a look of surprise on his face.
"Just don't shoot me again, okay?"
He looked down at the hole in my shirt. With all of the blood from the deer and the previous encounters with the deadies, you couldn't tell which blood was mine, but I knew I was oozing it. But it took us zombies... Deadies a long time to bleed out, and we must have some way of regenerating blood. I had to have oozed everything I'd started with by now, so there was new blood being made somehow.
"You are a mess," he stated.
"Ya think?"
He handed the rifle back. "Why don't you guard me as I take this meat home. Too much for me to carry. I've got some clothes that will fit you. I think. And you could use a shower, big time."
I just stared at him, emotions flaring. He got a small, crooked smile on his face and gestured with his head for me to follow. Then he started to walk away.
I hesitated for a few moments. Then I shook my head and followed.
Forests on ZombieVision is not a pleasant experience if you are trying to do anything but enjoy the trip. It is just too much. Too many sounds, too many visuals, too many smells, more than the human brain can handle, or, in my case, a brain that used to be human. I was spending a tremendous amount of concentration just focusing on doing what I wanted to do. I found a small group of Shufflers--or maybe Hippies--just standing in the trees, their heads going back and forth as they watched the sounds and listened to the colors. It gave me hope that maybe there were survivors in the woods around the world, people who'd escaped to areas that partially incapacitated the Deadies.
I was famished, and getting weaker. I sat down by a log, though it took me a few moments to make sure it was a log, and not a rock, or a sleeping bear. Then I focused my senses, trying to bring them under control. I caught a whiff of a deer, exactly what I was looking for, and concentrated on it, trying to shut everything else out. When I achieved that, mostly, I unslung my rifle and aimed it in the direction I felt the animal was. Then I focused on that area, concentrating to separate trees from leaves from mountainside. Then I caught sight of an eye, a does eye with incredibly long lashes. I concentrated to keep myself from getting lost in what I saw, moved the scope down the neck and into the chest area.
I had heard there were tricks to hunting, and skinning dear. I'd never done it before, the only things I'd shot were ex-humans. I didn't have to do the normal tricks a sniper would use, that I had learned post apocolypse, any longer as I no longer breathed. I pulled the trigger and the deer stumbled and fell. I'd heard that quite often hunters had to chase down their targets after shooting them, but I was using a much larger caliber bullet than they usually did.
I started running toward the deer, barely managing to get my rifle slung in my haste. A red haze started to color everything, and suddenly, instead of barely being able to see it, I saw the deer as if it were highlighted against everything else. It pulsed with every dying beat of its heart, weakening rapidly. It was suddenly very important I get to it before it died. I got to it before its heart stopped and dug into its neck with fervor, its blood washing over me. I don't know if it was endorphins, or some special zombie juice, but I'd never felt better. The sensations running through my body were overwhelming, intoxicating, powerful.
I ate until long past full, and then I laid there on the ground, looking into the sky past the kaleidoscopic leaves. I felt as if the world had increased its spin a hundredfold, and I was laying at the axis of the rotation, spinning one way, while the leaves and sky spun the other. If I stood, surely I would be thrown by the centripedal force--or was it centrifugal, I'd suddenly forgotten my physics--far into the forest, breaking me against trees.
The opposing spinnings slowed, the earth faster than the sky, since it always seemed to be spinning somewhat. I didn't move for some time after the spinning underneath me had stopped. I could feel my body doing whatever it was it did in the place of digestion, now I was dead. I know my heart now operated on some form of vibration in the place of pulsing, my lungs on some form of osmosis. How did digestion work? The others zombies didn't stop after they'd eaten one... meal, so they must have some way of digesting what they ate, some way of processing, or purging. That the system was different, there was no doubt, but it was still a system that kept us dead operating. There had to be.
Didn't there?
I saw again the Hippie dissolving into glowing particles. How was that possible? I could see it being done in a movie, but it wasn't reality.
I caught myself at that thought.
Like zombies were any more real?
Then I sensed--smelled, felt, heard--something I hadn't for some time, a human. Perhaps it was because of the meat and blood I'd just ingested, but the normal druglike feeling of the woods was greatly decreased. I sat up and looked over at a man next to a tree, aiming a rifle at me.
"If you can understand me, little lady, I would suggest you not move, or your brains will join the mess you made of that deer."
"I can understand you," I said, as I raised my hands.
"Sensible," he said. He must have been in his late forties, early fifties. "Now, stand up. Keep them hands high in the air."
Standing up from a sitting position while keeping your hands in the air is not an easy proposition, I discovered. I had to swing my feet around to the side of me, get into a kneeling position, and then stand from there. I looked at the man once I'd finished. He was highlighted just as the deer was, and pulsing in time with his heart beat. This was the first time I'd seen a surviving human since my transformation. Now I understood how the zombies found live humans so easily.
"I've been watching you since you came into the woods, walking right past that little group of nasties at the bottom of the hill. Can't decide what you are. You're not as clumsy as most of them, but something strange about the way you walk and look around, like you're trying to imitate them, but not doing the best of jobs. You use a weapon, but then you go running after the deer like you was one of those fast ones. Then the way you tore into that deer." He shook his head while he was looking at me intently, as if he were trying to make a decision. "What's your name?"
The question shocked me. Not because he'd asked it, but because I didn't know. After the intitial shock, I tried recalling the names of my ex-party. Other than George, I couldn't remember any of them either.
"I don't remember," I stated.
"Mmm-hmm," he mumbled and looked me over. Then he started approaching me, carefully, darting his eyes to and fro. "How long ago did you get bit?" He indicated the bandage on my arm. By the tone in his voice, I knew he expected me to be turning at any time. "Thought maybe you were already a nasty, the way you move, and eat, but zombies don't shoot, and they don't--"
I didn't want to hurt him, but there was no way I could see to keep him from knowing I was what he called a nasty. He was only several feet away, I focused everything into one charge. I was on him almost before he could get a shot off. Almost. The bullet ripped through my side. I felt it, kind of like someone punching you in jest, but there was no pain. Now I was going to have another oozing spot to leak through, maybe two if the bullet went all the way through.
I drove him to the ground and wrestled the rifle from his grip, threw it away from us. Almost my entire being was driving me to sink my teeth into his flesh, preferably the throat, so the blood could wash over me. Again, almost. I wrestled with myself to keep from doing as I was driven. I'd lasted this long without eating either a human or used-to-be-human, and I didn't want to start now, even though I was pissed I had another hole or two in me.
"I was bit months ago, big man, but you can thank whatever it is you worship that I'm not like the rest of them."
Terror was swimming in his eyes as he looked up at me, his gaze darting back and forth between mine.
"W-what are you?" he stuttered out, I could taste his fear. Much as I hate to say it, it felt good.
"I guess I'm a nasty, just not a particularly nasty nasty."
"I've never seen anything move that fast."
"Oh, there's faster, believe me," I said. "Now, if I let you up, are you going to behave? I'd hate to have to knock you out and take your rifle, leaving you defenseless."
It took him a few moments to register that last sentence, as if I were speaking a different language that he had to translate. I felt like an old school marm, waiting for a slow student to understand. I even nodded my head and opened my eyes wide, encouraging him to respond.
"Y-you're not going to kill me?"
I almost sighed exageratedly, only my lungs didn't work that way anymore, as it was I shook my head.
"If I was going to kill you, it would have been when I first tackled you, don't you think? Especially since I'm a nasty. I haven't killed any humans yet, and don't particularly want to start with you."
"Uh, okay... I mean yes, I'll behave."
I got off of him, though I think it was his terror mostly that kept him from throwing me off before. Even with my extra strength, I still wasn't heavier, and lighter by at least seventy pounds than he was. My mind wrestled in the background with why I was stronger, without having gained extra muscle mass. It played with ideas of adrenaline, endorphins, etc. I let it play while I paid attention to him.
He glanced over at his rifle. He couldn't help it, I know, so I didn't take it personally.
"Uh-uh, not yet, big guy. I don't want any more oozing holes in me. They're starting to effect my looks," I joked as I walked over and picked up the rifle. A hunting rifle. "Where do you stay?"
He got a fearful look on his face then. Even more fearful than he'd had since he worked himself down from stark terror a minute ago. Meant to me that he was protecting someone else. I would have said my heart sunk then, but had to examine the language, since my heart was different than it used to be, so shouldn't the cliches be different? I was actually surprised at the emotion I was feeling. With all the differences in my body, shouldn't that be different? I hadn't realized how much I'd missed having company, and somehow I'd built up hope for some in the last few minutes.
"How many?"
"H-how m-many what?" he evaded.
"Don't lie," I said, shaking my head. "You're not very good at it, and I could tell even if you were."
"Two. My kids."
"Mmmm. Yeah, bringing a nasty to meet them wouldn't be a good idea. You got extra ammo in there?" I indicated his pack with a point of my chin. "Maybe some cloth I can bandage myself up with?"
"I need that rifle and my ammo to protect myself and my kids with," he protested.
"Don't worry, big guy, I'm not taking them. I just want to make sure you don't shoot me in the back as I leave."
He pulled the pack off, searched through it. He pulled out a box of ammo and a rather nice first aid kit, and handed them over. I opened the kit and pulled out some gauze and tape, then handed the kit back to him. I put the items in my satchel.
"Why don't you take what you can off that deer while I stand guard. Then we'll part ways."
He looked surprised.
"Are there more like you?" he asked as he got out his hunting knife and walked over to the deer.
"Not that I've encountered. Just the Shufflers, Hippies, and Intenses."
He nodded, processing the names I'd given the different types. I could tell he'd only catagorized two types, nasties and fast ones. He set to work on the deer. It was obviously not his first time.
"Keep you and your kids in the woods," I said. I almost asked his name, the way he'd asked mine, but didn't. It was probably better. "The nasties don't operate as well in the woods. Too much information for their drug addled brains."
"Is that what caused all of this? Drugs?"
I chuckled. "No, though the effect of the transformation has a similar effect on them, a kind of permanent high."
"You as well? Or are you different that way too?"
"Me as well."
"How are you different, I mean, why?"
"I wish I knew," I said, hearing the wistfulness in my own tone. "I've thought about it constantly, come up with a lot of theories, but without empirical evidence; a lab to test those theories, and a larger sample than just one individual."
"You a doctor, or a scientist?"
I chuckled again, "That obvious, huh? Scientist, actually. Chemistry."
"Maybe that's why."
"No, believe me, I've seen plenty of deadies in lab coats."
"Deadies?"
I laughed, and as I did, I wondered how I was able to, laughter having the function of forcing air past your vocal chords more explosively than talking. So much of this just didn't make any sense scientifically.
"You call them nastys, I call them... us... deadies."
We talked for a while, him working on the carving out pieces of the deer, me standing guard, even though I was sure there was no real danger. My senses had doubled since I'd eaten. The world was still a kaleidoscope, and I had to concentrate to not get lost in it, but that concentration was becoming easier, almost like a state of being. I know my sensei would have told me to relax into my new state, to be one with all around me, but I was afraid that if I did, I would lose myself and become the nasty this guy feared.
He finally finished with what he thought he could carry.
"So, how do we make the transfer of the rifle? I really do need it to protect my kids."
I hesitated for a moment, then just handed it to him. Then I fished out his ammo and handed him that as well. He juggled everything in his arms, trying to carry it all, a look of surprise on his face.
"Just don't shoot me again, okay?"
He looked down at the hole in my shirt. With all of the blood from the deer and the previous encounters with the deadies, you couldn't tell which blood was mine, but I knew I was oozing it. But it took us zombies... Deadies a long time to bleed out, and we must have some way of regenerating blood. I had to have oozed everything I'd started with by now, so there was new blood being made somehow.
"You are a mess," he stated.
"Ya think?"
He handed the rifle back. "Why don't you guard me as I take this meat home. Too much for me to carry. I've got some clothes that will fit you. I think. And you could use a shower, big time."
I just stared at him, emotions flaring. He got a small, crooked smile on his face and gestured with his head for me to follow. Then he started to walk away.
I hesitated for a few moments. Then I shook my head and followed.
Because, After All, Everyone Should Have a Nemesis
On the way to Pete's cabin--he told me his name shortly after we started walking--I told him the highlights of my adventures. I didn't tell him of my separation from my group--though he tried to get me to--or my transformation. I just couldn't talk about that part. I was surprised, however, when I told him of my experience with the Hippie on the rooftop.
"Glowing sparks you say," he said, doing me the favor of not ridiculing me. "Interesting. Do you have the journal?"
"No, I don't think so," I said, trying to remember if I'd picked it up. "I was so freaked, I had to get off that roof as soon as I could."
"Pity. Sounded like it was very important to her."
"Yeah, I wish I'd thought of that at the time."
"I wouldn't have believed it, but then, I wouldn't have believed I'd be walking along with a zombie, having a conversation about another zombie dissolving into sparks either."
"What did you do previously, Pete?"
"You'll laugh."
"Really?" I asked.
"I was a school counselor."
I did laugh. Then I apologized.
"You know," Pete said, looking at me. "I can believe in zombies, before I can believe in laughing zombies."
"Do me a favor, Pete, don't call me a zombie."
"You prefer nasty?"
"Not by much, really."
"Well, you don't have a name, what do I call you."
"That, my friend, is your conundrum, not mine. I'm just happy to be using my voice."
He shook his head, "A talking, laughing zo-- umm...." He laughed. "Well, no worries, Chloe will come up with a name for you. You may not like it, but it will stick."
"Your daughter?"
He nodded. "And my son's name is Robby."
"A daughter with a french name, and you name your son Robby?"
"My wife," he said, and his face clouded over with emotion momentarily. I didn't pry, we'd all lost someone, or a great many someones, recently. "It's short for Robert, which, by the way, is from an Old English name. Hroedbeorght, meaning bright fame."
"Wow. You're like a super trivia geek, aren't you?"
"And you've got a real smart ass for a zombie."
We walked for a while without saying anything, when Pete came close.
"There is a man on the ridge to our left. He's been following us for a while," Pete said softly.
I took a casual glance, but didn't see anything that stood out, other than a couple of deer, which stood out as if they'd been circled with a magic marker. I saw a few smaller creatures the same way. Must be the meal I just had, because I hadn't seen anything like it beforehand.
"Is he anywhere near those two deer?" I asked.
"What deer?" Pete glanced over, searched momentarily. "He's at our nine o'clock, standing right on the ridge, looking at us."
I saw just trees, and was having a hard time making out individual ones at that, because of my ZombieVision.
"Whoever he is, he's not alive," I said. "I can't see him, and yet there are two deer not far away that I can see, because they are."
"Shit," Pete said under his breath. "You wouldn't mind going over there and killing him for good would you? I don't want him finding my kids."
I stuffed the rifle back into the crook of his arm, between the meat and his body. Then I started running in the direction Pete had indicated. I was awarded with more than a couple of scrapes as I whipped through branches I could barely see. I seemed to be running faster than I used to, maybe putting a lie to what I'd told Pete about there being things faster than me. I'm not sure I would call it exhilerating, as part of that would be the rush of blood through the veins, which I didn't have any longer. Not a rush, anyway.
The deer I'd seen startled and bounded off as I ran between them on my way to the ridge, and as I looked upward, I still didn't see anything up there I would classify as a human shape. The makeup of the ground, as well as my inability to see it clearly, caused me to stumble a few times, but I didn't fall.
I reached the ridge and stood among trees I couldn't see from a greater distance, and looked down on the town I'd just fled this morning, in the distance. It was one spot I could clearly make out, as it didn't emanate life so strongly as the forest I was standing in did.
Then I sensed him. Not as I normally would one of our kind, but in some other way I couldn't describe. I sensed him, and he was on me. The force of him tackling me stunned me, and the force of hitting the ground I think would have normally knocked me out, if I could be knocked out.
I was immediately fighting for my... unlife. He was immensely strong and fast, and it was all I could do to keep him from ripping my throat out. Though I'd always felt outmatched by Intenses, wits being the only edge I'd had, this one made other Intenses seem like pussies.
I didn't dare reach for my knives, as taking a hand away from the fight over my throat would insure I lost. As it was he was getting closer with each desperate second. I could tell, right then and there that I was about to find out what waited on the other side for zombies. If there was another side.
I lost my grip on his arm, and desperately pushed against his chest, feeling it was a useless act. But he cried out and jumped back. Twenty feet back. He patted his chest as if he were trying to put out a fire. I looked at my hand, to see it smoking. At least it looked like smoke, other than the fact it glowed.
"What are you?" he asked, his voice gravelly.
I looked at him with what was doubtless a dumbfounded expression. Then my wits got back from their vacation and I scrambled to my feet, drawing my knives as I did.
This guy was something other than an Intense. Something much more dangerous for multiple reasons. He was stronger, faster, and, like me, could talk. Though there were small tells of blood on his clothes, he wasn't covered in it as what I was accustomed to from our kind. He also didn't smell of old blood, he smelled of soap and cologne, newly applied.
"I could ask the same of you," I answered. He started walking toward me. I held out my right knife toward him. "Stay back, asshole!"
He chuckled, but he stopped approaching. He brushed off his chest as if some dust had fallen there.
"I must apologize, my dear, for my greeting, but you know the urges we have now. Speaking of which, what is your plan with the mortal down there? Following him home? Hoping to find a larger feast?" He smiled in what I'm sure he thought was a winning way. Maybe it was his words that tainted my view of it. I'd thought momentarily I'd found someone like me, dead, but retaining enough humanity to still behave like one.
"You enjoy what you are," I said, more to myself than to him.
"What's not to enjoy?" he laughed, sounding as if I were a simpleton to have made the statement, to question the blessings of our new state of being. I realized that perhaps he had retained more humanity than I had. There were many, many people previous to this cataclysm who'd been just like him, revelling in their power over others.
I could tell as his eyes narrowed at me that he knew I didn't agree with him. He shook his head.
"I've disappointed you," he chuckled. "You hate what you are, don't you? Do you not realize the power you have, the gift this is? You should, you know. You, like me, have retained your mind after the change. You, like me, can command the billions who haven't." A smirk accompanied a cocked brow as he studied me. Apparently he was very good at reading my face. "You haven't tried, have you? Have you been fighting your new kind?" He laughed heartily.
"Fuck you," was all I could say, having lost my ability to communicate without swearing. I loathed this being in front of me. Just my luck, having found someone like me, and have him be nothing like me.
"Oh, we no longer have the proper blood flow for that to happen. Pity. Wipe off the gore and grime, and I believe you would be a looker. You really should clean yourself once in awhile, you know."
I kept myself from looking down to where Pete was. I didn't know if he was going back to his cabin, or if he was watching and waiting for the outcome here on the ridge. I hoped he was waiting, rather than creating a trail back to his kids for this creature to follow.
Just then, with the sounds of much stumbling, I saw several deadies climbing the hill from town. The asshole looked down at them as well. He shook his head in disgust.
"Poor followers, I know, but you have to take what you can get." He looked back at me, assessing. "You would turn me down if I offered you a position in my organization, wouldn't you?" He shook his head again, and I could just hear his condescending "Pity.", though he left it unvoiced this time. I just glared my answer, knowing I was making a dangerous enemy. He got the look of a sudden epiphany, and looked down at his chest. Then he smiled brightly as he looked at me again.
"This is perfect. I know exactly who and what you are. You are a gift to combat my growing hubris." He laughed.
I didn't want to have to fight him and his lackeys, probably Shufflers and Intenses, so I launched myself at him, my knives slashing, hoping to finish him before they got here. He dodged easily, then kicked out, catching me in the side. I flew through the air and hit a tree, very violently. Fortunately, I didn't feel a great deal of pain, one of the blessings. I scrambled to my feet and ran for him again, with much the same results as before, though this time he caught me, holding my wrists in a steely grip, twisting me around so that he was holding me with my back against him. I'd never encountered someone so strong.
He brought his mouth right next to my ear, almost caressing. "You aren't ready yet, my pet, my sweet adversary. I'm going to do you a favor, because I want a good fight from you. I'm going to give you some time. Spend it well."
He chuckled his annoying chuckle again.
"Know this, though," he whispered. "I am going to eat all you come close to, including that man down there, and whoever he is carrying that meat back to." He then caressed my neck with his nose. "And I will work on figuring out the blood flow problem, so that I can obey as you commanded, when the time is right."
He picked me up and threw me against another tree. I rolled and sprang up, knives ready, but he was gone. A sense of dread filled me as I looked at the empty forest. Then I thought of Pete waiting down below, knowing I had little ability to protect him and his kids from this monster.
"Glowing sparks you say," he said, doing me the favor of not ridiculing me. "Interesting. Do you have the journal?"
"No, I don't think so," I said, trying to remember if I'd picked it up. "I was so freaked, I had to get off that roof as soon as I could."
"Pity. Sounded like it was very important to her."
"Yeah, I wish I'd thought of that at the time."
"I wouldn't have believed it, but then, I wouldn't have believed I'd be walking along with a zombie, having a conversation about another zombie dissolving into sparks either."
"What did you do previously, Pete?"
"You'll laugh."
"Really?" I asked.
"I was a school counselor."
I did laugh. Then I apologized.
"You know," Pete said, looking at me. "I can believe in zombies, before I can believe in laughing zombies."
"Do me a favor, Pete, don't call me a zombie."
"You prefer nasty?"
"Not by much, really."
"Well, you don't have a name, what do I call you."
"That, my friend, is your conundrum, not mine. I'm just happy to be using my voice."
He shook his head, "A talking, laughing zo-- umm...." He laughed. "Well, no worries, Chloe will come up with a name for you. You may not like it, but it will stick."
"Your daughter?"
He nodded. "And my son's name is Robby."
"A daughter with a french name, and you name your son Robby?"
"My wife," he said, and his face clouded over with emotion momentarily. I didn't pry, we'd all lost someone, or a great many someones, recently. "It's short for Robert, which, by the way, is from an Old English name. Hroedbeorght, meaning bright fame."
"Wow. You're like a super trivia geek, aren't you?"
"And you've got a real smart ass for a zombie."
We walked for a while without saying anything, when Pete came close.
"There is a man on the ridge to our left. He's been following us for a while," Pete said softly.
I took a casual glance, but didn't see anything that stood out, other than a couple of deer, which stood out as if they'd been circled with a magic marker. I saw a few smaller creatures the same way. Must be the meal I just had, because I hadn't seen anything like it beforehand.
"Is he anywhere near those two deer?" I asked.
"What deer?" Pete glanced over, searched momentarily. "He's at our nine o'clock, standing right on the ridge, looking at us."
I saw just trees, and was having a hard time making out individual ones at that, because of my ZombieVision.
"Whoever he is, he's not alive," I said. "I can't see him, and yet there are two deer not far away that I can see, because they are."
"Shit," Pete said under his breath. "You wouldn't mind going over there and killing him for good would you? I don't want him finding my kids."
I stuffed the rifle back into the crook of his arm, between the meat and his body. Then I started running in the direction Pete had indicated. I was awarded with more than a couple of scrapes as I whipped through branches I could barely see. I seemed to be running faster than I used to, maybe putting a lie to what I'd told Pete about there being things faster than me. I'm not sure I would call it exhilerating, as part of that would be the rush of blood through the veins, which I didn't have any longer. Not a rush, anyway.
The deer I'd seen startled and bounded off as I ran between them on my way to the ridge, and as I looked upward, I still didn't see anything up there I would classify as a human shape. The makeup of the ground, as well as my inability to see it clearly, caused me to stumble a few times, but I didn't fall.
I reached the ridge and stood among trees I couldn't see from a greater distance, and looked down on the town I'd just fled this morning, in the distance. It was one spot I could clearly make out, as it didn't emanate life so strongly as the forest I was standing in did.
Then I sensed him. Not as I normally would one of our kind, but in some other way I couldn't describe. I sensed him, and he was on me. The force of him tackling me stunned me, and the force of hitting the ground I think would have normally knocked me out, if I could be knocked out.
I was immediately fighting for my... unlife. He was immensely strong and fast, and it was all I could do to keep him from ripping my throat out. Though I'd always felt outmatched by Intenses, wits being the only edge I'd had, this one made other Intenses seem like pussies.
I didn't dare reach for my knives, as taking a hand away from the fight over my throat would insure I lost. As it was he was getting closer with each desperate second. I could tell, right then and there that I was about to find out what waited on the other side for zombies. If there was another side.
I lost my grip on his arm, and desperately pushed against his chest, feeling it was a useless act. But he cried out and jumped back. Twenty feet back. He patted his chest as if he were trying to put out a fire. I looked at my hand, to see it smoking. At least it looked like smoke, other than the fact it glowed.
"What are you?" he asked, his voice gravelly.
I looked at him with what was doubtless a dumbfounded expression. Then my wits got back from their vacation and I scrambled to my feet, drawing my knives as I did.
This guy was something other than an Intense. Something much more dangerous for multiple reasons. He was stronger, faster, and, like me, could talk. Though there were small tells of blood on his clothes, he wasn't covered in it as what I was accustomed to from our kind. He also didn't smell of old blood, he smelled of soap and cologne, newly applied.
"I could ask the same of you," I answered. He started walking toward me. I held out my right knife toward him. "Stay back, asshole!"
He chuckled, but he stopped approaching. He brushed off his chest as if some dust had fallen there.
"I must apologize, my dear, for my greeting, but you know the urges we have now. Speaking of which, what is your plan with the mortal down there? Following him home? Hoping to find a larger feast?" He smiled in what I'm sure he thought was a winning way. Maybe it was his words that tainted my view of it. I'd thought momentarily I'd found someone like me, dead, but retaining enough humanity to still behave like one.
"You enjoy what you are," I said, more to myself than to him.
"What's not to enjoy?" he laughed, sounding as if I were a simpleton to have made the statement, to question the blessings of our new state of being. I realized that perhaps he had retained more humanity than I had. There were many, many people previous to this cataclysm who'd been just like him, revelling in their power over others.
I could tell as his eyes narrowed at me that he knew I didn't agree with him. He shook his head.
"I've disappointed you," he chuckled. "You hate what you are, don't you? Do you not realize the power you have, the gift this is? You should, you know. You, like me, have retained your mind after the change. You, like me, can command the billions who haven't." A smirk accompanied a cocked brow as he studied me. Apparently he was very good at reading my face. "You haven't tried, have you? Have you been fighting your new kind?" He laughed heartily.
"Fuck you," was all I could say, having lost my ability to communicate without swearing. I loathed this being in front of me. Just my luck, having found someone like me, and have him be nothing like me.
"Oh, we no longer have the proper blood flow for that to happen. Pity. Wipe off the gore and grime, and I believe you would be a looker. You really should clean yourself once in awhile, you know."
I kept myself from looking down to where Pete was. I didn't know if he was going back to his cabin, or if he was watching and waiting for the outcome here on the ridge. I hoped he was waiting, rather than creating a trail back to his kids for this creature to follow.
Just then, with the sounds of much stumbling, I saw several deadies climbing the hill from town. The asshole looked down at them as well. He shook his head in disgust.
"Poor followers, I know, but you have to take what you can get." He looked back at me, assessing. "You would turn me down if I offered you a position in my organization, wouldn't you?" He shook his head again, and I could just hear his condescending "Pity.", though he left it unvoiced this time. I just glared my answer, knowing I was making a dangerous enemy. He got the look of a sudden epiphany, and looked down at his chest. Then he smiled brightly as he looked at me again.
"This is perfect. I know exactly who and what you are. You are a gift to combat my growing hubris." He laughed.
I didn't want to have to fight him and his lackeys, probably Shufflers and Intenses, so I launched myself at him, my knives slashing, hoping to finish him before they got here. He dodged easily, then kicked out, catching me in the side. I flew through the air and hit a tree, very violently. Fortunately, I didn't feel a great deal of pain, one of the blessings. I scrambled to my feet and ran for him again, with much the same results as before, though this time he caught me, holding my wrists in a steely grip, twisting me around so that he was holding me with my back against him. I'd never encountered someone so strong.
He brought his mouth right next to my ear, almost caressing. "You aren't ready yet, my pet, my sweet adversary. I'm going to do you a favor, because I want a good fight from you. I'm going to give you some time. Spend it well."
He chuckled his annoying chuckle again.
"Know this, though," he whispered. "I am going to eat all you come close to, including that man down there, and whoever he is carrying that meat back to." He then caressed my neck with his nose. "And I will work on figuring out the blood flow problem, so that I can obey as you commanded, when the time is right."
He picked me up and threw me against another tree. I rolled and sprang up, knives ready, but he was gone. A sense of dread filled me as I looked at the empty forest. Then I thought of Pete waiting down below, knowing I had little ability to protect him and his kids from this monster.
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