Good morning on this grey Monday, I hope you have all had a good week. Today I offer a short work of fiction for Monster Monday. I wrote this for a competition which I didn't win *pout* ;). It is a humorous zombie short story. I do hope you like it.
Monster Mondays posts may be fiction, film reviews, book reviews or me waxing lyrical about a particular monster. Monsters can be paranormal, sci-fi, fantasy or even simply human. So basically, anything monster goes. I also invite anyone who would like to, to join in with their own post. (See end for details).
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| Dawn of the Dead 1978 |
I Am Dead
By Natasha Duncan-Drake
I am dead.
No, I'm not kidding and it's a good thing given that my current predicament would be very uncomfortable and probably fatal.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
The zombie apocalypse happened on a Friday afternoon just over two weeks ago. Well it did for London at least and now we're quarantined. I was bitten by my ex on the first day just before I pushed the more-brain-dead-than-usual muppet down the stairs. I died the same night; it's a bastard of an infection.
The thing is, I didn't become one of the shambling wrecks that are wandering around the nation's capital. The only thing I can come up with is that I had really bad ADHD before I became a zombie (I've been taking pills since I was eleven). I still have my faculties and the urge to eat everyone's brains isn't that hard to resist. Well except for Ken, one of my fellow 'survivors', but he's a prick. So far none of the group have cottoned on to the fact I'm not alive, which is a really good thing, because I'm guessing they would attempt to bash my brains in with a cricket bat or, knowing my luck and their ineptitude, a tennis racket. We're holed up in a large sports warehouse waiting for rescue, as per the instructions of Her Majesty's armed forces.
They think I'm some sort of ninja, because I can sneak out and find food without being eaten. Truth is dead things aren't attractive to zombies. I can't honestly say if it's smell or some other clue that gives it away, but, whatever it is, dead things don't have it.
I know it's cliché, but it really is the brains we need. Without them we rot. Trust me, some of the zombies stumbling around are not getting their vitamins, because they stink and bits are dropping off. It doesn't have to be human brains though. I think zombies go after humans, because they are stupid and slow, a bit like them. Since I'm faster, I hunt rats, and okay, there was that one dog. I know, I know, I'm an animal lover too, but needs must. Ken definitely deserves it more than the rats, but I don't think my fellow survivors would understand.
It's rats that got me into this predicament in the first place. I'm hungry, so I wasn't thinking straight and I chased one into a looted shop. I've never had great eyesight and I lost my glasses in the whole dying debacle, so I just didn't see the huge shard of glass sticking out of one of the displays. I think it used to be a mirror and I have spectacularly managed to eviscerate myself all over the going cheap, ex-Christmas stock display.
Zombies don't bleed, thank heavens, or it would be even messier than it is. We leak, we don't gush, and our blood is very thick and not very flowy, so it's disgusting, but not Friday 13th gory. In the last two weeks I have had to get used to being dead, seeing my fellow dead eating people, eating brains myself, scrubbing with disinfectant to make sure nothing grows on me and other nasty things, so all I can summon up when seeing my intestines mingling with fairy lights is a sigh.
Luckily I know how to handle this: duct tape.
Being dead it's a matter of sticking things back together. I have tape all round one leg where I lost a fight with a display case of knives. It was a good thing the duct tape stand was right next to the knife stand in that shop.
If I could feel nauseous I'm pretty sure I would as I bend and try and pick up my own insides. They are slimy!
"You have to be f...frigging kidding me," I sigh as the fairy lights prove they have the uncanny ability to tangle with anything.
Before I would have used much more colourful language, but one of my fellow survivors, Mrs Henderson, is a spritely octogenarian who does not approve of the cruder end of the swearing spectrum. She's also very handy with her walking stick and she has us all trained in a way I would never have believed possible had I not seen it. It's best to stay in practice. Her antics can't actually cause me pain, but it's hard enough playing alive without having to remember to react.
As I try and stuff what seems to be far too much intestine back where it came from I realise that it's not doing my shirt any favours. That and the huge rip right across the front aren't exactly going to help conceal my condition from my companions in the warehouse. Now is no time to be bashful so, with a sigh, I rip it off. I liked that shirt, but then I liked living too and that's gone as well, so my existence sucks and I just have to deal with it.
My only audience is a zombie who is repeatedly walking into a wall at the other end of the shop, so I don't think anyone is going to mind me being semi-naked.
It takes me another minute or so to realise my intestines and the fairy lights are becoming more entangled, not less. Let me tell you, seeing your own intestines glow when you accidentally turn the blasted things on is not great for a person's mental health either. In the end I rip the lights out of the wall and just stuff everything back in.
It's not like everything is suddenly going to start working again anyway.
I'm not sure what I'm hoping for once we're rescued. Maybe a place in a nice little lab where they can figure out what's keeping me compos mentis and feed me brains without me having to chase rats all over the bloody place. I'm under no illusion that the authorities won't spot me the moment they arrive, I'm just hoping they'll see me as the great hope rather than a great threat. You never know, maybe one day I will be heralded as the saviour of zombie kind. Yes, I know, I don't believe it either, but what else am I supposed to cling to while I duct tape my insides back in?
I'd have much preferred ending up a vampire or a werewolf, but no, it was just my luck that zombies turned out to be real rather than something cooler.
Of course, even with my insides back where they are supposed to be (along with the added extras) I have the small problem that I'm half naked. Putting my tape back in my bag, I pull out my disinfectant spray and wipes and clean myself off. Then I look around for anything to wear. It's just my luck that I ran into a junk shop not a clothing boutique. This shop has only two things: t-shirts with the Union Jack on them and Santa outfits.
I sigh again, but by this point I'm well beyond pride.
A patriotic t-shirt fits, but it doesn't hide the taping job overly well, so Santa it has to be too. The jacket hides a multitude of sins including the slime stains on the top of my jeans. No way I am wearing the trousers as well; there are limits.
That done, I spot my rat friend and this time the little bastard doesn't get away.
Rat brains and a little bit of mouthwash improve my mood no end.
It's as I step back out onto the street that I hear the rattle. Putting my hands up is instinctive, I've heard that rattle enough on TV.
"Stand and be recognised," says a very authoritative voice.
"Okay," I reply and turn very slowly.
It could not be more embarrassing; here I am looking at six perfectly turned out commandos and I'm zombie Santa.
"Are you a rescue team?" I ask, doing my very best to look harmless.
These are not a bunch of survivors hoping for the best, these are professionals.
"Because I know where there are a whole bunch of people waiting for you," I add.
I can tell they can tell there's something odd here.
"Yes, I'm dead."
It's probably kind of obvious when you haven't been living with me every day for two weeks. I have looked in the mirror once or twice.
"But I'm not like them."
I nod towards a pack of shuffling zombies.
"And unless you think they're my larder, I have a warehouse full of people I was gathering food for who can tell you."
The officer lifts his gun. Well this sucks.
"Don't you think Her Majesty's Government's scientist might want to know why I'm not brainless?"
His finger twitches near the trigger. Maybe I should have eaten Ken after all, at least it would have been satisfying.
@beren_writes
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