Memoirs of the Dead

MEMOIRS OF THE DEAD
It was going to be Diary of the Dead, but some Romero guy
already took that title.


JUNE

I can still remember awaking on that fateful morning only to discover that I was dead. Not that the realisation came straight away. Yes, I felt a bit stiff and I was cold, chilled to the bone cold but it wasn't until I ate my wife that I realised I was a zombie.

My wife was still enveloped in a deep sleep when I awoke to an unnatural feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even before I'd thrown back the covers I knew I was unwell. Every joint ached; the dull pain that warns of the onset of flu. My head was throbbing behind my eyes and the inside of my mouth felt as if someone had taken a shit in it whilst I'd slept. I rubbed my tongue across the back of my teeth, flesh rubbing against the fine, hairy coating that had been hiding there.

I lowered my bare feet to the laminate floor and it felt warm against the coldness of my skin. And so, wearing only my boxer shorts and a T-shirt and feeling like death warmed up (excuse the phrase) I headed for the bathroom. Once there I discovered – via a glance in the mirrored medicine cabinet – that I looked as bad as I felt.

My face was paler than usual, though paler is probably the wrong word. Greyer would be nearer the truth. My eyes were bloodshot, the tiny veins interlaced so tightly as to look totally red and the pupil had turned a milky blue in contrast to the usual vibrant blue with flecks of orangey gold.

"Must be coming down with something," I thought. "Can't be that serious." If it was something bad I wouldn't have felt as hungry as I did.

Not bothering to dress I made my way down to the kitchen. The hunger was growing and by the time I'd opened the fridge I was starving. I took an apple from the crisper drawer and raised it to my mouth, but as my teeth sunk into the flesh my throat clenched. My stomach rebelled and the floor was suddenly covered in vomit. I dropped the apple and it splashed in the thick, lumpy green fluid that lay steaming at my feet.

But I was still hungry. I needed to eat.

I yanked open the nearest cupboard, seizing a box of cereal and shoving my hand into the contents. I rammed two quick handfuls into my mouth before my body said 'NO'. This time the vomit was of the projectile variety. Cereal, bile and, surprisingly, sections of stomach lining sprayed the work top as I tried to bring the retching under control.

"Are you alright, dear?" Flo entered the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

The vomiting came to an abrupt halt and I turned to look at my wife, horrified at the mental image her appearance conjured.

"Breakfast."

I tried to block the thought from my mind, but she looked so appetising. My stomach rumbled in complaint.

"I'm fine," I said the words and then lunged at her awkwardly.

I think she tried to scream, but it was nothing more than a wet warble as my teeth sunk into her windpipe. As I bit into the warm flesh my mouth was filled with warmth, an oral orgasm that surpassed any feeling I had ever experienced. At last my hunger had found what it craved.

It broke my heart to end the marriage that way, but by the time I'd sucked her brain out through her left eye socket I'd started to feel a lot better. The headache had cleared to nothing more than a dull pain and for the first time since waking I felt warm.

It was with a confused mind and suffering from a mild state of shock that I left the house. Only to discover my dilemma wasn't unique.

The usually quiet cul-de-sac was anything but quiet. People I knew were running from their homes screaming, only to be followed a moment later by their stumbling loved ones. Some, if not most, were caked in blood.

I stood in stunned silence and watched the survivors pack together. They were quickly surrounded and then set upon. As bodily organs were pulled from their warm hosts I began to feel hungry again. Unable to withstand the draw of fresh meat I began to hobble forwards.

"What's happening to us?" The voice stopped me and I turned to look at my neighbour, Muriel. "I just ate Mick." Mick was her husband and what was left of him covered the front of her negligee.

"What was it like?" Silly question, I know.

"Tasted like chicken." She took my hand and together we joined the feast.


AUGUST

And that was the pretty much the start of it, a few isolated incidents of the dead rising from their graves, but the media had a hay day with it.

DAWN OF THE DEAD
Unoriginal I know.

FEAST OF THE DAMNED
That one showed more promise, but the article turned out to be more than a little biased. It painted the undead in a very poor light.

The living have, from the start, got us zombies (I hate the word zombie, but it's something we're stuck with) all wrong. They scream about the flesh eaters, call us the spawn of evil, and accuse us of returning from the bowels of Hell.

Well, I can tell you now that, apart from the flesh eating bit; it's all a crock of shit. I know I've never been to Hell and I'm yet to meet another zombie that has. The furthest I've ever travelled was Bridlington.

Yes, we eat flesh, but we do it for a reason. It doesn't give us pleasure, in fact it's pretty disturbing at first. We do it to ease the pain of death and delay the rate of decay that is slowly destroying our fragile frames. In layman's terms we do it to survive.

You could never understand how much it hurts to be dead; you can't even begin to imagine what our condition is like. I'll try to paint a picture for you, but even then you'll not comprehend the true horror of how we live.

DECEMBER

The cold and the aching limbs was only the start and, when compared to what came next, wasn't that much of an inconvenience.

Rigor mortis; now when that set in I could have cried. Luckily Muriel was still with me then and together we endured the agony of our joints locking up. We couldn't talk, but just knowing that someone was there was enough to see us through. Then there was the side effect of lividity; a massive bruise like accumulation of blood which, until you get up and moving, is the most uncomfortable sensation ever.

After that things weren't too bad. Regular feeding keeps the insides fresh and the joints lubricated, but it only slows the effects of decomposition on the outside. The outer flesh started to suffer after only a few months. I went bald over night, the entire scalp falling away from my skull whilst stumbling away from a gun wielding farmer. Entire lumps of decayed flesh dropped from my body and I can still feel the maggots squirming as they feed on the deadness that is me.

Eating nothing but raw meat has another nasty effect and it's probably the worst thing we have to put up with. Diarrhoea, uncontrollable seepage that burns as it passes and adds to the rank stink that comes from our flesh. It's humiliating to admit, but I shit myself constantly.

Some of us have faired worse than others. A close friend of mine is no more than a walking skeleton, but despite his condition he still insists on sticking to his vegetarian ways. He comes along on raids of the towns, but in truth he's a bit of a loner. Only last week we finally broke into the shopping centre and, as we stalked the living he went off in search of the produce section. Sometimes I think he'd be better off with a bullet in the head.

JANUARY

Yes, the rumours are true. Destroy the brain and you destroy the zombie (have I mentioned I hate the word zombie? If I have I ignore me. My memories not what it used to be)

It's just a shame that most of the living can't shoot for shit. My torso alone, at last count, sported fifteen bullet wounds. I daren't even try counting the flesh wounds on my arms and legs.

Poor Muriel (Yes, we're still together) has come off worse than most. Last month she lost a hand to a shotgun blast and the month before that she took a hollow point to the stomach. If I crouch down I can see clear through her midsection. It's also stopped her eating and I fear I will lose her soon and that makes me sad. It's bad enough being dead, but being dead and alone will be unbearable.

MARCH

The living are scarce now and more often than not we go hungry. We've discovered that livestock stops the pain, but only for a short while.

I'm glad Muriel's gone; she wouldn't have liked the way things have turned out. We're slowly starving to death and to be honest I can't wait for the sweet release. I've been this way for too long now.

Tonight we hope for a reprieve from the pain. Word has spread of a bunker where they are training the zombies to be pets. We have no urge to free our comrades, but the promise of living flesh beckons with its sweet aroma.

As we march we begin to chant;
"BRAINS, BRAINS, BRAINS."

It seems to instil fear.

If only they realised that we're begging them to shoot us where it counts.
"BRAINS, BRAINS, BRAINS."