Zombie Diaries (© Tony Sandy)
Page 1 When I died, I never realized how much it would change my
life. I don't miss the sex. I look down and think easy come, easy go. Food
though, that's different. I can't taste anything, anymore but I have this
indescribable yearning for warm, living flesh. Once upon a time it was fine
wines, delicate flavours. What did these things taste like I will never know.
I can't remember anything much about my previous existence, especially with
regards to the basic senses. Everything about my life is so vague, so unreal
nowadays. It's good losing all those memories. I no longer feel the pain of
the past. All the emotional hurt I caused, lost in a fog of indifference. I
don't feel in the other way either. I was hit by a speeding car, driven by a
crazed driver, eager to get away from me. I just picked myself up, dusted
myself down and walked off like nothing had happened. This road rage incident
would normally have had me hospitalised. Why the panic I wondered? He could
have run faster than me any day. In fact he could have walked faster as well:
We can only catch others when we hunt in packs or catch them unawares (asleep,
eating, in the toilet, panicking to get out of a door or a window and fumbling
at the latch or handle). Life makes no 'scents' to me anymore. I hear werewolves
are the opposite. Smell is heightened but not in my case. I may stink because
I'm composed of decomposing flesh but I can't tell (Even your best friends
won't tell you). Rotten sense of taste, smell, touch - can't see or hear well
either. I'm rotten all round. The only thing I can sense is warmth. I suppose that's
because I'm 'dead' cold...heartless even or at least dead beat. Shuffling
along city streets or country roads, all I see are my dead brothers and
sisters, shuffling along just as pointlessly. Is there no hope left for Man?
Are we the remnants of a despairing God? Can this be humanities fate - more of
us, less of them? We hate the living for what they have because we don't have
it anymore. They live and breathe in their rarity, while we suffocate in our
monstrous numbers. We starve in our limitations and drown in our abundant
nothingness. Empty of promise, we have no future. Our children won't follow
us except into oblivion. We rot in our our empty shells of yesterday as though
today meant something (It doesn't). What is there to say? Nothing. What is
there to do? Likewise nothing. So instead of living meaningful lives, we die
in meaningless ones instead. The ground could not hold us because we bored it
to death. Slow moving? Slow thinking too. We are in no rush to get anywhere,
do anything. We are the ultimate in laid back. Who set the alarm that got us
up, I wonder? Where are we going? nowhere. What are we doing? Nothing in
particular. We are the inheritors of a dead kingdom - the land of the
hippies. Oh God, am I still here, still alive in this dead body? Is there no
release from this wasted, wasted life.... I'm so exhausted. I wish I could sleep but that's a
luxury reserved for the living. Even vampires sleep but then they're not
properly alive either are they? Oh the delicate actions I used to perform,
like lifting up a fork. If I tried that now, I'd knock the table flying. I
suppose that I don't sleep because I don't run off off my excess energy (As I
don't have any, how can I?). We're stuck in limbo as a race - always present
but never really here, never really aware. I grunt and groan at every
movement. I growl at the dogs that try to pull me down or run off with various
body parts. Stairs? I hate stairs! Even Daleks never had the problem I have
with them. You corner a human, go all the way up to the landing and they've
jumped out the window by the time you've reached them. Still it's not always
bad news. Sometimes we stumble all the way back down again, to find
them lying outside, unconscious or staggering away with a broken leg: Oh
goody, equal footing! It's a bit like fishing but we don't have any bait,
although I do remember a particularly smart guy for a zombie, who went from
supermarket to supermarket, for his weekly shop. Well weekly might be too
short a time span to describe his hunting patterns. We are like reptiles. We
don't need to eat daily - just every now and again. That grumbling in my tummy
for instance is the late Reverend Jenkins. It's funny to think I dined on him
last night, rather than with him as I used to do on the odd occasion. [ Continue to page 2 ] |