Their Insides Torn
(© Bryan Way)
This contribution is part of a series:-
1. Their Insides Torn (15-Nov-2000)
2. Their Insides Torn II: End of Serenity (23-Jul-2002)
3. Their Insides Torn III: Philosophy (8-Oct-2003)
4. Their Insides Torn IV: Hindsight (30-Jan-2004)
5. Their Insides Torn V: Relics (27-Mar-2011)
| ||The final entry of a series following one man's quest to physically and mentally survive in the world of the undead.|
It was too long ago to remember when their day came. But they came, and dear lord did they come. First we relied on the police. Wave after wave of Philadelphia's finest were cut down. They shot to wound and capture. They didn't know. They were following procedure, but still, they never lost hope, even to the grisly end.
Next it was the military. 111th Combat Battalion, decked out with fragmentation grenades, AR-33's and a dozen Hum-Vees. They set up barricade after barricade of K-Rails and barbed wire. They set up on 69th Street, ready to go. The monsters had already engulfed one eighth of the city. Once again, failure. The zombies won again with superior numbers, and managed to gain more than they lost in the struggle.
After that day it was every man for himself. Every day since I've heard of civilian standoffs. They failed miserably. All foreign trade has been cut off. Our country is alone. The Canadian and Mexican Coast Guard blocked off our borders, killing humans and zombies alike. People come on the news all the time, telling us the tragedy is almost over, telling us we will make it, telling us lies.
People have flocked to churches, even if they are not of the faith. They didn't go to pray either. They went to take up residence in the bomb shelters. Disgusting people. They selfishly attempt to save their own pathetic lives, not thinking of others. Not to say I am any better, but I must continue walking the path I have chosen. The zombies aren't the worst part either. It's a human problem.
World leaders fight constantly. They can't even be in the same room; they stay in their mansions and have video feeds. Every once in a while I will see a leader be overrun and eaten by zombies on live television. At that point the meetings break up and are rescheduled, for hopes of repairing the breech. They can't repair anything. They can't even run their own lives, let alone a country. I can't stand this place or these people. I'm going to leave my home and my family, and maybe they can sort things out without me by their side.
True, some people have said that I am an incapable teenager, but they are dead now. The thought didn't even worry me. It wasn't my problem that they were eaten. They were stupid enough to get eaten. Now they walk among them, yet to make brood and multiply. I find that to be ironic. I only hope I can find them and put them out of their misery.
That's what it's all about for me. Even though I haven't experienced zombiedom, it's as if I can feel their pain. Their suffering. Their torn insides. To look at a zombie is to stare in the devil's eyes, cold and isolated. You might try to rustle up feelings in them, but you will not succeed. You must not look into the devil's eyes, for that will only lead to getting your eyes burned.
My day came late one summer afternoon. I ran about my house, scrounging up supplies. I filled a backpack with food. I put on a side bag, a front bag, and filled a three-gallon canteen with purified water, and brought the purifier as well. I took a lighter, fluid, flints, and finally, a big metal pipe. I had specifically designed this to run several purposes.
The pipe had a connecter jutting off the top. It came up to about waist height, and had a handle made of electrical tape. The tip of the handle had a point welded to it, for maximum puncturing depth. I am indeed a methodical man, but that is how I have survived thus far. I left my supplies by the door and went to get dressed. I put on a black shirt, an olive vest, thick jeans, elbow pads, kneepads, and combat boots. I also put on wrist guards; because if you aim them just right, you could hit the tip of the nose and send it's cartilage into the brain, killing human and zombie alike.
Not that I planned on killing humans, but if worse comes to worse, I am prepared for the deed. In some cases it is better to deal with zombies than humans. Sometimes zombies can be more considerate. After everyone went to sleep, I put on my gear and left. I stared at my parents from the doorway to their bedroom. After ten sad minutes, I let out a deep sigh and shut the door. Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
I went outside and saw the ruins of Philadelphia. Burning, knocked over dumpsters, boarded buildings, lifeless corpses, and scattered zombies. The scene was perfect. It was pitch black and raining. I ran down my steps and walked down the street. I strayed from all the zombies I could. One zombie challenged me. I lifted my cane behind my head, preparing for the blow. I swung at full force and sent brain matter flying out the left side of his head. I struggled to get the end loose, and continued walking. I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for all zombies. It wasn't their fault they became zombies. They didn't get to choose.
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