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Tierra Del Muerte
(© Bryan Way)

Page 1

Had the days been any longer than six months, he may well have killed himself. Daylight was never a picnic for him, no; he was more of a creature of night. Killing himself would not have accomplished much to being with; then again living was pretty useless as well. The last human he had seen was Patricia Tomlinson, age twenty five, 5'7" tall, blonde hair, blue eyes. She always used to throw her hair back in such a sensual fashion. He wanted her too much for words. It was when he saw her milky white flesh torn open with red fluid pouring out that he lost his sanity. He froze at that moment, he could have helped, could have been a hero to her, but he could not move.

That was five years ago, though he could remember it as if it were yesterday, her placid blue eyes dilated to pinheads as she called his name. That same thought had plagued his dreams for five years now. He would wake up sweating despite the horrible, bitter cold of the outside world. Often times he would sit at the end of his bed and spend an entire sleepless week crying, holding a knife to his wrist, never able to bring himself to the end. Eventually his sadness would drift and he would put her out of his mind, for a time. Then he would go and explore, but that was fruitless in itself.

Exploring Antarctica is about as exciting as reading a roll of toilet paper. He would take long walks, sometimes wearing barely anything at all. He smiled to himself on this particular walk, for soon the half-year night of Aurora Australis. There was an activity, sitting on the roof of his shack and watch the southern lights for hours on end. Life there was simple, the Zombies had no effect on him. They were all over the rest of the world, but not here.

Not 24 hours would go by before he looked at his private jet again, frost coating the windshield, the doors frozen shut. He could only wonder if he was missing anything in the real world. In this time frame, he would consider going to Chile or Argentina. Maybe the crisis was over; maybe someone would know who he was and welcome him with open arms. And just maybe he would get a hero's welcome. But he if he was wrong? What if the moment he landed for fuel he would be overtaken by Zombies, his own velvety flesh stripped from the bone? It was about this time he would stop thinking again, letting his mind wander back to civilization.

Televisions. Computers. Sound systems. Video games. Light switches. All of these beckoned to him on a daily basis. His mouth would water over the thoughts of a roast turkey dinner, hickory smoked beef jerky, tender, marinated baby back ribs that were so soft the meat would drip off the bone…

Then the saliva would begin to freeze in his gaping mouth and he would cry, not because of the pain, no, no. He had not had anything resembling food in the longest time. He ate his Airplane rations in a matter of weeks, then began eat whatever he would find. At times he would find himself chewing on his shirt. And once, just once, he bit into his own arm. When he did that, he slapped himself so hard his face bled, and he drank the blood.

He'd come to never regret that. His blood was warm and thick, like a nice mug of hot chocolate, minus the chocolate taste. If he didn't drink his blood, what would he have done with it? Let it irrigate the envious permafrost? No, no, it was his right to have it. It was his blood, and no one else's.

This time, he thought to himself, I'm going. He had bickered with himself for over four weeks. He ran out of his shack and immediately boarded his private jet. It was like riding a bicycle, he never forgot. He chipped the ice away and started it up. The runway was much as he'd remembered landing on it. He lifted off the ground and checked his fuel gage. His tank was half full.

He flicked on the automatic pilot and laid back in the comfortable leather captain's seat. On this bearing he should reach Tierra del Fuego in three hours. He hopped out of his chair wand started to the back of the jet. He went to the bathroom in the highest luxury he had seen in a long time. He left the bathroom and began searching through compartments. He found nothing of use until he chose the overhead compartment just above the doorway out.

It was a bottle of Bordeaux, circa 1915. He forgot he had left it there. He kept it there for a wonderful occasion. He removed the bottle and held it in his arms, best not to drink it while he was flying. He would eventually though, whether it was with fellow humans when he landed in Tierra del Fuego or if it was with himself upon his return. Either way he felt he deserved a reward.

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Genre:Living Dead
Type:Short story
Rating:6.47 / 10
Rated By:164 users
Comments: 7 users
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