amredthelector (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amredthelector) wrote2009-10-29 09:40 pm
amredthelector) wrote2009-10-29 09:40 pm
zombies on the brain... such an ironic phrase
So, I wrote a quick, spontaneous short story. A short piece from the journal of a doctor that's trying to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Though, hopefully not as stereotyped as one may think. Read under the cut:
Slouching Towards Bethlehem
It's been a year since the Infection first broke out. Writing that… it terrifies me. It's been a year. A year of Hell. We've been walled up in this compound for a year now. I've been keeping this journal for a year.
We sent a recon group out a week ago. It's getting harder and harder to send anyone out anymore. We saved so much gasoline when we first moved into the compound, and now it's almost gone. I don't know what we'll do when we run out. The bus is the closest thing we have to an armored car, so it's the safest thing to go out in to find supplies. I don't want to think about trying to get supplies by foot.
The recon mission got back three days ago. When I went to check them for wounds at the gate like normal, there was someone I didn't know on the bus. I know everyone here.
They said that they'd found him wandering around down on the old country roads. He told them his name was Brian, and asked for shelter. No one wanders around outside the compound on foot except the Infected, but he didn't have any serious wounds and his speech wasn't slurred. He didn't have jaundice infections, either. They assumed the best and brought him back with them.
Even though he wasn't infected, that didn't automatically mean he was healthy. He was dangerously skinny, for one. When he pulled off his jacket to let me check him for wounds, I could see his ribs protruding from under his shirt. His arms were just flesh and bone. It might have been starvation, it might have been anorexia. I don't know.
He also had this terrified look to his eyes. Like a deer in the headlights. There were dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in days. His clothes were covered in dried blood and dirt. I don't know if the blood was his or someone else's. He clung to a beaten up old electric guitar like it was his baby. He'd been totally silent as I checked him, but as soon as I pried the thing from his hands, he started screaming until I gave it back.
I've never heard a human scream like that. Not even an Infected. Then again, when they start to decay, the vocal chords go pretty fast.
After that, he was silent again.
He was taken to see Brakke and Romerez. They're our leaders. We used to have a third, Grant, but he was bitten on the last recon. Romerez had shot him herself so that he could die before the virus took him over. We're working on deciding who will take his place. We'll probably vote next week.
I don't know what this kid said to Brakke and Romerez, but they agreed to let him stay. They probably would have let him stay permanently, but he made it very clear to the whole compound that he was just going to stay a few days then leave with a few supplies.
The kid – I shouldn't call him that, he's probably in his mid-twenties – was messed up. He was quiet, and always checking out his surroundings. He didn't like staying in a single spot for very long. He wore this short English-style trench coat that was covered in blood, but he wouldn't let anyone clean it. And that damned guitar. Whenever someone touched it, he'd start screaming again.
Despite all that, he was still a pretty nice guy. He made jokes a lot of the time, and was polite. Turns out he was a chain smoker, and once someone gave him some cigarettes, he opened up.
He was from New York. He'd been in California when the Infection first surfaced. He was trying to get back to New York. He'd started out with a car, but once the gas companies stopped operating, he ditched the car and continued on foot.
Clearly, he was crazy.
But he brought everyone hope, at least at first. If he could make it to Colorado without being turned, then things must have been getting better. That's what we all told ourselves.
I guess we were wrong.
Yesterday, Clara Prachet tried to ask him to take a letter to her sister in Kansas. Brian refused, but Clara kept asking. Other people tried to talk him into taking their letters to their family in the east. No matter how many times he said no, everyone kept pushing. I'll never forget what he said when they pushed too far.
"You fucking morons don't GET IT," he started screaming. He shouted it over and over, probably about five times, until everyone was quiet.
"There is nothing out there. Your families are probably dead, if they're lucky. The Infected are all over the fucking country. I'm still clinging to an idea that I'll probably make it home and everything will be okay. But reality is, New York is probably dead. I'll probably be dead in a few months, too. So you should all face the goddamned truth. This is the end of the fucking world. We're all fucking doomed."
I think I heard him crying that night, when he was trying to sleep in the dorms with us. This morning, he was gone.
Craig Wiez, Ray's son, tried to steal painkillers from me this afternoon. This is the second time this month. I should try to find a padlock for my cabinets.
Tomorrow is weekly check-ups. I need to make sure all my equipment is sterilized. I should probably wash my lab coat, too.
One year. Jesus.
- Dr. Roman J. Derek
Journal 11/8/2019
The title is from the last line of Yeats's "Second Coming", which inspired the story. That, and zombies just seem to be everywhere this year. There's the Blackest Night comics event... T9 is running a zombie invasion plot... I felt like getting on the bandwagon. Also, it gives me a reason to finally use my 'zombies' tag again.
On an unrelated note, it snowed today. All these NM desert-dwelling kids were shocked and freaked out at the early snow, but as someone from CO, I'm used to snow by Halloween. It finally feels like October to me.
Slouching Towards Bethlehem
It's been a year since the Infection first broke out. Writing that… it terrifies me. It's been a year. A year of Hell. We've been walled up in this compound for a year now. I've been keeping this journal for a year.
We sent a recon group out a week ago. It's getting harder and harder to send anyone out anymore. We saved so much gasoline when we first moved into the compound, and now it's almost gone. I don't know what we'll do when we run out. The bus is the closest thing we have to an armored car, so it's the safest thing to go out in to find supplies. I don't want to think about trying to get supplies by foot.
The recon mission got back three days ago. When I went to check them for wounds at the gate like normal, there was someone I didn't know on the bus. I know everyone here.
They said that they'd found him wandering around down on the old country roads. He told them his name was Brian, and asked for shelter. No one wanders around outside the compound on foot except the Infected, but he didn't have any serious wounds and his speech wasn't slurred. He didn't have jaundice infections, either. They assumed the best and brought him back with them.
Even though he wasn't infected, that didn't automatically mean he was healthy. He was dangerously skinny, for one. When he pulled off his jacket to let me check him for wounds, I could see his ribs protruding from under his shirt. His arms were just flesh and bone. It might have been starvation, it might have been anorexia. I don't know.
He also had this terrified look to his eyes. Like a deer in the headlights. There were dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in days. His clothes were covered in dried blood and dirt. I don't know if the blood was his or someone else's. He clung to a beaten up old electric guitar like it was his baby. He'd been totally silent as I checked him, but as soon as I pried the thing from his hands, he started screaming until I gave it back.
I've never heard a human scream like that. Not even an Infected. Then again, when they start to decay, the vocal chords go pretty fast.
After that, he was silent again.
He was taken to see Brakke and Romerez. They're our leaders. We used to have a third, Grant, but he was bitten on the last recon. Romerez had shot him herself so that he could die before the virus took him over. We're working on deciding who will take his place. We'll probably vote next week.
I don't know what this kid said to Brakke and Romerez, but they agreed to let him stay. They probably would have let him stay permanently, but he made it very clear to the whole compound that he was just going to stay a few days then leave with a few supplies.
The kid – I shouldn't call him that, he's probably in his mid-twenties – was messed up. He was quiet, and always checking out his surroundings. He didn't like staying in a single spot for very long. He wore this short English-style trench coat that was covered in blood, but he wouldn't let anyone clean it. And that damned guitar. Whenever someone touched it, he'd start screaming again.
Despite all that, he was still a pretty nice guy. He made jokes a lot of the time, and was polite. Turns out he was a chain smoker, and once someone gave him some cigarettes, he opened up.
He was from New York. He'd been in California when the Infection first surfaced. He was trying to get back to New York. He'd started out with a car, but once the gas companies stopped operating, he ditched the car and continued on foot.
Clearly, he was crazy.
But he brought everyone hope, at least at first. If he could make it to Colorado without being turned, then things must have been getting better. That's what we all told ourselves.
I guess we were wrong.
Yesterday, Clara Prachet tried to ask him to take a letter to her sister in Kansas. Brian refused, but Clara kept asking. Other people tried to talk him into taking their letters to their family in the east. No matter how many times he said no, everyone kept pushing. I'll never forget what he said when they pushed too far.
"You fucking morons don't GET IT," he started screaming. He shouted it over and over, probably about five times, until everyone was quiet.
"There is nothing out there. Your families are probably dead, if they're lucky. The Infected are all over the fucking country. I'm still clinging to an idea that I'll probably make it home and everything will be okay. But reality is, New York is probably dead. I'll probably be dead in a few months, too. So you should all face the goddamned truth. This is the end of the fucking world. We're all fucking doomed."
I think I heard him crying that night, when he was trying to sleep in the dorms with us. This morning, he was gone.
Craig Wiez, Ray's son, tried to steal painkillers from me this afternoon. This is the second time this month. I should try to find a padlock for my cabinets.
Tomorrow is weekly check-ups. I need to make sure all my equipment is sterilized. I should probably wash my lab coat, too.
One year. Jesus.
- Dr. Roman J. Derek
Journal 11/8/2019
The title is from the last line of Yeats's "Second Coming", which inspired the story. That, and zombies just seem to be everywhere this year. There's the Blackest Night comics event... T9 is running a zombie invasion plot... I felt like getting on the bandwagon. Also, it gives me a reason to finally use my 'zombies' tag again.
On an unrelated note, it snowed today. All these NM desert-dwelling kids were shocked and freaked out at the early snow, but as someone from CO, I'm used to snow by Halloween. It finally feels like October to me.