When I reached Interstate 95 it was like being drawn into an exodus. Whole families streamed north and south. They passed one another on each side of the freeway, staying clear of the rolling refrigeration trucks and the lines of green army jeeps. Again I brought my arm to my face to see how I smelled. I can suck in air and let it out. I can smell and taste, see, hear, and think. But I am corrupt. More and more each day. And I cannot speak. I have decided to pretend I am mute. I have no other choice.
I keep a small pad and a pencil for writing notes. I took it, this notebook, a knapsack, fresh clothes, deodorant, soap, a washcloth, a pungent aftershave, and a flashlight from a deserted house. It was there I cleaned and bandaged my wounds. I put a large adhesive bandage on the bite at my neck. If someone asks about it, I'll just say it's a boil. Lack of iodine, you know, not enough salt in my diet. None of us get enough salt these days, or sugar, or coffee, or tobacco. Or milk for our children, never enough milk. I expect the shortage has something to do with zombies eating the cattle, but I can't be certain of that.
My plan, what there is of it, is to flee Key West to Cuba. There I might find a ship or plane that will take me to Europe or South America. Or Mexico. I'd like to go to Mexico. There haven't been any reports from that country in months. Maybe things are better there. We have been told the plague is everywhere, it's worldwide, governments are in chaos, but I can't mingle with humans much longer. I expect it will be an easier task to search out someone like me in some place where the army is not in such tight control.
Already there are sores erupting behind my knees, between my toes, in my crotch, and beneath my arms. Places where air doesn't circulate enough.
I won't be able to pass as the living forever. I will make my escape and my search now before I have to begin repair on all these putrefying body parts.
I have been dead a week.
June 8
There were some men and women traveling alone. I didn't stand out so badly. I kept my distance as best I could. I had to concentrate. I had to keep my eyes lowered so the soldiers and the passersby couldn't see that my eyes are sunken and they have no sheen. No moisture. It's getting more difficult to close my eyelids. I haven't any pain, but the grating of lid on eyeball is unnerving. Like sandpaper over old dry wood. I can actually feel them grinding down when I try to blink.
And the sun is terrible, a fiery ball hanging overhead burning, scorching my back and shoulders, the top of my head. I should have taken a hat. I've been so stupid. I often catch myself gazing longingly at the refrigeration trucks. I could lie down and let the cold halt the deterioration of my cells. I could let the frost cover me over like silken threads.
A stranger came alongside to walk with me a ways. I was grateful there was hardly any breeze to waft my scent to him. He tried to hold a conversation just as I feared he would.
"Goddamn shame we're run out of the cities," he said. "The damn military thinks they can tell us when to take a crap and when not to. Myself, I'm going down to stay in my old fishing camp at Duck Key. Got enough ammunition here"--he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at a shopping cart he hauled behind him loaded with goods--"to blast any crazy dead fuck wants to mess with me."
I nodded. Took my pad and pen from my shirt pocket and wrote, "I'm sorry, "I can't speak. I had an operation. Cancer."
"Well, hell, that's too bad," he said. And then he proceeded to bitch about everything under the sun for the next two hours while I nodded and plodded and concentrated on keeping my feet in time with his and my fingers loose. And my gaze down.
I really wanted to tell him. Tell him shut up! You're alive so don't complain, not about anything. Try feeling some kind of elation now. Feel some joy and love because dead isn't dead and being alive is all there is, no matter how bad you might think it is, and there is no God, THERE IS NO GOD.
I told him nothing. I was a sounding board while the day waned, the sun creeped to the horizon, and the families drifted off into the grasses to build summer cooking fires. Still the trucks rumbled past, armed guards eying the crowds that lined the pavement.
Finally my companion gave out. I waved goodbye while he called at my back, "You be careful on the road when it's getting dark! Don't take any shit off them assholes who come stumbling outta the dark, hear?"
I waved. I went forward at a pace that would have winded a living man and put distance between me and anyone else who looked as if he might want to join up for a little chat.
I'm writing this by firelight. All alone now. I see other fires from here, but the people are tiny black midget shadows moving about beneath a full moon. The trucks are fewer, the night is coming on thick and deep. Crickets chirp nearby, a reedy chorus, and bullfrogs croak down in the ditches. There are a few fleecy clouds overhead. A thousand stars shining down on this desperate planet.
I stare at the open sky and wish to feel some kind of pleasure. I try very hard to feel something besides this cloak of loneliness and utter hopelessness. It's as if the numbness has also reached my heart and turned it to stone.
Nothing comes to me, nothing enters into my thoughts, but dread. That and the creeping pain of hunger radiating from my belly outward to all my parts. I thought for a while that I could actually take food, but one bite of an orange from a grove tree taught me better. It made me retch and a ghastly trembling took hold of me so that I thought my stomach would come up my throat into my mouth and be expelled onto the ground.
I know what the hunger means. I know what would satisfy it. And before I ever do that, I would rather stand before the army snipers and point to my head.
If I could sleep, I might dream of life the way it was before and for a while escape myself. As it is I can barely keep a flicker of hope burning as the hours lumber by, trickles of sand in an hourglass.
As I sit and watch, the fires burn down. The dark creeps closer on padded feet. The moon rides high over the world. At least I have an expectation of tomorrow crossing the long bridge over the aqua waters. Halfway to Key West.
I miss, and this is the truth, I miss everything. I curse this new death and I can't tell you how much I wish I could blot these last days out, make them vanish, and return to my little dark house where my only trouble was to ration the milk until help arrived.
June 9
No one accosted me today. There was cloud cover and that helped the problem of the heat. This morning there were blisters on the backs of my hands. I broke them open with a needle tip from a palmetto frond. I mashed the skin flat again and wondered where I would ever find gloves before the blisters turned to festering, oozing sores.
In Key West I have to do something. I've already had some looks from people on the road because I am dressed in long pants and a long sleeved shirt. In June. In Florida. Talk about being conspicuous. But I don't let their curious looks bother me. I am beyond the worry of social ambiguities. I don't look right? I may be mad? I want to shout at them: Fuck this shit, this dead dead shit! You'll be like me before too long!
Just before dawn I traveled far into the palmetto and grassland hunting for zombies. I found a half dozen lying on their backs, mesmerized by the moonshine. I shook them. I brought out my pad and wrote, CAN YOU READ THIS?
They tore at the paper and tried to stuff it into their mouths. They were mindless creatures. And hungry, always ravenous. But they all know I'm one of them, I don't know how. I can fool humans so far. But not another walking dead man. Can they smell me, do they know from my eyes, can they sense my blood lies cold in my veins? I don't know. I don't want to know. Fuck knowing how they
recognize me.
I came back to the highway in time for sunrise and moved into the stream of travelers south. Keeping my distance. Keeping my eyes down before me, watching the gravel roadbed beneath my feet.
I will go out again tonight hunting someone who might read my message. I've made it to Marathon Key. There are a few lights, a few houses boarded against intruders. The crowds pass north and south; it seems neither stream of people know what they're doing,
they just feel safe with the military presence on the roads to protect them, and after all, they're in the open, breathing fresh air, doing something more than lying in wait behind walls, hoping for a change, hoping the television will come on again and play their favorite shows.
I despair. But it could change, couldn't it? Maybe I'll find a friend, someone to talk with, someone to commiserate about what it all means. It's what keeps me going.
I will steal gloves tomorrow.
Tonight I'll wrap bandages against the seepage behind my knees. And I'1l wash my clothes and my body in warm Gulf waters.
The flies are thick. They love me. The ants and black gnats love me.
All the little hungry things love me.
June 10
Key West! I've made it this far without detection. I think I'm beginning to smell something terrible. Despite my bath, my washed clothes, the deodorant and aftershave, I notice people shying from me. Not in any rude noticeable way, just drifting back behind me farther or moving slightly faster to get ahead of me. A cloud of black flies hovers all around. They get in my face, crawl into my nose, ears, mouth. I hate them and it makes me want to slap myself all over, like a comedian into the worst physical comedy routine, hurting himself just for one more laugh from a sullen crowd.
Now I have to find a boat. I have to steal. There's nothing I have I could barter for a trip even if I didn't know I'd be found out because of my smell. Tonight I'll check among the zombies for someone sentient. And then I'll take a boat and leave this land.
There must be someone...
Please. Someone.
June 11
Here I am on the open sea. I'm afraid I've done something unspeakable. I've threatened another man's life. I made the captain of this ship take me off the island. I thought to go alone, but I was afraid I'd be lost at sea. I've only been motor boating off the coast of Miami and down through the canals in Fort Lauderdale. I'd never make it out of the sight of land. I don't really mean to hurt this man. Unless he makes me.
His name is Bailey. Raymond Bailey. He was tied at the dock I haunted and about to set sail himself. Fishing, he said, but come to find out his hold was packed with weapons and supplies. Gunrunner. Guns and drugs are the most precious and expensive commodities in the world now. As if making money means anything. He says it's not the money, it's the principal of the thing. He fancies himself a savior, a man bringing help to those less fortunate than the paranoid Americans who were prepared for this new world event with guns in every home.
He was on his way to Cuba anyway. I'm just a passenger, though he'd like to throw me overboard.
I tried to explain. I feel, I told him. I'm not an animal. I'm not like those others. I'm a man just as he is, and through no fault of my own I've become this dead thing. But I'm not like all the other zombies, I repeat. I'm a new breed. I might be one of a kind.
"You don't want to kill and eat me?" he asked, a waver in his voice.
I tell him I control the hunger.
He looks at me with distrust still.
I think, Won't you try to understand anything I say, you cock-sucking moron?
Couldn't he help me?
He tried to blow my head off. I wrestled the gun from his fist and knocked him to the deck while the wheel spun and the boat circled in the moonlit ocean as we scuffled.
I let him up and then I bent over and grasped my knees and tried to scream. I wanted to scream in frustration so loudly that he would understand my anguish, my frustration, but what rushed out through my dry throat and shrinking vocal cords was a harsh rasping whine that scared even me until I quit it. When I stood up, Raymond had climbed to his feet and gotten hold of the wheel. I could see his shoulders twitching, and his head wobbling on his neck. He had wanted to kill me, and probably still did.
"All right," he said. "You want to go with me, just stay downwind out of my face, you understand that? I think you ought to throw yourself into the sea and be done with it, but if you want to go to Cuba, fine, we're on our way. But stay away from me. The next time you lay hands on me you'll have to kill because I won't have it. I just won't have a dead man touching me again."
I sat against the door leading into the cabin and watched him. He worked the little boat through the waters without ever glancing at me. A terrible longing came over me as I sat, staring. I thought of his arm, the hair there golden, the blood beneath the skin hot and red and ripe. The hunger seized me to take him. To possess him and to eat and to drink him as if he were a succulent pig roasted and stuffed and laid on a platter for my sole pleasure.
I shuddered. The thought of eating this way, so repellent before, seemed to be changing inexorably into something that was not so wrong, so bad, so diseased. What can I do! To deny the urge is the last vestige left of my humanity. If I ever give in to the seductive clamor for human flesh, I'll be lost, even to myself.
I began writing in this notebook to take my mind from the low rumble in my stomach and he heard the pencil scratching over the paper and he stiffened. I knew what he thought. That I was about to pounce, I suppose, catch him unaware. Eat him for supper. How close he came to that he'd never know. But he wouldn't talk to me and he drank whiskey, and once I saw him deliberately spill some of it on his clothes. Probably to keep my scent from making him vomit.
I am in terrible shape now. I can't take off the gloves I found. Skin came off with them when I tried. Peels of gray wrinkled skin.
I wonder if I'll disintegrate and know it. Watch it happen bit by bit, see my flesh fall from my bones, and then will my skeleton walk, will it still long for companionship, will this ever ever ever end?
If I could just...give up.
If I could just...let Raymond Bailey blow a round through my head.
I don't know why I can't, why I want to keep going.
I must be insane.
I know that I am.
June 27
So much happened. I can't put it all down. I don't have time. Raymond got me to Cuba and I was smuggled onshore in a case of rifles. I spent a week looking for a zombie who might have a working brain. No one. No one. A family by the name of Valesquez was coerced--I forced them in other words--to take me with them to Mexico. I still believed that somewhere I'd find a companion.
Oh, it was an awful time. One of the Valesquez boys, a blond child just six years old, died on the trip from a high fever. There was such uproar and breast-beating. They held a religious service and performed a hasty burial at sea. They were afraid I would turn the child into a zombie. They circled around me, holding up crosses as if I were a vampire to be held at bay by the Christian symbol, and I laughed, I made a laughing face, because although the heat of the hunger now so often tortures me, I fight valiantly against the desire to harm anyone, especially the quiet dead, especially them, the lucky ones.
In Mexico I had to stay hidden and only come out at night. My feet, you see, are falling apart. Both my small toes are gone, and the others are following suit each time I dare remove my shoes. And my hands, they're a mess. My gloves make squishy sounds while I try to write this. My face, oh Jesus, if you could see my face. Great chunks are missing. I've tried everything. Bandages. Tape. Staples. The skin is too thin and tender. Nothing holds. My testicles were lost on the boat over. I dropped the shriveled sacks gently into the sea when no one was paying attention to me. Also my nose is gone, thrown to the sea, bait for fish. Although I can't smell anything anymore, I know I must be a pit of vile odors. I can't even get close to the towns anymore. Their dogs come out, lunging and snapping, hoping to tear me to pieces.
A few days ago I met one person who made me feel that all of this bother and searching and hoping was worthwhile. I lay resting out on the plains outside a small village. I heard a rustle and thought it was a rattlesnake slithering across the sand, but when I sat up there crouched not three feet from me was a young girl who might have been twenty. She was dressed in rags and dishwater blond hair hung in front of dark haunted eyes.
"You're a zo
mbie, aren't you?" she asked. She was not Spanish, but American.
The question was so startling that I could just dip my head a little in answer.
"I've seen you out here walking in circles, pacing at night. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
Again I nodded, but more vigorously. I grabbed for my pad and pencil. I threw a couple of sticks on the fire and motioned her forward. On the pad I wrote, Why aren't you afraid that I'd attack and kill you?
She said, "I don't know. I just watched you for a while and it seemed to me that you aren't like the others."
I'm not! I wrote quickly. I was killed and infected, but I'm just the same as I was when I was alive. I don't understand it and I've come all this way from Florida trying to find another one like me. Have you met any?
She shook her head slowly. "You can't talk?" she asked.
I wrote, No. My vocal cords are no good and my lungs...well, I have no air in them.
She did something incredible then. She crept even closer to me and she reached out and she placed her warm hand on my cold shoulder. She said, "I don't think I could have ever thought of something so terrible as what you must be going through. I've traveled three thousand miles, and I've seen dead children in piles waiting for burial, I've seen bombed out cities, and whole towns on the move with just what the people could carry on their backs, but to be...dead...and to know it...My god, I'm sorry, I'm really so sorry. The others, the ones who don't know, they must be better off."
I lowered my head and stared at the pad and pencil in my hands. My fingers trembled when I tried to write another note. I had to get a firm grip on the pencil.
Will you stay with me the night and just talk to me? I won't hurt you. If you'll just talk to me, I'd be so grateful.
And she did. She had me lie on my back. She took one of my gloved hands and despite how my scent must have made her want to gag, she sat beside me all through the darkest hours and she talked to me about her family, her travels, her hopes for the future. She had a bright optimism that made me glow, that made me forget, just for a while, that I had nothing whatsoever to look forward to. She even made me forget that I was ravenous and that without the greatest exertion of will, I would turn on my side, grab her in an unyielding vise, and bite a chunk from her smooth, white, fragrant abdomen.
THE LONELY WALK-A Zombie Notebook Page 2
