Now can you guess what my fingers look like?
I have no pinky on my left hand, no ring finger either. A zombie chewed them off. My knuckles are showing. Not the skin, I mean the knuckles. I have tattered piles of green meat bunched together in-between my fingers. My fingernails are all black and gray––except for the three fingernails that are missing. (BTW - I have no idea what happened to them so don’t ask.) If I squeeze my bloated hands into fists, maggots fall like rain. I stink. Even I can tell how much I stink.
God… I am so disgusting now.
I hate to say this, but they need to kill me. I mean, like, REALLY kill me. Cut off my head or something, you know? I’m not in much pain, believe it or not. But I don’t want to live this way.
Live. Huh.
I guess this isn’t exactly living now, is it? Not with my heart sitting in my chest like a cold, dead frog.
Uh oh.
I can… I can feel the medicine losing its potency. Oh no, oh no. The sickness inside my brain is returning. Shit.
Know how I can tell?
Easy. The anger is coming back. I can feel the fury and the hatred bubbling just beneath the surface of my thoughts. The rage and turmoil inside my body is growing. This is no good. I probably need another––
GET OUT OF HERE.
NOW.
NO, I DON’T WANT YOU HERE.
GET LOST!
Sorry. The military guys came back again.
What was I saying? Oh yeah. The medicine’s effectiveness is weakening. This means––
Damn. I feel stupid admitting this, but I shouldn’t have told the soldiers to leave. I should have asked for another injection.
Well, shit. Too late now. Next time they come in I’ll ask for another shot. No biggie. I’m sure they’ll return before long.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Okay. I’m going to tell my story before I lose my train of thought. I’m a family man. No, wait. Lets start with the basics. My name is David Kyle McClure. I’m a 38-year-old bus driver, or at least I was before the shit hit the fan. I’m six feet tall. I have short brown hair and a light skin tone. I like basketball; my favorite team is the Nets. I enjoy reading books by Dan Brown, Michael Crichton and Ian Rankin. My favorite type of music is eighties rock. Bands like Depeche Mode, The Smiths, Human League, The Cure…
Ugh. I’m not going to describe myself this way. It seems stupid somehow. I’m just going to… ah, never mind.
Let me start again.
For the past nine years I’ve been married to the best women in the world. Her name is Kathy. She’s the love of my life and I’m so lucky to be with her. Kathy and I were married in California on a warm summer’s day and we have two wonderful children: Tammy and Josh. Yep… that’s right, a boy and a girl. Tammy’s ten and Josh is – was – eight.
Damn. This is hard.
Okay… let me give it another shot.
My wife’s name… was… Kathy.
Fuck.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Oh crap. I’m starting to cry.
Give me a minute…
GET THE HELL OUT!
GET OUT!
I’LL FUCKING TELL YOU WHEN I’M READY!
Sorry. I was just thinking about stuff, is all. For the last twenty minutes or so I haven’t been typing anything. I’ve just been sitting here thinking about all the terrible shit that’s happened to me.
It’s not fair, you know? It’s not. Everything is so fucked up; it makes me very upset.
Why am I the infected one, huh? Why me? Why not someone else? Why am I the one to have his fingers chewed off by that friggin’ priest?
Oh yeah. I probably didn’t mention THAT part of the equation, did I? That’s right. A priest infected me! Kathy thought it would be a good idea to go to church. She said, “We might not be any safer but at least we’ll be in God’s hands.” The kids were crying and I’d been awake for about forty hours and I didn’t know what to do. I needed rest more than anything else in the world and she said if we went to church we’d meet up with other people and they’d be able to take watch for a while. I argued with her. I said it was a stupid idea but she kept complaining, again and again, until I finally snapped.
I said, “Okay honey! We’ll go to that stupid fucking church if you’ll shut your big mouth… but it won’t be my fault if something happens. And guess what? Something happened! Zombies were everywhere and we were attacked before we made it to the bloody car! Oh fuck. If I had realized how stupid my dumb bitch of a wife was I never would have listened. Sometimes she makes me sick! I should have stabbed her with a fucking machete. I should have smashed her goddamn face apart with a hammer. I’m not kidding. I hate stupid bitches. I don’t know why I ever married that fat fucking cow. I could have done so much better than her. I’ve hated her for years. She ruined my life, giving me those useless fucking brats. I should have left her. Or better yet, I should have demanded a pair of abortions and then left her.
I fucking hate my children, and I fucking hate stupid fat fucking know-it-all-sluts that think they’re smart but are so goddamn dense they should fucking die. Bitches like Kathy make me furious! I wish I had smashed her teeth out with my fist and blasted the kids with a shotgun. I wish I had raped her ass with my fist and chopped her head off with an axe.
Want to know what happened? Listen to this:
I had Tammy’s hand. Kathy had Josh. I opened up our front door and out we went. We didn’t have a gun; we didn’t have a knife. We didn’t have anything but a GOOD FUCKING IDEA, right honey? Right, sweetie-pie? Right, love of my GODDAMN life? Yes. Of course that’s right. And then what happened? There’s no need to guess ‘cause you know the fucking answer: out came the zombies! That’s right! They were on the street, in the yards, between the houses. One jumped off the neighbor’s roof!
Oh Kathy, why did I listen to you? You’re a stupid whore and if you were here right now I’d snap your fucking neck. I’ll cut your throat and drink your blood. I’d rip the eyes out of your head and stuff them up your goddamn cunt. I would. I swear it, I really would.
I don’t want these fucking ropes on me. I fucking hate these ropes. They’re making me furious.
I’m taking them off.
Otay. Where was I?
Oh yes. We were running to the car and these zombies came at us. I wish I could say that I didn’t recognize any opf them but I did. I did reconizr= tehm. Howard Zolfo was there. He looked ;so fuckin stupid. He had hafe his face tornd off and all dis blood on his shirt. He was screaming and chewing on something and
GET THE FUCCK OUT!
GAT OUT!!!!
His shirt was bloodie and his face was filled wif scabs and he grabbed my boy. My stupid boy. I watched him snap my boyz neck with wif his zombie fingers aand I yelled don’t but he did it anyways and what do i care? Joshs eyes turned whte and blod s plashd on the drivewey and I runned to the car and it was only my wife and me and my little gurl Tammy. They ate josh. I hate him and tammy so much that i started 2 cry when I saw that she had blod all over her face and her arm ribbed a part. I loved thm and ii hated tham and I runned over some people on the road when we were driving and some of them were zombies but not all of themm . some ware people. Like misses haper. I runned over misss s harper but ii din’tt meen two. i saw her head smash opan and i was crying and so was my wife and we went to 2 church but it was no better.
Preople weree screeming andd thay were fighing and the zombies were everywhere they took myn girl. They took tammy and she sad daddy! daddy whe I was trin to get tham 2 stop she sad daddy and they bit my fingerz. Iscreamed but it didn’t matters. I watched my wife got biten and i killed the priest with my broken hands but it waz to latye. I was enfected. My lattle girl was rppid intwo pieces. Laterv that night iwas a zomboe i and aand I ddon’tb know n what happin next but ii was eating people and I kiiled my wif an she was good. she tasteddgood that tastedb like steaks aand I wants 2 eats morev= steaks cause- i love killing i love killing i love killing
love and ii chued my tongu off caz id was hungreee killm di.d mjhr fin9877 an eatiung steajs zombies were averywhere aand ii was one oftham and i liked blood it and
soon they will cum inn the door ands
IcOMEe
IN CoME Innn
I will kill them all ccccause that’s whnat a zombie do. COME INN and ii ama azombie now now kkk kkkkkkkkkkkill tham all rurf r rirqh ghhg gihgqr9qri’GjjjQcause now I like eatinkillingieat preole ii wants them 2 come in come inR;m 888ir9gpt hy bgpfaeo
trjhhnm h tirjs9’ ;lg555o come In here come in. its ok if yuzs cum in kl.fv.sg fe;roqgo4 4fokfgq qf its okay if I kil u 84t87t5 ;;o89uq5 y4;5;I g5 5g’ ‘o53u q345ig ‘8888 cOMEe an iill kill u all llllll lllllllll j
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* * *
SUMMER OF 1816
She was a writer who couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. The words on the page came slowly, painfully, if they came at all. After an hour and ten minutes, Mary Shelley, frustrated, lowered her head and dropped the pen from her hand, allowing the ink to drip. She slid her high-back chair away from the lavish table an inch, maybe two. She had no concept, no story. Inspiration was thin at best.
It was time to quit with the scribbles, call it a night.
The downpour of rain, the violent lightning, the excessive thunder. These things brought darkness and gloom, painting an image of misery while casting an enormous eclipse over the city. Tonight, like every other night this month, the storm was dominant, making it virtually impossible for Mary to maintain a level of attentiveness or concentration.
Would this storm never end?
Mary knew why the weather had become hostile: the Tambora volcano erupted in Indonesia three weeks earlier, dropping 1500 cubic kilometers of ash into the atmosphere. The explosion killed 10,000 people instantly, another 92,000 were killed by the eruption, and 82,000 died of starvation. In total, 184,000 people were dead. It was the largest eruption in historic time.
Mary knew these facts, most of them anyway. She put two and two together: big, bad volcano went big, bad weather. Simple as that.
Some thought the horrific weather conditions marked the beginning of the end: the apocalypse.
Somehow Mary doubted it.
Tapping her fingers on the table, an image floated within the constructs of her mind. It was the face of a friend, Lord Byron.
She closed her eyes, sighed.
Byron was losing his faith in her, and Mary didn’t want that. Didn’t want the man to mislay his confidence, his belief. The writing circle was all she had, or so it seemed more nights than not. And Lord Byron was the biggest part of the writing circle. If he lost faith, cast her aside, what then?
Expelling a deep and shaky breath, Mary visualized a smug look on Byron’s face. She imagined him grinning and laughing. Then, without realizing it, her hands became tightly clenched fists and her knuckles turned white.
A horror story, Bryon had challenged.
Damn.
Shuffling her thoughts, she considered another friend, another circle member: John Keats. But Keats was no smarter than Byron. He was no better. Of course, he did have some good qualities. He was handsome, well dressed, well spoken. He had strong hands, wide shoulders, and a kind face. And she thought about Keats from time to time, when she was alone, away from her husband. When she felt needy, adventurous. Mischievous. But she didn’t like him.
Or did she?
Mary wasn’t sure.
John Keats didn’t understand Mary Shelly’s complexities. He never thought about her, never looked at her the way she looked at him, with ravenous eyes and fervent desire. No. John was too absorbed, and something of a character. He was slain by his own ego, his own designs––filled to the brim with self-esteem, pride and arrogance. And to make matters worse, John Keats loved Byron’s idea of writing a horror story. He absolutely adored it.
Mary opened her eyes and unraveled her fists. She looked at the design of the stones beneath her feet and the mug of tea sitting next to her pen. She looked at the unfocused scribbles on the page. The word disappointing came to mind; her writing had become sloppy in more ways then one.
I want to stab myself in the heart, she thought uncharacteristically, while fighting the urge to scream out in frustration.
And then, without hesitation, Mary thought of Keats. Again.
* * *
“You solicit the darkness,” Keats had said on the heels of Byron making his horror story suggestion. The words rolled off his tongue as if he were an actor in a play. His back straightened. His smile engulfed his face. “And I am but the spark to light that darkness, that malignant imp. A fine and justly wicked proposal. Excellent my dear man, austerely excellent.”
Laughter from another room seeped through the doorway.
“Keats,” Mary whispered then, thinking the laughter to be his.
She felt a knot in her stomach, and hated emotions that messed with her thoughts. She had become as confused as a schoolgirl. Sometimes she wanted to embrace Keats. Sometime she wanted to strangle him. Sometimes she wanted to strangle Keats and Byron both.
Her eyes became thin, frightful slits.
They wanted horror…
It occurred to Mary, as she sat away from the desk, that her husband, Percy Shelley, had agreed with the horror story idea as well. He smiled with delight upon hearing it.
What was he thinking?
Was it not bad enough that Mary had fallen in love with Percy, a well-known, married man? Not bad enough that she was guilty of destroying his marriage and held responsible for his wife’s suicide? Could Percy not see her misfortune, her heartbreak, her turmoil?
Did he not care?
Mary had too much horror in her real life. They all knew it. Why in God’s name create more?
Her father had disowned her; her sister had committed suicide mere weeks ago––two closely related suicides in one year, no less. Her marriage was surrounded by fierce public hostility. She was driven out of town. And now, Byron challenges the writing group to create horror?
Horror?
Is he a fool, she wondered. Or does he secretly hate me?
With the question came fury, merciless and swift.
Sweeping the pages from the table, Mary leapt up and circled the room. Thoughts and words were complicated inside her mind no more. Her thoughts were flowing, burning. If she had an ax, she would split the table in two. No––in four! She would drop the blade as many times as she could, until blisters in her fingers were created and blood dripped from her hands.
Her muscles tightened; her teeth clenched.
Needing a drink more than she ever had in her nineteen years, Mary checked the cabinet on the far side of the room. Sometimes a bottle of wine would be there, sometimes two or three.
Today there were none.
Didn’t matter. She didn’t want wine. Not really. She wanted something harder, something cutting. And she needed time alone, time away from the group and the castle they were residing in. Time to think, time away from this hell she now called home.
The thought of sneaking off to the Orchid Street Pub had barely crossed Mary’s mind when a snap of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the castle’s giant wall of windows. She glanced through the glass and peeked outside.
Streets had become rivers. Valleys had turned to ponds. It was another intense August evening, muggy and humid, rainy and gusty.
Was a drink really worth the trek?
Mary crossed the room, approaching the hallway door with slow, cautious steps. She placed her ear against the thick of the door. Listened. Heard nothing, then voices. She heard Byron laugh, Keats laugh. She heard Percy speak.
And her small hands became white knuckled fists.
It was decided. She would go.
Tonight, Mary would leave the writing group in search of inspiration, and walk the dark and watery streets, alone.
* * *
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He was a huge man, who looked like warrior, but served as a grave keeper. His name was Frank, and he sat alone in the Orchid Street Pub. His arms were pythons; his legs were tree trunks. He had an eye with no sight and a scar the length of a long blade around his neck. With four of his front teeth missing, he appeared to be the largest, meanest, man in Europe.
Some thought him to be the largest man in the world.
13 Drops of Blood Page 11
