The Zombie Wilson Diaries

by Timothy W. Long

  She ignored me and kept chewing.

  I stomped through the water and grabbed the end of the rope that trailed behind her. I gave it a hard tug, pulling her off his corpse. She stumbled to her feet. I gave another yank. She fell on her back and stared up at the sky as if in shock. But she kept chewing her mouthful of husband.

  I used the rope to pull her farther away. She struggled but couldn’t figure out how to roll over. She must have crawled to the beach while I was asleep. I’m glad she didn’t try to come after me in the night. Last thing I need is for her to take a bite of my arm. Might wake up dead. I mean undead.

  I didn’t want a repeat of the arm tearing off, so I grabbed his legs and pulled. He was so heavy! Maybe I should have torn him into pieces after all. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if I had an ax; then I could have hacked him apart.

  I pulled and pulled. Worked the body inch by inch until it was in the water. Then he was easier to move. He wasn’t really buoyant anymore, probably due to his waterlogged clothes and skin. I wondered if it were possible for a body to stay in the water so long that all of the blood was replaced with seawater.

  I was dragging him out to sea by his legs when his head surfaced. That eyeless socket regarded me with something like scorn. Could just be my imagination. I have been alone for close to a week now. Maybe it was starting to get to me—the insanity of being stuck on a deserted island with a damn zombie.

  Alone.

  Yeah, I know she is there, but she is this mindless shambling thing that wants to eat me. Does that sound like a good companion? At least Tom Hanks’s volleyball didn’t snarl and snap all the time.

  I was in the water up to my neck when I figured it was far enough. I pushed him and hoped the current would take him out to sea.

  It didn’t.

  He sank so that only one leg stuck out of the water, then he started drifting back to shore. I could see the current pulling him. He rolled over, and his face was dragged along the sharp reef. That wouldn’t do much for his looks. I tugged him back out and then went underwater—pulling one leg with me. I found a large rock and wedged his foot under it. Took a few tries to lock him in place, but when I was done, only his neck and head were showing.

  I realized I should take his clothes while I was at it. Might need those later.

  It wasn’t hard to tug the shirt off his one-armed torso. I threw it to shore and went back for the pants, but there was no way I could tear them off unless I let him loose again.

  She was freaking out by now, rolling over and over, trying to get to her side. In a furious push that looked like an old lady trying to get up (Help, help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!), she made one last attempt and actually rolled over onto her stomach and started crawling toward the arm. That gave me an idea of how to get her back to camp and keep her busy for the rest of the day.

  I waded to shore, waterlogged like her ex, and grabbed the arm. It probably looked like I was shaking hands. She kept her eye on the meat the whole time. I shook it in front of her face. “You want some food, baby? Follow me. I got a one-course meal with your name on it.”

  I walked away with his arm dragging in the sand. She followed close, her eye never leaving the pale ragged flesh.

  I dropped the arm when we arrived back at camp. She leaned over and started nuzzling the flesh like a lover. I know, the irony, right? I tied the rope back together while she ignored me. I returned the courtesy by ignoring her chewing.

  After that, I had pretty good luck with the surf and turf—although it was mostly surf. The turf came when I cooked a starfish in a weird papaya-looking fruit shell and ended up chowing down on one of the palm leaves I used to cover it up. Tasted gross, but it was one of the most filling meals I have had yet.

  Meanwhile, she worked away on her own dinner and didn’t once snarl or snap at me, not even a single dirty look. She was as content as I have seen her on the island. I think that’s saying a lot, considering she is fucking dead.

  Day 9

  My Girlfriend Likes to Play with Herself

  She didn’t give up on the arm. She kept gnawing away like it was a hunk of prime rib. Saliva squirted into my mouth when I thought of the last time I had eaten a good steak. I tried to think of the starfish and oysters as if they were a decent meal, but after a week on this cursed island, it’s all I can do to choke them down no matter how hungry I get.

  I tied her up again, but she ignored me and went back to gnawing. She was no longer tearing out big chunks. She was just nuzzling the bones and meat like a … well, like a dog.

  I spent the day working on my hut-to-be. I laid a foundation of palm leaves and branches, built them up so they were a few inches off the sand. I have been assaulted nightly by all kinds of bugs and things that bite. With any luck, the little bastards won’t be able to get me when I’m off the ground.

  My idea of building a house like a tri-fold enclosure was paying off. I wove leaves all day to create the walls and ceiling. When I was done, I had something I could lie under. I stretched out and watched her stare at her prize. She didn’t move for a long time, and I wondered if she was thinking about anything in particular.

  Zombies don’t think, they don’t feel, and they don’t talk. I know the stories and movies, but seeing one this close is something different all together. First of all, she is cold to the touch, and if you think I am enjoying her running around in what is left of her clothes, you are wrong. Her skin is gray and mottled. It looks like some really bad spackle on the side of a house. She only has one good eye; the other is dead and looks like a white almond.

  The worst part is that she had been chewing on dead meat all night and day. I don’t even want to think about where it goes or how it gets back out. It’s not like she can take a crap. For all I know, the stuff she has been chowing down on is just sitting in her stomach and rotting. That’s probably what makes her breath so foul that I have to sit upwind.

  And now she has a strip of skin stuck in her teeth and no idea how to get it out. She has been trying all morning. It just bounces off her chin as she snaps at it over and over again. It reminds me of the paddleball game where you bounce a ball off a small paddle that is attached via a rubber band. I bet she has tried to get that thing a hundred times already. Her one good eye stares down at it, but she can’t seem to get her hands to do anything like pull the skin off her broken teeth.

  Boing. Snap. Boing. Snap. Boing. Snap. Skin, five hundred and forty. Zombie chick, zero.

  I was busy making the hut when she fell on her face. She had reared back slowly and then let her mouth snap shut against air. She moved quicker than I have seen her move before, and it landed her on the ground.

  I took the opportunity to stop working on the hut and find some smaller leaves. I got on her back again and tried to ignore the smell, the cold skin, and the clothes that were covered in dried blood. I tilted her head to the side as she snarled at me and used the leaves to pull the skin out from between her teeth. It was a long piece that was white and putrid. Spoiled and nasty.

  I know when the rescue boat arrives and they read my diary, they will have trouble coming to grips with some of the things I had to do to the girl, but I promise I did everything as humanely as possible.

  I tore part of her skirt off and wrapped it around her mouth. I’m still afraid of her bite.

  I left her on the ground and went back to work on the hut. She rolled around and managed to get her hands trapped under her body and then bounced up and down like she was humping them.

  It looked like she was playing with herself. The snarls and grunts didn’t help.

  It rained later, so I took off my clothes and rubbed down with some sand. She looked at me blankly and continued thrusting her body up and down. So I decided to treat it like a vote of approval and did a little dance for her.

  I dug out some oysters later and even tried to spear a fish. This ended in failure about fifty times. I took one last throw at a large fish and managed to spear a little
tiny red one right next to it. I felt like I had just made the winning toss in the Olympics!

  I nearly ran back to camp to show her what I had caught. I hooted and hollered, but she just rocked back and forth on her hands. After watching her for a few minutes, I slipped my hands under her waist and pulled her up to her feet. She steadied herself and turned her head ever so slowly to look at me with that one blue eye. I scraped a couple of maggots off her other eye, and I must say, it was a downright romantic moment.

  Until she snarled at me and bit against the gag like she was going to rip my nose off. I backed away, sat on a rock, and watched her walk to the end of the rope, then strain against it. She was no more than three feet from me. Her eye crinkled up in rage—well, the good one did—and she reached for me with those hands that were now covered in sand, dried blood and chunks of her husband’s skin.

  This is ridiculous. I should just kill her.

  “Should I kill you, babe?”

  Snarl.

  “Should I take you out and leave you in the water, point you away from the island and then swim away?”

  Snarl.

  “Maybe hang you from a tree and set you on fire? Do you think a boat or plane would see that?”

  Snarl.

  These one-sided conversations were getting on my nerves. But she is my Wilson, so it is my obligation to chat with her. Tell her my problems. Tell her how I feel about stuff. Show her a good time on the island. Walk her from one end to the other. All the stuff a couple should do.

  I cooked the fish and tossed her the raw fins. She stared at them from her tree, where she had managed to wrap herself up again. She howled against the gag and reached for me with one arm. I got a stick and pushed one of the fins toward her. She watched me, not the stick, not the fin. She kept her eye on me, and a gross pink fluid bubbled out of her mouth. I stopped in mid-chew and fought to keep my stomach calm. I wanted to turn and throw up. I knew that if I did that, I would have to re-eat the stuff, because I am so low on food. Managed to keep it down after a few breaths. Phew.

  What the hell was that crap coming out of her mouth? If I didn’t know any better, I would have said it was foaming Alka-Seltzer in red Kool-Aid. I wonder if her guts are backed up from all the stuff she ate. I can’t take much more of this.

  Tomorrow, I plan to explore the island. With any luck, I will find a better place to live.

  Day 10

  My Girlfriend Hates to be Left Alone

  I spent the day exploring the island. It was a nice change of pace to get away from her. I wandered and tried to keep a map, but my drawing skills aren’t really up to snuff. I passed the stream, followed it to a tree-covered hill, and attempted to climb it. Quickly realized I am not cut out for being more than a few feet off the ground. All I could think about was falling and breaking a leg. That would be the end game for me.

  The trees grew closer together here, and I had trouble getting through them. The stream ran cleaner but not cooler. I drank until I was full and then moved around the hill.

  I came across some more fruit and attempted to eat them. I’m not sure what they were, but they tasted bitter, and they were very stringy. I choked down the flesh of one and pocketed a few others for later.

  I found a new place to fish and dug out some more oysters. Ignoring their taste, I ate them raw. Funny how just a week ago, I would have turned my nose up at the thought of shellfish. Now I dream about that shit like it is filet mignon with crab and a bearnie … bernnie … ber—ah fuck it. Whatever you call that green sauce on top.

  The day was coming to an end, so I walked back to camp. At least what I thought was camp. With my terrible sense of direction, I went the wrong way. Ended up down the beach from my makeshift home.

  The night rolled in, and I was soon walking by the light of the moon. This sucked. If I didn’t find my camp soon, I would have to find somewhere else to sleep, because I was getting really tired.

  Then I heard a splashing noise.

  “Anyone there?” I called out, knowing that there was probably just the body of her husband. Maybe he came loose and washed up on shore. Maybe he was lying within reach, just waiting to grab me with his one hand as I strolled by.

  I shuddered, turned away and made my way in the opposite direction.

  I came across camp a few minutes later and plopped down behind my little homemade tent and stared up at the stars. Bugs attacked me immediately, going for every inch of exposed skin. I slapped at them as fast as I could, but I knew how this little battle would end. Me, zip. Bugs, about a billion.

  I heard a noise in the distance and wondered if a bird was nearby. I gathered up a couple of rocks and listened. Then I realized there was one sound I was not hearing, and that was the sound of her.

  I jumped to my feet and walked to the tree, hands held out before me in the dark. I felt around the base and only found a strand of broken rope.

  Oh shit.

  I heard a sound and leaped back, hit the little fence and went down hard. I was back on my feet in a second. I was sure I would be in pain from that spill in the morning.

  If I lived that long.

  I crept back to my shelter and stood outside it for a while, just staring into the darkness. I looked from corner to corner, shape to shape, and tree to tree. The moon was a sliver, so it was hard to make anything out. Every splash of water, every rustle of a leaf scared the crap out of me.

  She would fall on me at any moment, and I would be too shocked to react, I just knew it. I was exhausted from my walk around the island, but my adrenaline was up, and I had no chance of falling asleep.

  After standing in place for about half an hour, I decided to light a fire and catch her when she shambled into camp. Not much of a trap, I know, but I had to do something other than standing in place all night, freaked out that I might be turned into zombie kitty chow.

  I sparked up the fire with a precious strip of paper and one of the remaining matches. It caught quickly, and I fed it wood until I had a cozy blaze going. I stood off to the side and waited for about an hour, but she didn’t shamble into camp.

  I still heard rustling near the trees, but I hoped it was crabs or just a bunch of leaves rubbing together. I thought I should investigate. If my breakfast was walking around, I needed to gather them up. I started to make a torch a half-dozen times but always found a reason in the back of my head not to. What if she was waiting there? What if she had developed sudden smarts and planned a trap that starred me as the poor sap getting eaten instead of her dead husband.

  An hour passed, and my fear grew. She should have come back by now and tried to attack me. She had been drawn to fire every time I lit one, even though she hates them. What was different now?

  Went to the fire after another half-hour and took out a long stick that was burning on the end. I took a few breaths and started walking around the camp area. Then I expanded my circuit to encompass what I thought of as the perimeter. Like I was Rambo, like I knew where the bad guys were. I don’t have a bad-guy-o-meter in my head like they do in the movies. Instead, I have a freak-me-the-fuck-out-meter. If I stood out there much longer, I was probably going to die of fright. Any minute, I expected her to jump out and attack me, latch her disgusting teeth onto my neck and tear it out, just like in the movies.

  I walked back and forth, flinching at every shadow, flicker, or breeze. She still didn’t lurch out at me.

  I decided to investigate the area the noises had come from, hoping to score a crab or two. With the fire nice and hot, they would cook up moist and juicy in a few seconds. I started drooling at the thought.

  I moved into the little copse and got close to the ground in hopes of spotting one of the little guys. That’s when the hand touched my ankle.

  I’m pretty sure I screamed like a six-year-old girl as I fell down again. My breath came fast and furious as I scrambled backwards. She had laid a trap for me. Bitch! After all I had done for her.

  “What’s wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with yo
u? I take care of you! I clean you! Why would you do that?”

  Then I came across her body, and my words died in my throat. She was lying on her back with the rope wrapped around her body, one arm secured against her chest. The other reached for me. One of her legs was hooked over a branch; the other was bent at the knee and tucked under her thigh. Her skirt was around her waist, and it was the first thing I fixed. Then I unbent her leg and took the other off the branch and stretched them out, rubbing the sand off.

  She still had the gag around her mouth, and her good eye was fixed on mine while she snapped behind the cloth. I did my best to straighten her clothes while she did her best to eat my arm. I helped her up and noticed she was starting to smell again. I would take her to the stream first thing in the morning and wash her off.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have left you like that. That wasn’t cool.”

  I felt terrible. Zombie or not, I should take better care of her. I wouldn’t treat an enemy the way I was treating her. I took her back to the fire and sat her down. I tried to fix her hair, but it was ratted and lank, not greasy like I expect mine is tonight. I bet she doesn’t have oil at all from her head, being dead and all. Or because hot (even formerly hot) chicks don’t seem to have problems like that.

  “I’ll do better, baby. I will take care of you better than this. I know it’s hard, you know, being dead and all, but you deserve some common human decency.”

  I felt bad about leaving her arms tied up, but I put out the fire, laid her gently on her back and then tugged a small log over her feet. With her childlike reflexes and lack of motor skills, she wouldn’t go far. I felt sleepy for the first time that night. I lay there for a few minutes, listening to her snarl behind the gag, and then sang a soft song I remembered from one of my favorite bands. She quieted down, and I did it again.