The Zombie Wilson Diaries

by Timothy W. Long

  After that, I closed my eyes and slept like a baby.

  Day 11

  My Girlfriend Likes to Play House

  I was walking along the shore near the spot where I deposited her dead husband when I saw a shape moving in the water. It had a hump, and for a second, I thought it was his head bobbing around. Then there was a flap as the thing moved a fin, and I realized it was a turtle.

  Ah. How cute! I had a turtle once, when I was a kid. Mom made me keep it in a big glass aquarium. Maybe I could keep this one as a pet and get rid of the zombie girl. Sure. I could name him and set up an area for him to live in. I bet I could learn a lot from the old fellow, like how to catch fish. Did turtles eat fish? Thinking back to my old turtle, Zeus, I was pretty sure he ate leaves and crap like that.

  Wait. Turtle. Meat … MEAT!

  I splashed into the surf in a rush and managed to grab one back flipper before he could pull it into his shell. He turned to snap at m,e and I thought of her, the way she tries to bite me all the time like I’m a steak. I’m pretty damn hungry, but I don’t understand how another person can look that tasty.

  Its body was about a foot and a half at its longest part. I hauled it in and grabbed the shell while it tried to retract everything. I raced to the shore and studied it as it tried to get away. It had its fins out again, and I touched them. The texture of the skin was strange, like old wet leather.

  Now all I had to do was get the thing open.

  I like animals, and I would normally never hurt one, but I was starving. I hadn’t had a decent meal in almost two weeks, and every day was a struggle just to get up and hunt for anything edible. The rumble in my stomach drove me on. It was a deep gnawing in my gut that went on at all times of the day and night. Even drinking a lot of water didn’t help. When I did that, I just had a hollow gurgly feeling, like I needed to throw up. Running with a gut full of water sounds like carrying a bucket of water. It’s all slosh slosh burp burp. I miss Coke and Mountain Dew. I miss beer, and as much as I hate the sour taste of wine, I wish I had a bottle of red and Ally by my side.

  I had managed to make a sort of hand ax with some black rock I found. The stuff looked like glass, and if I chipped at it enough with another rock, it was as sharp as a knife. I am like some damn caveman making weapons out of rock. I miss my cooking knives, too, while I am bitching about things I miss. I also miss Twinkies, Ho-Hos and chocolate chip cookies. I miss coffee and my four-dollar mochas. In fact, if I had a cup of coffee right now, I would probably blow a blood vessel in my head.

  I wondered if I should kill the thing first or just start cutting. I wasn’t looking forward to discovering what sound a turtle makes when it’s cut open.

  I lugged it back to camp, laid it on its back and let one hand rest on its belly so it didn’t try to roll over and get away. She was sitting up where I left her, secured to a rock. Her legs were tied together so she couldn’t stand up. She stared at me with that blank look, her one eye fixed on me and then on the animal. She made biting motions, which I am getting used to.

  I studied the turtle, and so did she. She seemed strangely fascinated with the thing. I went and took her gag off so she could maybe have a taste when I cut it up. I guessed that I would have to put the meat on the ground in front of her so she could lean over and eat it.

  I held the knife above the turtle’s green neck. Its eyes stared at me with something like fear. Did it know I intended to cut its head off? I touched the neck, and it recoiled immediately. Then I had to wait again for it to stick its head out.

  Meanwhile, she was trying to crawl toward the animal. The turtle sensed this and backed away. I let one of her arms free, because I wanted to see how she would interact with it. Would she think it was a pet? Would she try to attack it?

  The turtle backed into me. I pushed it forward, but it stuck its legs and head back in its shell. That gave me a good idea for a shelter. If she wanted to be near me all the time, I would build a rock room and stay in it while she was out by the fire. It would be just like we had a home. Well, a home with a corpse in it.

  The turtle got brave and lurched into motion. I was going to wait until it stretched its neck all the way out and then—whack!—that sucker would be ready to cook. Assuming I figured out how to get the meat out of its shell. God … Meat, how long had it been? Turtle soup—isn’t that a delicacy somewhere? It was about to be a delicacy in my stomach.

  I was drooling, mesmerized by my meal walking away when she snapped her head forward and latched onto the turtle’s neck. That’s when I learned that turtles can make noise. They hiss like a really pissed-off cat. She ripped the head back and tore it half off. Blood gushed out and stained the sand a deep red. I wondered if I should be drinking it or something. Had to be a lot of minerals and protein.

  Oh shit! The zombie stuff she had. If I got any of it in my mouth, would it change me too?

  I reeled back while she lay tied on her side and ripped at the head. She used her free hand to hold it to her lips and ate every scrap of flesh hanging off the neck. The turtle kept trying to back away, but his legs moved slower and slower. After a while, there was just a little twitching and the only sound was her enjoying her meal. But she didn’t really look content. She didn’t look happy or sad. She just looked like a mindless eating machine.

  I picked up the rest of the turtle and used my knife to cut off a leg. It was tough, and I had to tear a lot of muscle and sinew to get it loose. By the time it came off, it was covered in sand, so I walked to the water and washed it off.

  I set it on a rock next to the fire, just a few inches away, and within moments, the smell of roasted meat hit my nose.

  I looked up at the sun and almost said a thank you to whatever god may be looking out for me. I used a stick to turn the leg after a few minutes, when the leg looked blackened, and then waited for what seemed like hours.

  She didn’t move, just ate, and I wondered again where the meat went. I studied the line of her body, the way her shirt hung loose over her midsection, and realized her stomach had grown much larger. Jeez, how much did she eat? She looked like she was pregnant.

  No! Not pregnant. She had eaten at least one arm from her dead husband a few nights ago. The meat was probably sitting in there, rotting and bloating.

  I had no energy for worrying about it tonight, so I took the turtle leg off the fire and set it on another rock to cool. I couldn’t wait long, so I tore a tiny piece of white meat off. I stared at it, wondering if it would turn me into her new zombie boyfriend. How much would that suck? The rescuers would find us, and my diary would never get made into a movie.

  I gulped and then threw the meat onto the fire. I couldn’t take the chance. I didn’t want to die. I cried when I put the stupid turtle meat on the fire and watched it crackle and burn. I used the rock knife to cut out every scrap of meat and added those to the flame. The smell almost drove me insane.

  I wanted to lean over and bash her head in with the same rock I used to slice open the turtle. Bash her head in so that whatever zombie brains she had were a big pile of mush on the ground. I wanted to jump up and down on them, stomp them into the ground.

  I was so mad that I went back to the water and splashed into it. I stomped around until I came across one of those big floppy things that hang out of shells and look like a cow’s penis. I snatched it out of the water, took it back to camp and put it on the fire. A few minutes later, I had a filling meal that tasted like crap. Really and truly tasted like some shit I wouldn’t eat in a million years. Yet there I was, munching away like it was a chili dog. At least it filled the hollow pit of my stomach.

  How can I forgive her? She is ruining what happiness I might have had, but she can’t help it. She is acting on pure instinct. She has no mind. She can’t figure out that when she does something like that, it is bad for me.

  She was chewing away at the last of the turtle when I leaned over and moved some hair out of her face. My beautiful turtle-chomping zombie girlfriend. Well, sort of
beautiful; her skin is so gray now it looks like a weird mottled, overripe piece of eggplant. And she is so cold. I let her sleep by me all night, but in the morning, she was still like ice.

  I left her to play with the head while I went off and collected more items for our little house. I gathered fallen branches and large leaves and started building up a collection of rocks. The food might have been terrible, but it made me feel a hell of a lot better.

  It will take a while, but I’m pretty sure I can build some kind of hut or house, something we can live in. I’ll make a little pen for her, so I don’t have to worry about her eating me in the middle of the night. I bet she will like that. A place out of the rain and cold and heat of day.

  No rest for the wicked, back to work.

  Day 12

  My Girlfriend Goes on a Diet

  Found a couple of bags today. One was a waterlogged overnight-style case filled with clothes and a couple of romance novels. I set those out to dry, thinking that maybe she would like to hear a story. There was also a sewing kit and a portable fishing reel with no pole. Oh holy hell, happy day. All I needed was some bait. I’m sure I could scrounge up some little critters to stick on the end of a fishing line. Then a stick, of course, and a way to secure the reel to the stick. The more I looked at the thing, the more I realized it might not be that great. Sort of like a car with no keys. I set it down and looked in the other luggage.

  The second bag was a heavy plastic case that must have floated, because some of the clothes inside were mostly dry, though salt encrusted. There were a couple of porn mags inside, but they featured men engaged in sex, and I was not the least bit interested.

  Still, I set them aside. Waste not, want not. They would make good kindling. Or maybe I could show them to her, see if that got her worked up.

  I found an enema kit still in the box. Who the hell brings one of those on vacation? I nearly threw it away before I got an idea.

  The rest of the contents included a little sewing kit and a hat. Just a baseball cap with some Jamaican team stitched on it, but it would keep the sun off my forehead. There was some lubricant, which I carefully set aside. I didn’t want to know who had used that stuff and for what. It said it was petroleum based, and I have to admit that it would probably work well on my lips, since they are cracked and dry as a bone.

  I took the stuff back to the camp and then hauled her to her feet. She belched as I picked her up, and the smell of meat left to rot in her gut made me gag. The little bit of food in my stomach felt heavy and wanted a way out. I took a clean breath of air, closed my eyes and thought of a fresh bouquet of flowers.

  Well, no sense in waiting any longer. Went to the beach and filled the enema bag with salt water and then rinsed the thing you jam up your ass—really well. I have never used one on myself, but there was this one time when Ally … uh, never mind. I scrubbed my hands in sand and salt water until they were raw.

  Took the full bag back to the camp and set it aside so the top was pointed up. Then I put her against a tree and tied her there with some of the rope I had fashioned. The stuff was getting a little worn, but she didn’t seem to be that strong, not like the zombies I had seen in movies. Maybe it was a lack of food or blood. She wasn’t getting any of mine. That’s for sure.

  Now came the tricky part. The whole time I maneuvered her into position, she fought me, even though her hands were tied at her side. She kept snapping her head forward as if she were going to get a bite of me through the gag.

  I carefully removed the gag and then held her head back by pushing on her forehead. The smell from her mouth was wretched. I held my breath as long as I could. Rotted meat from her husband and God only knew what else made me think about going vegan.

  I had a couple of oyster shells ready, and I put the first one in her mouth the next time she snapped at me. I had to be careful so she didn’t get a piece of my finger. I wiped my hand down and grabbed the second one and snapped it onto the top of her mouth so she looked like a weird inside-out shellfish.

  Now I was able to get to work. I had reconsidered the lube and decided to use a lot of it for this delicate operation. I wet the tube from the enema, slathered it up good and thick and then slipped the plastic end into her mouth. I had to push it against the back of her throat, and she gagged against it. I thought that was interesting. She is dead, after all, and shouldn’t have a gag reflex. Maybe she was just fighting the tube. I sure as hell would be.

  I ran the tube down as far as it would go and then left the hose hanging there. I grabbed the bottle and screwed it on tight and then squeezed all the water into her stomach. She gurgled as it ran down her throat. I had to hold her head tightly so she wouldn’t thrash around.

  Once it was empty, I ran to the beach and filled it again and repeated Operation Get the Nasty Shit out of her Gut. After her stomach was full with a third one, I untied her and dragged her away from the tree. I affixed the rope to her feet and then pulled the hose out. I massaged her gut just under her now-sagging boobs. I pushed and prodded, hoping to get the water and rotted material mixed together.

  With the help of a low branch, I pulled her into the air, feet first, so that all the stuff in her stomach ran out of her mouth.

  I could describe the maggot-infested rotted meat in great detail. It would surely make a great addition to someone’s bizarre horror movie, but I won’t. Let me just say that it was the single most disgusting thing I have ever seen in my life. It was almost as bad when I repeated the process.

  I don’t think she is any angrier with me today than usual. I took her to the stream afterward and gave her a long bath. I used a lot of the sunscreen to moisten her skin. I took my time and rubbed it all over her body, which was still cold to my touch. Her one good eye kept a constant watch on me, but she didn’t really react in any other way. If I were looking for any sort of gratitude, I wouldn’t find it here. With the meat out of her system, she must be a lot more comfortable, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at her.

  Her clothes are getting worn out, the shirt hanging in strips. I could dress her in the stuff I found in the bags, but it’s all mostly ruined from the seawater. Besides, the clothes are all designed for a larger man, and I don’t want to waste them on her. I’m the live one here, and I need them more than she ever will.

  I’m going to tie her to the tree and then go fishing.

  Tomorrow, I will make her some new clothes.

  Day 13

  My Girlfriend Does the Hula

  Had a pretty busy day today. I worked on the house … or hut … should probably just call it an enclosure. A homeless guy with a bunch of cardboard and wet paper towels could probably design a better home than this.

  I saw a movie once where these two kids were stranded on an island and they somehow built a massive, multilevel mansion out of wood and palm leaves. Right now, I just needed something to keep me dry. I’ll worry about deserted-island engineering later.

  I dragged more rocks over and managed to cut up some of the longer branches so I could build up a wall. I was planning to make it a sort of lean-to, but now I am going to elevate the roof and angle it so that the rain washes down to collect in the suitcase I dragged out of the sea yesterday. I may build a small space for her as well.

  Tied her by her wrist to a tree that didn’t get much sun. Speaking of the sun, all that lotion I put on yesterday to moisturize her was a terrible idea. It just sat on top of her skin and didn’t soak in. So now she is covered in sand, because she falls down a lot. Each time I pick her up, it feels like I am picking up sandpaper. The shit has hardened everywhere.

  I took one of the large shirts and tore off a sleeve and fashioned a new gag for her. She fought me the entire time as I wrapped it around her mouth. She smells so much better today now that the festering pile of meat is gone from her gut. I bet she is hungry, though. I mean, if she gets hungry. I’m a little confused on that point. If she had a full stomach, why was she always trying to take a bite out of me? Brain damage? Br
ain dead?

  I have tried to reason with her. I talked to her, tried a little sign language, but nothing seems to get through. I offered some of the charred turtle. She chewed it once and then let the chunk of meat drool out of her mouth and down her chin. It left a black line that I had to clean up later, like she was a six year old.

  There is no way I am giving her raw meat again, not after having to go through that whole disgusting process yesterday of jamming an enema tube down her throat. I had to dig a hole and then take a thick palm leaf and sort of scoop the nasty stuff in it. I felt like a giant cat covering shit. Fucking meow.

  I managed to climb a tree today and get a couple of coconuts down. I broke one open and drank the wonderfully refreshing milk that was in the center. It went down like a dream, and the only thing I wished I had to go with it was some rum or tequila.

  And a live girl—like Ally. She must be worried sick. I miss her like crazy. Sometimes I just lie on my little cot and think about all the fun we used to have together. She was a handful. Always coming and going. Ally was also sort of the hunter-gatherer of our relationship. She loved to fish, and she had no problem gutting, cleaning and smoking them. I had no problem eating them. This worked out well.

  Staring at my new girlfriend, I decided that the clothes had to go, because they were torn up and covered in something I can only describe as goo. I didn’t exactly have replacements for her. Not unless I got real creative with the little crappy sewing kit I found yesterday. I had an idea, so I worked the rock knife into the shell and then all the way around it until it split open. I scraped out every last chunk of fruit and ate it like it was vanilla ice cream. I was never a huge coconut fan, so poor me, because it is now a staple of my diet. At first I left the shells in the direct sun to dry, but on second thought, I put them by the fire to dry faster.