First Time Dead 1

by Chantal Boudreau

  Somehow, she must be paralyzed. Maybe the fall in the bathroom, or maybe the lack of blood killed her limbs so she could not move. My arm was bleeding a little. You could see a perfect bite mark right there on my arm. The pounding was still going on and it was coming from outside my bedroom door. I was screwed. I’m not sure, but I think the bites turn you. I think death turned Jill, I should have paid more attention to her. Then I think about it and realize that death is really what brings you back. The bite slowly kills you and you die and wake up.

  If I was to die sooner; I would come back sooner. That’s what my dad did. That’s how my sister and I found him. I want to join my family in their unlife. I looked at myself in the mirror. Who or what was I going to become? That is when I head-butted my mirror image. The mirror crumbled and there was blood dripping down my head; not a lot, and not enough to kill me. I grabbed a piece of glass that had fallen, and gripped it in my hand. I can feel it cutting into my skin. You can do this, Sara, I think solemnly. I sliced my wrist so deep that I think I cut a tendon. That should do the job.

  Chapter 3

  Three Days Later:

  I pulled up to my sister’s house and turn off the old Chevy. I had found it earlier with the keys lying on the front seat. It was a loud truck, but it was a lot better than walking with all of these dead things around. I have been trying to reach Sara for the last few days and there hasn’t been an answer. I can see Jake, my brother-in-law was out on the lawn staring at me…daring me to get out of the truck. He was one of the dead things. I can see Sara, too. It looks like she broke out through the bedroom window, and that is where she is stuck. Both of them are now one of the undead things. It’s a sad world, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I aimed the shotgun at Jake’s head and fired. He fell to the ground, and all of this green goo started to come out of his head. I waited to see if he was gone and he was. I climbed out of the truck leaving the keys on the seat…just in case.

  I had to get closer to Sara to kill her. I slowly walked up to her and watched her reaching for me as the glass in the window practically cut her in half. I loved my sister very much. She always took care of me…I could do this for her. I fired one shot between the eyes. Just like that, she was gone. But I could still hear some noises coming from the inside of the room. I looked through the window, and that is when I saw my niece, Jill. She was a good girl and always loved me no matter how big of an idiot I was. For some reason, she was lying on the bed and rolling her head back and forth. I thought about that for a second, then realized I really didn’t care anymore. I needed to give her some peace. Glancing around the room, I realized that I had to go into the house to finish her. I couldn’t get a good shot from this angle.

  The house reeked of death and rotten food. I got to my sister’s room and realized that the door had been blocked, but not very well. From where I was standing in the hallway, I could see right into the room. My niece was laying there in the bed trying to bite air. There was blood on the bed right next to her. I had to keep myself from wondering what happened because this day is not a day I want to remember. The mirror that we—me and my sister—spent hours looking at as we got ready was smashed. A big puddle of blood was on the floor right next to it.

  I climbed through the hole in the door. I could see that my niece had a bandage around her head. I could not let her live this way. I grabbed the gun and fired. I hope this was the last relative I had to kill…or at least had to see this way. After grabbing a couple of sheets to cover them, I looked outside and realized it was getting late. I would have to stay here tonight.

  Chapter 4

  After searching the house for supplies, I found food and some warm clothes and decided that I would sleep in the bathroom because it was the safest room in this house. The front door was not secure anymore, and with the window being broken in the bedroom, I was just asking for trouble. It was going to be me and the tub. I gathered supplies into the bathroom and secured the door. The bathroom smelled like bleach…very strong bleach. I wonder if Sara had been cleaning house when this all went down. I packed the tub with blankets and curled up in the tub. I needed sleep.

  I slept long and hard that night which felt good. When I woke up, it was about noon and my stomach was growling. Wait, that wasn’t my stomach. Something was outside the bathroom door and it was growling like a rabid dog. I could not believe my luck. Someone had gotten in the house and was standing at the door waiting. I decided to wait and be very quiet to see what would happen.

  After eating a can of carrots I decided I needed to try and figure out how bad my situation was. How was I going to do that? Searching the bathroom, I came up with a little make-up mirror that would do the job. I could see feet under the door, I just couldn’t tell how many there were. I slipped the mirror under the door and I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were four zombies standing right outside the door! This was not good, and I didn’t know what I was going to do.

  Wait…that is all I can do. Wait and hope for an opportunity…then bolt for the truck. I was too fat to fit through the little bathroom window, so waiting was the only option. I did a quick inventory of my supplies. All I had in the bathroom was two cans of Spam and a can of green beans. Water was still running so I filled the sink with water and plugged it up just in case. Now I have to wait.

  Diary entry one

  (Written on the wall with lipstick)

  The day went by very slowly, but nothing ever happened. If I was quiet, they just sat there at the door. If I moved or made noise, they started pounding on the door. So I slept, and that was not a good idea…because I think I snored. With this tub, I could not get my head just right, so I guess I snored. It is time to sleep on the floor. Maybe laying flat will help. It did for awhile until my back started to kill me. I guess tonight I will not be going to sleep. I started to think about things. Why did I insist on coming to see Sara?

  Diary entry two

  It has been two days since I came into this bathroom. I have no food left. I just finished the last can of Spam and filled the sink with the last drops of water. I don’t know why the water was coming out so slowly, but it was…then…it just stopped. I have about a cup of water left. I looked out the window yesterday and saw that the coast was clear outside. I’ve lost five pounds the last couple of days, so maybe I can leave through the window. I know the door was not an option, there are now six of them out there staring at the door waiting for me to make my move. I counted the roof tiles and the floor tiles, but really, there was nothing else to do. I sleep a lot, that takes my time up and helps me reserve my energy. I dream of days long gone when I could go outside and walk around without a care in the world.

  Diary entry three

  A week! A full fucking week! They won’t leave, and I am afraid they are going to bring the door down. Yesterday I thought I heard a car drive by. I ran to the bathroom window and there was nothing. No one, there is no one left in this world. I have lost twenty-five pounds, but I am so weak that if I got out the window I’m not going to get too far. I can’t stand this! Why won’t they fucking move? I guess if it was a car I heard, they would have left following the sound.

  Diary entry four

  (Written in blood)

  I won’t become one of them, I just won’t. Like my sister, I broke the mirror today and slit my wrist with a shard of glass. It was sharp and now I am bleeding all over the place. I guess all I wanted to say was I love you guys and see you soon.

  Forgive Me, Father, For I Have…Burp

  By Michael J. Evans

  To be consumed by guilt.

  Or rather, just to be consumed.

  By anything.

  Now he knows what it must have been like for her. To feel his lips pressed against her flesh, thinking at first that he was trying to get her in the mood. In the dark, she couldn’t see him. Realization not even beginning to set in when he allowed his teeth to graze her soft, supple skin. Not until she felt the pressure of his teeth over her jugular did she start to feel ner
vous, as his soft kneading of her breast became rougher, more needful. Then the teeth closing on her skin, grinding down, and the painful/pleasant squeezing became more like a death grip. A simpering “No” escaping her lips as his teeth finally tore through her skin, the warm gush as the blood flowed. Only then did she start thrashing.

  The accelerated heartbeat only served to deliver a pulsating rush of blood into his eager mouth, and he gulped it down as quickly as he could. But it was coming too quickly, and he couldn’t swallow it all.

  As her struggles diminished, his hunger grew, and he increased his pressure against the ragged, open wound left by his teeth. Bit down. Ground his teeth repeatedly until a rubbery wad a flesh and muscle gave way. He chewed and chewed. Deep in the back of his already-rotting mind he heard his mother’s voice telling him to always chew your food thoroughly before swallowing. You don’t want to choke.

  He counted as he chewed, One, two, three…fifty, then swallowed.

  Repeat.

  Even after he had stripped the flesh from the bones, a hunger was still burning. He wanted more. He needed more.

  Acting on new-found instinct, he snapped the bones of her forearm in half, then in half again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Then he started on her upper arm.

  When he was done, there was a pile of fractured bones before him. He picked one up and placed the opening against his lips. He inhaled, sucking the marrow from the small ring. He rolled the mass around on his tongue, savoring the flavor before swallowing.

  Repeat.

  When the bones were emptied of their savory treats, he still hungered for more. He took up her skull. Wisps of blonde hair still clung to the surface. These he plucked off like silk from a corn cob before placing his thumbs in each empty eye socket and applying pressure. His new-found strength cracked open the skull with the ease of breaking open an egg. Carefully, he separated the shell and looked at the greatest gift she could have ever given him. Carefully, he scooped up the gray mass that had been her brain, brought it to his mouth and bit down. The flavors that were released and washed over his tongue and down his throat released a plethora of sensations. Almost orgasmic.

  Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn he creamed his jeans. But that wasn’t possible anymore. Was it?

  With nothing more to keep him here, he stumbled from the bed and shambled out of the room.

  Down the hall.

  Down the stairs.

  Through the kitchen.

  He stopped when he saw the calendar on the wall, on which she had neatly marked off each day as it passed. He noticed the first day that was untouched by her red pen. Friday. Today. A groan escaped his throat.

  Oh fuck!

  * * *

  Consumed.

  From the inside out.

  That was the only difference. For the past several days, all he could think about was her. He wasn’t guilty over having eaten her, that was a given. He had been hungry. And the why? Well, that was a given, too. It must have been that accident when the Flesh Munchers went on a rampage. Reports had been coming in from all over the country for the past few weeks about how the dead were coming back to life. They had considered themselves lucky that there hadn’t been a sighting in their little corner of the world. Not until that afternoon, and then it had been a pell-mell run to get out of town before things got too far out of hand. The shit had hit the fan; he needed to grab Karen and get the hell out of Dodge before they got hit with the splatter, but his car had collided with a truck and through the windshield he went. He had hit the pavement, slid about a dozen feet.

  Then blackness.

  All-consuming blackness.

  He had awakened to find he had become a Flesh Muncher, too. Joined the ranks of The Undead, he had. He had become a friggin’ zombie.

  With one thing on his mind.

  Karen.

  As if that was the worst of it.

  He had reached the house sometime after the sun went down, driven by a need to be with her. The moon was high in the sky and the house was dark. She had left the door unlocked because he was always forgetting his keys. He found her in the bedroom. Sleeping. At the sight of her, his hunger became a raging inferno. He had fallen on top of her. She had awoken with a start, but something caused her to relax in his arms.

  Maybe his cologne. Something she recognized.

  She had even giggled as he pressed his mouth to her throat.

  Now he was going to burn in Hell for what he did.

  Unless…

  Consumed.

  Consumed by guilt.

  Consumed by need.

  The need for forgiveness.

  He shuffled down the street, passing others of his kind. They moved with a single-mindedness, with only one thing on their minds. Food. If only he could be that lucky. He wondered if this conscience thing would fade eventually, allow him to become like them. He hoped so, because the guilt of what he had done was eating at him like a rat chewing its way through a decomposing corpse.

  Even though his mind—what was left of it—was preoccupied with other thoughts, his survival instinct was at full alert. His gaze searched the darkened streets for signs of life. In death, some of his senses had become heightened. His vision could penetrate the darkest shadows; his sense of smell could detect the living from the dead and human from animal; his sense of hearing could pick up a scared heartbeat ten blocks away. Faint echoes of sounds and smells filtered through the concrete structures that protected the living, and while the hunger raged within him, the guilt that was consuming him was stronger than the pain of his need to feed.

  He shuffled along the darkened streets, clinging to the shadows, his instinct for survival keeping him from the muted glow of the streetlights. He knew the way by heart, having traveled this route many times in his lifetime.

  Before too long he arrived at his destination. He stumbled up the steps and pounded on the door. He couldn’t help but think as he did so of the many monster movies he had seen as a kid, where the mindless monsters would beat futilely at the door to be let in. Would reality prove to be any different? Not by the hair of his chinny-chin-chin, no matter how much he huffed and puffed and pounded on the thick wooden door. No sane soul would dare answer a door in this day and age after the sun went down. And never once did any of those monsters ever think to try the doorknob.

  His hand dropped to the heavy metal knob and, gripping it tightly, he gave it a twist. It turned easily enough and he gave the door a push. Within, the lights had been dimmed. He moved through the entry hall and into the church proper. To either side of the central aisle, a bank of devotional candles ran the width of the pews. A dozen flickering flames danced in the gust of wind that forced its way in when the door had opened; shadows offered an accompaniment that was in perfect sync.

  He paused, his filmed-over eyes taking in his surroundings even as his ears picked up the faint heartbeat and the sound of blood coursing through veins that was coming from within the building. His nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of fresh meat, which in turn caused his hunger to flare up. However, now was not the time to eat; other things were a priority. He continued to scan the interior until he spotted what he had come for. Off to his left, against the wall at the end of the last aisle were the confessionals, lined up like a row of telephone booths. He turned in their direction, and without hesitation, he shuffled forward. The closer he got to his destination, the stronger the sound of the beating heart became. And so did his hunger. It had been a week since he had last eaten, and he didn’t know how much longer he could put off the fire that burned in the pit of his stomach, but the burning in his head was still stronger.

  Standing in front of the confessional, just moments away from being absolved of the guilt that had consumed him, he hesitated. Did his kind deserve absolution? Ever since realizing what he had done, the guilt had been eating him up inside and his sole desire was to be forgiven of his sins, but he was no longer a c
hild of God. He was an abomination, a creature of darkness. God was supposed to be forgiving of all sins, but did that apply to those who had died and come back? For a moment he felt lost. The one thing he needed more than anything at this moment might be denied him. Panic began to eat its way into him, working in tandem with his guilt and his hunger, and his eyes shifted around the church, like a cornered animal searching for an opening in which to make a break for freedom. They came to rest on the altar, behind which, high up on the wall, was a large crucifix on which hung the image of Christ, and he grasped onto an idea that he seized and embraced. Wasn’t Christ one of the undead? Hadn’t He died and come back to life? Did that make Him a zombie? He didn’t think so. From what he could remember, and the things he could remember were growing fewer and fewer and more random as the days passed, Christ had come among His disciples after He had risen from the grave and they were not afraid. He wasn’t decaying, which probably meant He was a vampire. Did vampires exist? If there were zombies, there had to be vampires. And according to the church, Jesus was seated at the right hand of the Father, which meant that God had forgiven and embraced Jesus, so yes, he could be forgiven as well.

  He turned back to the confessional and reached for the door. It opened silently. He stepped into the small booth, and as the door swung shut behind him, he dropped to his knees. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—he paused, trying to figure out how long it had been since his last confession and couldn’t—three years since my last confession. That sounded about right, even if it showed that he wasn’t as good a Catholic as he’d like to think he was. He waited for the priest’s response, trying to block out the beating of the man’s heart that echoed in his head like a ricocheting bullet, stoking the fires of his hunger.