Pennsylvania became the first state to pass the Undead Act. The new law that considered our lives to be just as important as the living’s. Other states soon followed. The only downfall? Our health and life insurance premiums were through the roof, but nonetheless, we were finally part of the populace.
Now I bet you’re thinking to yourself, “George, what about the whole eating-of-the-brains-and-flesh thing?”
Well, since my cousin jumped to action and showered the church with chunks and bits of my wife’s brain and skull—he loved Resident Evil at the time—Tawny didn’t have the chance to spit out what she had eaten.
Yes, spit out.
The very next day every news channel informed us—don’t forget I still breathed as one of the living at that point—that zombies were unable to swallow “food”. Whatever they got into their mouths they spat back out. They didn’t do this because it tasted terrible—their taste buds didn’t function anyway—they did it because they couldn’t swallow. Zombies could only bite and chew. And if they could get something into their stomach, it wouldn’t process due to the lack of acids and the simple fact that zombies were dead.
Right now, you’re screaming, “Then how are you talking to us right now, George?” Now don’t get ahead of me. I’ll get to that.
Here’s the skinny. Zombies didn’t need to eat to survive. Still don’t. Food isn’t a source of survival for them; it’s a habitual or an ingrained memory from who they, or we, once were.
As more and more people came back to life, the biting/eating of human flesh/brains to non-attack ratio was very low. You had a better chance of getting bit by Mike Tyson than you did by a zombie. It turned out that these rare attacks were based on the Bite or Flight Reaction. Instinct.
Let me explain.
Out of the millions of dead people that came back to life—and no, no animals reanimated that we knew of—how many of them do you think woke up to someone in their face? Not many, I’m sure. Imagine you wake from a nap with your husband or sister or anyone hovering over your face. It would scare the shit out of you, wouldn’t it? Now you know how those poor individuals—my wife included—felt. Their instinct took over and they bit instead of ran. They reacted.
So then how do zombies, including me, move about? Talk? Think? Hell, write?
The simple answer is this: I don’t know. You were expecting more, I’m sure, but even the top scientists didn’t, and still don’t, know.
They only knew that our brains functioned, and because of that, we were able to show and have emotions. (Remember when I mentioned my wife having that look of fear on her face when she rose? Well, this is why.) They also learned that our muscles and tendons were pliable enough for us to move about. Questions outgrew the answers on a daily basis.
We were dead, plain and simple. We didn’t need air to breathe or food to eat or water to drink. We didn’t sleep or even blink. And we didn’t shit or piss.
We existed.
I passed away on my birthday.
Before I go any further, let me tell you that this is where things get even more complicated. Not with my death, but everything associated with dying.
I sat alone with an Entenmann’s raisin loaf cake in one hand and a Yuengling in the other. I choked to death. Simple as that. Even my own death wasn’t newsworthy.
Happy birthday to me.
I consider it the worst day of my life. It wasn’t grand or anything, but I did die. How can it not be the worst day of my life?
There are a couple of things that happen when one dies.
First of all, I’m not sure about you, but my mother was one of those women that made sure I wore clean underwear every day just in case my number happened to come up. My death wouldn’t have been the worst thing for my mother; it would’ve been the dirty or maybe brown-streaked underwear that the paramedics would have seen.
I loved you too, Mom.
Second, when a person dies—clean underwear or not—the first thing their body does is shit and piss itself, so the whole clean underwear thing is unnecessary, really.
When I rose from my living room floor still covered in crumbs and wet with beer, I realized something that only I and every other zombie knew. We understood the answer to questions that the living, especially the scientific and religious communities, wanted to know.
Here are the top ten questions:
1. Is there a God?
2. How about Satan?
3. Do we have a soul?
4. Do you see light at the end of a tunnel?
5. Does your life flash before your eyes?
6. Did Jenna Wilkins really have the hots for me in seventh grade? (Sorry, a personal question.)
7. Do ghosts really exist?
8. Are we alone in the Universe?
9. What is the right religion to follow?
10. What’s the meaning of life?
All these questions—except for number six—have millions of answers because each zombie, including me, has a different answer to each. It depends on how we viewed and experienced our human life. Basically, there is no right answer.
It turned out that our deaths were unique even if we died by the same cause. And that our experience during our lull between dying and returning back to life were different as well. That time spent between life and death.
For me, I choked to death. Then found myself in the middle of a rectal exam. And then I returned to life as a zombie. For some reason the time I spent between my human death and my return as a dead version of myself was at a doctor’s office getting my ass interrogated by a finger. Maybe the exam had something to do with the whole dirty underwear debate. Not sure. I often wonder if I was given a clean bill of health. I guess I’ll never know.
I heard that a former friend of mine found his time spent on a deserted island peeling a banana, but every time he peeled that last strip of yellow skin, the banana became unpeeled and he found himself peeling it all over again. Then he woke up in the back of an ambulance.
But the ten aforementioned questions, save for number six, were never really answered. And as far as I know, not one zombie could answer them to the living’s satisfaction.
If I could answer one of them, I guess number eight would be the one. But instead of alone in the universe, are we alone in general? Since I couldn’t see God or Satan, and I awoke to a new life with an odd dream or vision or whatever it was, then maybe we are alone. Maybe we only have each other, as humans, or zombies.
Again, there were more questions than answers.
But after I returned, I came up with a theory of my own about why the living asked so many questions, to others or of themselves. Not about simple questions with simple answers that we knew, like two plus two equals four, etc. The big questions.
I believed—and still do—that there were never any answers. Only questions.
Questions kept the living intact as human beings. Kept them wanting. If they didn’t question anything, then everything meant nothing to them and they felt complacent in life, and its meaning taken for granted. Being able to question things they couldn’t understand gave them a drive, to learn, to understand, and to realize their importance and value in their life.
I did find myself a bit happier and not so depressed once I got used to my new life. You’d think all zombies would be depressed. I mean, we’re dead, right? But that’s not true. Many were thrilled. They got to see old relatives that had died a few years prior again—not counting the bodies that were already bones and dust before the Great Resurrection of ’97 occurred—and friends and old classmates too.
Other questions persisted as well. They were questions that were there from the beginning.
The Hows and Whys of returning to life.
Scientists believed in various theories, and because of these theories, the truth was revealed about Zombie Testing, which became a hot-button issue. The government couldn’t be trusted and the Undead Act couldn’t be used to protect us. We were being necronapped—and for most of us—e
verything but our brains and hearts were sold on the black market.
They wanted to know how the dead came back to life, especially the why. But no one could answer it. The How, however, would continue these crimes until they were satisfied with their answer—hence my current situation.
You know what sucks more than dying? Dying twice. You know what sucks more than dying twice? Not coming back from the second time.
Last night, I was necronapped while shambling around in my front yard. Just because our muscles and tendons are pliable doesn’t mean we can run or fight back with any kind of real strength. Sure, we could bite, but from what I’d heard, our teeth would just fall out. Decayed teeth didn’t stay in for very long. If a zombie had just risen, a bite would work to his or her advantage. But over all, it doesn’t take long for his or her teeth to start rotting and eventually fall out once they were used to bite down. It wasn’t about the teeth it was about the flesh, nerves, and gum line that helped hold them in place. Rotting teeth and rotting flesh led to no teeth, for the most part.
I was bear hugged from behind and thrown into a van. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Not much to it, I’d say. Kind of like fishing with dynamite. No real hard work involved.
Currently, I’m strapped down to a stainless steel table in a bright room. When I was brought in, I could see machinery, computers and tools.
I know what you’re thinking.
“George, how are you telling us this right now, then?”
The one thing that scientists do is record everything. They want to know everything. And they want records for future reference. So once I finish my little story here, they’ll cut me open and take another swing at the elusive question.
The only downfall to recording everything for these breathing pricks is that once they get caught, and they will get caught, is that there will be plenty of proof of their crimes.
They are smirking and snickering at me as though I’ve said something completely outlandish. Let them laugh.
Oh, that reminds me. I mentioned decaying. Did you know that besides the shot to the head or the ever-growing popularity of decapitation that decaying is the only natural way for a zombie to die? Decaying takes time.
For the living, and us zombies, the only natural predator in both of our lives is Time. Take away all the organ failures and diseases and natural disasters and animal attacks and we’re all left with time. In time we all die.
Right now, I’m thinking of Tawny, and I don’t feel so alone.
One of them has pressed what looks like a nail gun to my forehead. I can’t close my eyes and the last things I’ll see before I die are his dark eyes. His large grin says it all.
I wonder if he’s ever played Resident Evil.
* * *
Sheldon Higdon is a dark suspense and supernatural author with thirty publications in various magazines and books. Everything from short stories to non-fiction articles to poetry. He is also an award-winning screenwriter.
He is currently working toward his MFA in creative writing in Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction program.
http://sheldonhigdon.blogspot.com www.facebook.com/sheldonhigdon http://Twitter.com/sheldonhigdon www.sheldonhigdon.com.
CINDY'S CONDITION
Skip Novak
Cindy wasn’t too concerned when her nose fell off her face. She wasn’t shocked by the lack of blood or the fact that she didn’t feel any pain. She just simply stared at the white, rubbery, useless piece of flesh lying in her right hand. Shrugged her shoulders, popped it in her mouth and swallowed it as if it was a freshly shucked oyster. But, without the wonderful, salty, tasty goodness of fresh seafood and the satisfaction she used to feel when she ate them. In truth, her nose was lukewarm, moist, and quite bland; it also had the consistency of an old pencil eraser. In all actuality, she was more distracted by the lifeless, rotting corpse in her bed.
Cindy couldn’t bring herself to think of the corpse in her bed as a real, tangible person. He had simply been a means to an end a sort of temporary satiation of the hunger that had taken root in her body three years ago. A hunger that had changed her from a 1990’s Pop-Princess into a new millennium DIVA and an eater of fresh flesh. All because of one song that led to one video and caused her to be the way she was today. Ugh…she just couldn’t bring herself to think of the “accident” right now.
Cindy stretched out her left arm to the nightstand and pushed the red call button “Connie, I need the kit and more antibiotics.” Her voice was shallow and dry, sounding like sandpaper being scrapped on a window.
“Right away Ma’am.” Echoed the voice from the speaker which was recessed in the mahogany table “Is there anything else I can bring you?”
“Yes, some herbal tea with lots of honey. Oh, and call the gardener, I’ll have some fresh fertilizer for him this afternoon.”
Cindy swatted at a couple flies that seemed to have snuck their way into her bedroom. The damn things were driving her nuts with their incessant buzzing and they seemed especially interested in her now exposed nasal cavities. She wanted to sleep a little more but no matter which way she lay down the flies seemed to find a way to crawl in the mucus-filled cavity in the middle of her face. “Damn it!” she exclaimed as she threw her covers off her body and got out of bed, walked to the bathroom and stuffed a wad of toilet paper in the hole where her nose had once been.
Walking back into the bedroom Cindy caught a glimpse of her naked body in the mirror, which brought her to an abrupt halt. She stood four feet from her reflection and marveled at the sight of her body. The skin on her face was as tight as a military bed sheet. She smiled at herself and her reflection smiled back with a mouth full of gleaming white teeth, except for the edges of her teeth, which were stained red, and there appeared to be bits of flesh stuck in-between her teeth. Damn, she thought, I need to floss and bleach.
As her gaze explored the rest of her body, she was pleased with her reflection. Her thirty thousand dollar breasts were perfect and both of her nipples were identical; money well spent. Her stomach was perfectly divided by the defining masses of muscle tissue below the taught skin, thanks to her personal trainer. She slowly turned to her right to admire her ass. She had implants there as well; perfect implants that divided her rump into twin supple, smooth mounds of flesh that made her the envy of Hollywood. She didn’t realize it, but she was slowly rubbing her right ass cheek with her right hand, something that she could only observe herself doing; she couldn’t feel anything, cold, hot or even the slightest touch. Something she missed. Touch. Her eyes slowly followed the generous curve of her skin-covered implants to her legs. Her perfect legs that hid just below the surface more expensive implants; more money well spent.
She turned slowly to face her image. Her unashamed nudity, some would call an offense to man and God. But, she felt her own perfection was an Honor to Mans science, and as far as God was concerned, she just didn’t believe he would care, if he existed that is. With as much money she had spent on plastic surgery it was only a drop in the bucket of the almost endless outpouring of cash she’d spent on maintaining her internal workings.
The evidence was hanging from each of her arms where three peripherally inserted central catheters (PICC’s) dangled. There were also two attached to each one of her legs near her inner thighs. Her chest was a maze of medical tubing, needleless ports, saline locks and buretrol medication administration devices. The blue of her veins could be seen through the thin layer of pasty, white skin that covered her body. Near the bottom of Cindy’s right leg was an ugly, cauterized wound. It was a small hole in her otherwise perfect flesh, about the size of a toddler’s fist. The red and green rings that surrounded the wound had been festering for quite some time but Connie’s administrations of antibiotics and transfusions had kept her going for several years.
Cindy Sinsation was almost dead and almost alive. And she liked it that way.
Connie didn’t acknowledge the last order; he’d known the gardener was needed even before
being asked. He always knew. He’d been around Cindy long enough to know when her urges became too much for her to bear. So, Connie did as he was ordered and called the gardener.
When he hung up the phone he walked over to his medical cart, checked his supplies in each of the drawers. He wasted no time refilling his gauze, swabs, a few syringes, Restore Clean & Moist Cleanser, Aloe Vera Perineal/Skin Cleanser, and Soothe & Cool Herbal Shampoo/Body Wash. He made sure there were plenty of Bioengineered Cellulose Dressings, IV administration sets, catheters, and IV solutions. He made sure there was plenty of the Painless Healing Kits and Tranquility Healing scar reduction compresses.
He counted his vials of Botox, Restylane and Collagen. Lastly, he opened the bottom drawer where he kept all of Cindy’s back up noses, plastic surgery putty and pastes. Rooting around inside the “nose” drawer his hand happened across the original plaster mold of Cindy’s nose. He picked it up, and held it in both his hands and gazed down at the half-pound chunk of plaster that seemed to be yellowing with age. Then all the memories started to flood into his mind.
He’d first met Cindy Sinsation when she was known as Cindy Adler; she had drug her parents into his Beverly Hills plastic surgery clinic on her 17th birthday. Connie’s first impression of Cindy was that she was quite ordinary. Her shoulder length brown hair was flat and had no body. She was slightly overweight and quite bossy for a teenager. Her parents were your typical Southern California Professionals who worked eighty plus hours a week each; they had no time for their kid or the kid’s problems. So they spent a thousand dollars a week for nannies until the kid was old enough to stay at home by themselves to be raised on the greatest American Nanny of them all the Television, and all its fluorescent, neon, Pop-Culture spewing crap that came at a person at the speed of light.
Death, Be Not Proud Page 12
