I'm Kind of A Zombie

by Andrew Legend

CHAPTER THREE

  I had been unconscious, convulsing and spasming on the floor noisily, probably for a couple of minutes. Then I probably was lying unconscious for a minute or so. That’s how it goes. But I wasn’t aware of this – I was filling this in from past experience.

  I was in blackness.

  Then I felt a horrible pinching, ripping pain on my leg.

  I yelled out, and my eyes opened. I was on my back, and I saw only brightness. My eyes focused. I was directly under the fluorescent lights of the shoe store.

  I looked down toward my leg.

  I saw the sticky mass of the zombie’s deadened scalp of hair, a little below my waste. He was hunched over my body, and had taken a bite out of my leg.

  I went into shock.

  Apparently I was yelling – really, really loud. The zombie looked up at me with his nasty whitened eyes. His deathly pale pupils dilated. He opened his bloodied mouth and was roaring back into my face. I attempted to scramble away.

  And I lucked out. As I raised my right leg, I landed a solid, heavy blow to the zombie’s temple.

  After the soft crunching sound I heard my knee make to the zombie’s head, it immediately slumped unconscious upon my legs.

  The blow was just hard enough to shut down his remaining brain, temporarily.

  I furiously and uncontrollably crawled, scrambled, and kicked backwards. I pushed myself from underneath the fallen zombie.

  I could feel my wound, which felt like it was afire. Hot blood was soaking my pants and smearing on the floor underneath me.

  I clutched the wound with a white knuckled grip.

  And then I stopped myself from yelling and screaming.

  I was breathing so hard I was practically hyperventilating.

  My wound – I was bit by a zombie. I was bit by a zombie!

  I was going to turn into one of them. My life was already all over.

  I lost control.

  I stood up – somehow. I had to find my shoes. That was all that was on my mind. I had gone mad. I had to find my shoes!

  I limped badly with a wounded leg, toward the section with the decent running shoes. But not the white running shoes that get nasty so quickly. And I don’t care what brand. Darker colored ones. I liked grey or black ones. Maybe with a slight sporty pattern or something but mostly dark.

  I tripped absentmindedly over the zombie. I continued toward my shoes.

  I knocked so many shoeboxes off of the wall, madly groping for my shoes.

  Then I found them. Size 10. Gun Metal/Black/White. Nice color.

  I dropped the shoebox on the floor. It flopped open and the shoes fell out of it. I then dropped myself to the floor, and ripped off my broken shoes from my feet. The blood on my hands smeared on those shoes. I threw them wildly in some direction.

  I feverishly tugged on the new shoes. “Get on my feet!!” I screamed at them. My feet could only be jammed in half way.

  I forgot the stupid packing paper stuff that is shoved in the shoes.

  I stabbed my hand in each shoe, clawing out that damned paper.

  Then the shoelaces were strung in a funny, never-explained way that new shoes sometimes are.

  I ignored this. I had to put my shoes on!

  On went my shoes.

  I staggered unstably to a stance with my battle-won prize on my feet. Blood discolored the entire left leg of my pants.

  Then my left leg went numb. My right leg went numb.

  My head fogged up. My vision blurred.

  My limbs went limp. I fell again, smashing my face once more to the shoe store floor.

  Another epileptic fit.