Everyone knows the mindless bloodlust of the zombie. But what happens when you wake to find that your mental faculties are still there...?
Missed out on previous parts? Well go back and dive in! I'll be waiting for you...
Welcome to Part 6.... sadistic munchkin...
He reached an arm out to the oven’s door, looking past the streaks of blood that ran from the tatters of his shirt sleeve to his wrist, like paint gathered and dripped around the edge of the tin, and yanked it open with a strength that he did not intend. The door freed off its hinges and crashed to the floor, glass, once again, shattering as collateral.
As the crash came, so did another scream that quickly cut itself off. But Marshall was more concerned about the emptiness inside the oven. No food? Nothing at all? What the fuck is that smell, then?
A blinking light caught his attention. He stood to his full height and found himself face-to-face with the brushed aluminium of the microwave, a small LED clock blinking the digits, 00:48. Jesus Christ…
The time, while entirely disconcerting, was not the focus of Marshall’s attention. In the reflection of the polished silver screen he could see the warped image of a stranger, a someone (or something) that looked like an image of himself had been dragged through a throng of nettles. The eyes that stared back at him, usually a gleaming ebony, were now an off-milky colour. The rims around his pupils (usually a crystal blue) were lost in the dilated blackness. Across his cheek, from the side of his lip to the lobe of his ear, was a deep wound, with streaks of dried blood painted around it. Inside the gash the muscle was revealed, pussing with a thick, greasy liquid that pocketed towards its southern edge. When he looked closely he thought he could see his own tongue wagging through tiny holes where the gash went straight through his cheek. It almost seemed impossible for this to have gone unnoticed, and that, even now, there was no pain. He noticed then that a couple of teeth were missing.
Marshall took a dramatic step back. No… No… he thought, laughing internally like a manic. Time to wake up now, Marshall. Time to throw the water over your face and jump back to reality. Ha! Ha! Enough dreaming now, you can do it, old boy. Just a quick slap of the face and you’ll be back with your blank page again, back in your study with your bitch of a wife that’s currently in a state of ignoring you, and a young daughter who has no idea what the fuck is happening other than the fact she lost the only sister she might ever have had… Ha! Ha!
He forced his body to turn, thinking that if he could get back to his study, the start of the nightmare, then maybe he could somehow reverse it and wake up where he had been. Back where…
Back where the body was.
The question struck him: Who’s body? It was a thought that, only now, seemed logical to consider. At the time all concentration was focused on that smell, the insatiable hunger inside the stomach that he couldn’t shake. He had stepped over it so casually, as though Marshall was nothing more than a passenger on the cruise vessel that was his body. It was too easy. But now…
Step one, he thought, though even the voice in his head now sounded scared, mumbling, identify the body, and hope to fuck that it ain’t Julia or Bella. That would be something more than he knew he could handle. Step two can come later, once I figure out either the way to wake up, or what the shit is happening.
The thought was great in its premise, but it was logical thought that seemed as tattered and fragmented as the caked sleeves of his plaid shirt. When he tried to guide his feet back in the direction of the stairs, they refused, choosing instead to turn towards the open door that lead through to the Eton’s living room.
He walked, or rather, his body chose to. Marshall’s mind whirled. Thoughts of something that he refused to accept kept jumping at him and he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to bat them away.
Zombie.
Or at least, that’s all that he could guess from where he was now. When each thoughtless step slapped his foot against the stone (Jesus, there’s glass in my foot!) it became more and more prevalent. Though this was nothing like what he’d ever imagined, what he’d ever seen when watching horror movies in his late teens, cosied up with his pals around a twelve-inch television. Nothing at all. In all of those instances they had shown zombies (or walkers, or whatever the fuck you want to call them) as mindless things, fuelled by an instinct for destruction, and food. Life was simple as a zombie. Walk, walk, eat, walk again.
But this was entirely different. Marshall’s mind (which he prided on being particularly sharp for a man of his age), was still in service – the sign hadn’t yet swung from OPEN to CLOSED. Yet his body had packed its bags and left him, obeying no command that the captain threw.
When he reached the door to the living room, the scream came. It rose to its crescendo quickly enough, then cut off and echoed as if the needle had been lifted, but the record carried on spinning.