According to my calculations, which mean nothing at this point, it shouldn't be much longer. My preliminary findings point toward a rapid deterioration in bodily functions followed by death, and then reanimation.
I was sitting in my dorm room studying for exams- I had barely left in days. Hunched over my desk alongside the artificial glow of the lamp in my room, I punched numbers into my calculator. My room was becoming dark quickly, and my open window brought in a much needed breeze from the stagnant dorm room air. I had been up since 7am, cramming- and now it was almost 2am. Time passed by like a roll of toilet paper- infinite in abundance at the beginning, and then disappearing at an exponential rate until the last square of 1-ply had vanished. I was never expecting it, I never thought it would happen- at least not in my lifetime, not to me. It came through the window. I was on my feet as fast as I could drag my scrawny, greasy self up, but it was too fast for me, even in its deteriorating state.
I can't say that I fought valiantly, or bravely. I didn't have an AK-47 or any other Call Of Duty weapons stashed under my bed. I wasn't able to grow a pair and rip the head right off its shoulders. I fell back, and then I died. All of a sudden I'm lying on the floor, blood spilling out of my side, looking into the face of a female zombie. I could see the flash falling off her face, the cavity where her nose used to be. I could have sworn it was the closest I had ever been to a girl before, and that wasn't really what I had imagined to be my first encounter with the alternate sex.
I don't have anything to kill myself with and I'm not sure that I could if I tried. But I can feel it coming on, the change. I can see my wounds beginning to ooze, forming infected, green scabs. Every time I move, the flesh around the bite on my shoulder jiggles, threatening to fell off. It feels like pins and needles, only the pins have been lying in the fire, and the needles have been kept at absolute zero. The blood in my veins is boiling, evaporating through my orifices. I lay here in agony, all too aware of this ungodly 'life' I will soon lead. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to think when I’m no longer living- I’m not sure if I’ll be able to speak or taste or smell. I’ve never believed in a god, but now I’m sure that if he exists, he enjoys screwing with us.
Chances are nobody will find me; that nobody will look for me. But I'm writing to anybody who might read this. To anybody passing by who thinks they might hear the cries of a living being, or the scratching of a puppy's nails on the door. Keep walking. Do not come in. I repeat, do not come in. It's too late for me. Odds are that it's been awhile now, and that I'm long past the point of salvation- perhaps you are too. Save yourselves, and get away while you can.
I know I wasn't able to.
~
Some called it the Decomp, the Plague or the Roaches*. Most commonly known as the Zombie Flu, as it was called in its most primal stage, it was the latest and greatest health scare of the year 2020. It was, in the public eye, 2020's Swine Flu, Avian Flu, and every other over-advertised medical emergency. The Crips**, as some called it, originated somewhere in the bowels of Africa. The exact location of patient zero is unknown, although he is now perceived to be dead, or perhaps, undead. Though no public statement was issued, the grapevine ensures that patient zero was born with a genetic mutation which, triggered by the malaria he later contracted, resulted in his transformation into a Zombie. The rapid spread of the Zombie Flu was a result of his feedings, and later, worsened by travel. As of today, the Zombie Flu has been eradicated from 95% of the world, with the number of Zombies dwindling with each passing year. Any person infected with Zombie Flu would become physically sick, and pass out. Later, they would be pronounced medically dead. They would reanimate between 2 and 8 hours later, sometimes less. The Zombie Flu was unsettling, as a reanimated person could appear to be alive for up to a day before noticeable decomposition took place. Zombie Flu did not impair the judgment of those infected, and they became harder to kill. The victims of the Zombie Flu died only from a blow to the head which resulted in the visible leakage of brain matter. The public grew frantic as the news of the Zombie Flu leaked through word of mouth and the media. Just three months after the discovery of patient zero, four out of ten people were infected with the Zombie Virus, documented as ZV-20. Governments issued frenzied pleas with medical companies for a cure, and distributed the untested prototypes out of desperate last-ditch efforts. The cure, publicly labeled as Zamiflu, led to a breed of second-generation zombies, more dangerous, harder to spot, and more difficult to kill.
*This name originated from the impossible act of killing any or all of the Zombies, they were like roaches- always coming back.
**The name arose from the distinguished limp that many victims of the Zombie Flu suffered from, due to the deterioration of flesh and onset of brittle bones.
~
I know I must be one of the last ones left. I've been running for almost three months. Everyone I know is dead, or one of them. I've found that the key to survival is located in trusting your instincts- especially when it comes to combat. In other words, trust no one, depend upon no one, and leave the weak behind; they can only bring you down. The hardest part about following that core rule would be shaking the appearance that I am a selfish, guiltless asshole. But I guess that it doesn't matter anymore, not when the only 'people' I meet are undead or crazy.
The Z-men don't faze me anymore. I learned quite quickly how to handle myself around them. Shovel to the face, machete to the neck, fork through the eye, as long as I destroy the brain of the fucker, I'm set. The things to watch out for are the crazies. The people who believe that they still have a chance to live, but have given up on fighting. They have diluted themselves into thinking they are zombies, and they roam the streets with hoards of them, feeding on their own kind. They are still conscious, to a degree, and you can even shake some of them out of it. You can pick them out pretty easy- the hesitance before digging into the flesh of another human, the brief look of disgust before they mask it and dive in. Sometimes, if you're lucky, they won't notice you and you can continue on your merry way, but most of the time, I'm not so lucky, and you won’t be either.
The imposters are the hardest to kill, because their primary goal is to stay alive, and not to eat you. Because of this, they will stop at nothing to ensure that you will not harm them. The crazies are smarter than the Z-men too, more cunning and often faster on their feet. It’s depressing, seeing somebody’s aunt or father or sister sprint at me with a rusty chain saw, emaciated, hair matted with dried blood. And it is a bit sad, killing an imposter. I've been thinking that maybe they've developed a sort of Stockholm Syndrome. They’re diluting themselves into thinking that it’s all an act, and then they actually start believing that they are a zombie. They’ve kidnapped themselves into the Zombie world and culture. Right before I kill one of them I look into their eyes, looking for a sense that they still might have some humanity left in them. Most of the time it’s a lost cause- they’re long gone, and I shoot them right between the eyes. I hope that it kills them right away- that it puts them out of their misery. Sometimes I wish this were all some game where I could pause it and chill out for a sec- take a breather. But its worthless to even think about hope in times like this. It’s not going to get better. Even so, I wish those crazies would just do me a solid and agree on some sort of safeword- like “pumpkin pie”, which would signal that I'm not gonna kill them and that they don't have to kill me. I've already got to deal with the Z-men.
Sometimes while walking the empty streets of a town I will hear the moan of a Z-man. It's scary as hell. Low and desperate, it cuts through the silence and feels like it reverberates for miles around. The scary part is simply thinking about the number of Z-men that heard that moan, and how many moaned in response, causing a reaction of zombie moans that seems to follow me wherever I go.
I used to be good at math- doubt that I still am. Just a few short months ago I would have been compelled to spend days solving a math conjecture I had found on the Internet. I probably would have loved to solve a problem like that. I would measure the density of zombies across the nation, and create a series of equations that demonstrated the exponential number of Z-men that would hear the moan. From that, I would probably survey the amount of Zombies that would be unable to respond to said moan, due to a vocal impairment or deterioration. Factor that in and voila! It would have been quite a fabulous little project that I would have loved to embark on.
But out here, it’s paranoia keeps you alive- not math games. In the old world, I was a paranoid freak. I was a software analyst, I was living alone, looking at a dead-end job in a dead-end life. Today, my ability to live off of 3 hours of sleep a day saves me. I am always on the look out and I am always ready.
At some point in my former life I got sucked into the world of the Internet and I was instantly hooked. I crafted a reputation on the internet- I became powerful and well known, both in the programming and gaming world. Who would have thought that there were so many practical programs that nobody had thought of that were just waiting to be put into code? I spent a few years spreading around my code, eventually ending up at Codeco, where they allowed me to work on my 2D to 3D program in the hopes that it would be a big hit among designers and the like. I was sitting inside Codeco on the night of October 12th, 2032
My first “kill”, if you can call it that, was on October 12th, 2032.
I was in my cubicle proofing this new software concept before sending it to the boss man. Its primary goal was to take multiple 2-D drawings, render them as 3-D, and then to project those renderings as holographs. Earlier that morning, I had taken my regular martial arts class, a fusion style not unlike Bruce Lee’s that emphasized the variety and efficiency of martial arts. In other words, it was extremely adaptable to any situation. I was working after hours at my desktop when I heard this sucking sticking sound- it turned out to be the sound of flesh and pus on the linoleum. All of a sudden this rancid ungodly smell hits me- like sulfur and burn victims. It was the rotting flesh of the thing. I slowly turn around and grab my industrial stapler- it was the only thing I had, and I waited for the fucker to round the corner. As soon as I see its ugly face in my cubicle I shoot a hailstorm of staples into its face, followed by a right hook to the face. I stood up grabbed its head in my hands, ripped it clean off its head, and then dropped it to the floor and crushed it with my foot. My initial thought was “Well done, a bit messy, but what the hell?” I casually walked out the building, and, for the first time ever, actually enjoyed the elevator music. I didn’t even clean my shoe.
That’s the story I would tell my friends, my family and everyone else, but since they’re all dead you’ll have to suffice. Of course, that isn’t what actually happened. In reality, it was a bit different, but I personally feel like the core principals and actions behind both portrayals of the event remain the same.
I was in my cubicle proofing this new software concept before sending it to the boss man. Its primary goal was to take multiple 2-D drawings, render them as 3-D, and then to project those renderings as holographs. This wasn’t a new concept, but we were desperate for business- tough economic times. All of a sudden, on the grey wall of my cubical I see a shadow. Normally I can deal with a shadow, as my workplace is pretty busy. Problem is, I was there afterhours and I knew that all my co-workers had left. I say co-workers because calling them colleagues sounds a bit too intimate, and I was in no way attached to my co-workers. I slowly turned around and I become aware of this rancid, sulfurous smell. It was the smell of rotting flesh. I heard the soft pad of clumsy footsteps, and a sticking sound that I wasn;t able to place. It was the sound of pus and flesh sticking to the carpet. I could hear the brittle bones cracking, joints rubbing against each other-the cartilage worn away. It was close enough for me to hear it breathe, a slow wheezing sound that sounded clogged with mucus- although I’m no doctor. I opened my desk drawer and grabbed my stapler, it was the only thing I could think of. I slowly turned my office chair around just in time to see the hand of the thing grab at the side of my cubicle. I don’t really remember much after that; mostly I flailed my arm around, hoping it would stop moving long enough for me to get away. I would guess that my arm came in contact with its soft skull and smashed its head in. I ran as quickly as I could, hitting every emergency button in sight. I groped for the door handle, threw it open and ran down the stairs, half sprinting, half falling. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t straighten my glasses, they just fell away as I ran up the street practically blind.
I guess I should tell you a bit about myself. My name isn’t important or relevant. The Zombie Flu was the best thing that ever happened to me. I used to be nobody- not that it’s any different now, but now I’m the last nobody around. I entertained myself with my gaming systems and RPG games online. The life I lead didn’t consist of much. After the Flu hit my town and everyone I knew killed or turned, I realized that they were the ones holding me back. I didn’t need them. I hauled ass to get out of there and now I’m heading north in hopes of finding more survivors- possibly a solution. I’ve heard rumors through passersby that Zombies freeze in the winter.
I was sitting in my dorm room studying for exams- I had barely left in days. Hunched over my desk alongside the artificial glow of the lamp in my room, I punched numbers into my calculator. My room was becoming dark quickly, and my open window brought in a much needed breeze from the stagnant dorm room air. I had been up since 7am, cramming- and now it was almost 2am. Time passed by like a roll of toilet paper- infinite in abundance at the beginning, and then disappearing at an exponential rate until the last square of 1-ply had vanished. I was never expecting it, I never thought it would happen- at least not in my lifetime, not to me. It came through the window. I was on my feet as fast as I could drag my scrawny, greasy self up, but it was too fast for me, even in its deteriorating state.
I can't say that I fought valiantly, or bravely. I didn't have an AK-47 or any other Call Of Duty weapons stashed under my bed. I wasn't able to grow a pair and rip the head right off its shoulders. I fell back, and then I died. All of a sudden I'm lying on the floor, blood spilling out of my side, looking into the face of a female zombie. I could see the flash falling off her face, the cavity where her nose used to be. I could have sworn it was the closest I had ever been to a girl before, and that wasn't really what I had imagined to be my first encounter with the alternate sex.
I don't have anything to kill myself with and I'm not sure that I could if I tried. But I can feel it coming on, the change. I can see my wounds beginning to ooze, forming infected, green scabs. Every time I move, the flesh around the bite on my shoulder jiggles, threatening to fell off. It feels like pins and needles, only the pins have been lying in the fire, and the needles have been kept at absolute zero. The blood in my veins is boiling, evaporating through my orifices. I lay here in agony, all too aware of this ungodly 'life' I will soon lead. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to think when I’m no longer living- I’m not sure if I’ll be able to speak or taste or smell. I’ve never believed in a god, but now I’m sure that if he exists, he enjoys screwing with us.
Chances are nobody will find me; that nobody will look for me. But I'm writing to anybody who might read this. To anybody passing by who thinks they might hear the cries of a living being, or the scratching of a puppy's nails on the door. Keep walking. Do not come in. I repeat, do not come in. It's too late for me. Odds are that it's been awhile now, and that I'm long past the point of salvation- perhaps you are too. Save yourselves, and get away while you can.
I know I wasn't able to.
~
Some called it the Decomp, the Plague or the Roaches*. Most commonly known as the Zombie Flu, as it was called in its most primal stage, it was the latest and greatest health scare of the year 2020. It was, in the public eye, 2020's Swine Flu, Avian Flu, and every other over-advertised medical emergency. The Crips**, as some called it, originated somewhere in the bowels of Africa. The exact location of patient zero is unknown, although he is now perceived to be dead, or perhaps, undead. Though no public statement was issued, the grapevine ensures that patient zero was born with a genetic mutation which, triggered by the malaria he later contracted, resulted in his transformation into a Zombie. The rapid spread of the Zombie Flu was a result of his feedings, and later, worsened by travel. As of today, the Zombie Flu has been eradicated from 95% of the world, with the number of Zombies dwindling with each passing year. Any person infected with Zombie Flu would become physically sick, and pass out. Later, they would be pronounced medically dead. They would reanimate between 2 and 8 hours later, sometimes less. The Zombie Flu was unsettling, as a reanimated person could appear to be alive for up to a day before noticeable decomposition took place. Zombie Flu did not impair the judgment of those infected, and they became harder to kill. The victims of the Zombie Flu died only from a blow to the head which resulted in the visible leakage of brain matter. The public grew frantic as the news of the Zombie Flu leaked through word of mouth and the media. Just three months after the discovery of patient zero, four out of ten people were infected with the Zombie Virus, documented as ZV-20. Governments issued frenzied pleas with medical companies for a cure, and distributed the untested prototypes out of desperate last-ditch efforts. The cure, publicly labeled as Zamiflu, led to a breed of second-generation zombies, more dangerous, harder to spot, and more difficult to kill.
*This name originated from the impossible act of killing any or all of the Zombies, they were like roaches- always coming back.
**The name arose from the distinguished limp that many victims of the Zombie Flu suffered from, due to the deterioration of flesh and onset of brittle bones.
~
I know I must be one of the last ones left. I've been running for almost three months. Everyone I know is dead, or one of them. I've found that the key to survival is located in trusting your instincts- especially when it comes to combat. In other words, trust no one, depend upon no one, and leave the weak behind; they can only bring you down. The hardest part about following that core rule would be shaking the appearance that I am a selfish, guiltless asshole. But I guess that it doesn't matter anymore, not when the only 'people' I meet are undead or crazy.
The Z-men don't faze me anymore. I learned quite quickly how to handle myself around them. Shovel to the face, machete to the neck, fork through the eye, as long as I destroy the brain of the fucker, I'm set. The things to watch out for are the crazies. The people who believe that they still have a chance to live, but have given up on fighting. They have diluted themselves into thinking they are zombies, and they roam the streets with hoards of them, feeding on their own kind. They are still conscious, to a degree, and you can even shake some of them out of it. You can pick them out pretty easy- the hesitance before digging into the flesh of another human, the brief look of disgust before they mask it and dive in. Sometimes, if you're lucky, they won't notice you and you can continue on your merry way, but most of the time, I'm not so lucky, and you won’t be either.
The imposters are the hardest to kill, because their primary goal is to stay alive, and not to eat you. Because of this, they will stop at nothing to ensure that you will not harm them. The crazies are smarter than the Z-men too, more cunning and often faster on their feet. It’s depressing, seeing somebody’s aunt or father or sister sprint at me with a rusty chain saw, emaciated, hair matted with dried blood. And it is a bit sad, killing an imposter. I've been thinking that maybe they've developed a sort of Stockholm Syndrome. They’re diluting themselves into thinking that it’s all an act, and then they actually start believing that they are a zombie. They’ve kidnapped themselves into the Zombie world and culture. Right before I kill one of them I look into their eyes, looking for a sense that they still might have some humanity left in them. Most of the time it’s a lost cause- they’re long gone, and I shoot them right between the eyes. I hope that it kills them right away- that it puts them out of their misery. Sometimes I wish this were all some game where I could pause it and chill out for a sec- take a breather. But its worthless to even think about hope in times like this. It’s not going to get better. Even so, I wish those crazies would just do me a solid and agree on some sort of safeword- like “pumpkin pie”, which would signal that I'm not gonna kill them and that they don't have to kill me. I've already got to deal with the Z-men.
Sometimes while walking the empty streets of a town I will hear the moan of a Z-man. It's scary as hell. Low and desperate, it cuts through the silence and feels like it reverberates for miles around. The scary part is simply thinking about the number of Z-men that heard that moan, and how many moaned in response, causing a reaction of zombie moans that seems to follow me wherever I go.
I used to be good at math- doubt that I still am. Just a few short months ago I would have been compelled to spend days solving a math conjecture I had found on the Internet. I probably would have loved to solve a problem like that. I would measure the density of zombies across the nation, and create a series of equations that demonstrated the exponential number of Z-men that would hear the moan. From that, I would probably survey the amount of Zombies that would be unable to respond to said moan, due to a vocal impairment or deterioration. Factor that in and voila! It would have been quite a fabulous little project that I would have loved to embark on.
But out here, it’s paranoia keeps you alive- not math games. In the old world, I was a paranoid freak. I was a software analyst, I was living alone, looking at a dead-end job in a dead-end life. Today, my ability to live off of 3 hours of sleep a day saves me. I am always on the look out and I am always ready.
At some point in my former life I got sucked into the world of the Internet and I was instantly hooked. I crafted a reputation on the internet- I became powerful and well known, both in the programming and gaming world. Who would have thought that there were so many practical programs that nobody had thought of that were just waiting to be put into code? I spent a few years spreading around my code, eventually ending up at Codeco, where they allowed me to work on my 2D to 3D program in the hopes that it would be a big hit among designers and the like. I was sitting inside Codeco on the night of October 12th, 2032
My first “kill”, if you can call it that, was on October 12th, 2032.
I was in my cubicle proofing this new software concept before sending it to the boss man. Its primary goal was to take multiple 2-D drawings, render them as 3-D, and then to project those renderings as holographs. Earlier that morning, I had taken my regular martial arts class, a fusion style not unlike Bruce Lee’s that emphasized the variety and efficiency of martial arts. In other words, it was extremely adaptable to any situation. I was working after hours at my desktop when I heard this sucking sticking sound- it turned out to be the sound of flesh and pus on the linoleum. All of a sudden this rancid ungodly smell hits me- like sulfur and burn victims. It was the rotting flesh of the thing. I slowly turn around and grab my industrial stapler- it was the only thing I had, and I waited for the fucker to round the corner. As soon as I see its ugly face in my cubicle I shoot a hailstorm of staples into its face, followed by a right hook to the face. I stood up grabbed its head in my hands, ripped it clean off its head, and then dropped it to the floor and crushed it with my foot. My initial thought was “Well done, a bit messy, but what the hell?” I casually walked out the building, and, for the first time ever, actually enjoyed the elevator music. I didn’t even clean my shoe.
That’s the story I would tell my friends, my family and everyone else, but since they’re all dead you’ll have to suffice. Of course, that isn’t what actually happened. In reality, it was a bit different, but I personally feel like the core principals and actions behind both portrayals of the event remain the same.
I was in my cubicle proofing this new software concept before sending it to the boss man. Its primary goal was to take multiple 2-D drawings, render them as 3-D, and then to project those renderings as holographs. This wasn’t a new concept, but we were desperate for business- tough economic times. All of a sudden, on the grey wall of my cubical I see a shadow. Normally I can deal with a shadow, as my workplace is pretty busy. Problem is, I was there afterhours and I knew that all my co-workers had left. I say co-workers because calling them colleagues sounds a bit too intimate, and I was in no way attached to my co-workers. I slowly turned around and I become aware of this rancid, sulfurous smell. It was the smell of rotting flesh. I heard the soft pad of clumsy footsteps, and a sticking sound that I wasn;t able to place. It was the sound of pus and flesh sticking to the carpet. I could hear the brittle bones cracking, joints rubbing against each other-the cartilage worn away. It was close enough for me to hear it breathe, a slow wheezing sound that sounded clogged with mucus- although I’m no doctor. I opened my desk drawer and grabbed my stapler, it was the only thing I could think of. I slowly turned my office chair around just in time to see the hand of the thing grab at the side of my cubicle. I don’t really remember much after that; mostly I flailed my arm around, hoping it would stop moving long enough for me to get away. I would guess that my arm came in contact with its soft skull and smashed its head in. I ran as quickly as I could, hitting every emergency button in sight. I groped for the door handle, threw it open and ran down the stairs, half sprinting, half falling. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t straighten my glasses, they just fell away as I ran up the street practically blind.
I guess I should tell you a bit about myself. My name isn’t important or relevant. The Zombie Flu was the best thing that ever happened to me. I used to be nobody- not that it’s any different now, but now I’m the last nobody around. I entertained myself with my gaming systems and RPG games online. The life I lead didn’t consist of much. After the Flu hit my town and everyone I knew killed or turned, I realized that they were the ones holding me back. I didn’t need them. I hauled ass to get out of there and now I’m heading north in hopes of finding more survivors- possibly a solution. I’ve heard rumors through passersby that Zombies freeze in the winter.
