Zomtropolis

by A. P. Fuchs

  Seems selfish, I know, but unless you’ve walked this road, you can’t say anything. More specifically, unless you’ve walked this road several times like I have, you have no right to say anything.

  The zombies kept beating their decaying fists against the heavy door.

  * * *

  Around an hour later I was alone in that room. No longer able to look at Selena’s deceased form, I carefully laid her down in the janitor’s supply closet in the room and closed its door. It was cruel because she deserved a proper burial, but at the same time, I needed space and given all that I’ve been through, I decided to cut myself some slack.

  The zombies had stopped their beating on the door, but they hadn’t left. Their hollow moans still filled the hallway beyond, their deathly groans coming in through the gap between the door and floor.

  I lay in a foetal position on the ground, balling my eyes out over my loss.

  Over my life.

  Over myself.

  Yeah, it was a real pity party, but you’d have one too if you were in my shoes.

  I don’t how much time passed, but a dull thump came from the janitor closet. Immediately, I leapt to my feet and cautiously approached it.

  Another thump came from behind the door.

  No, it couldn’t be. Not like this. She was dead. She was–

  Not Selena. Please, God, don’t let her become one of them.

  The thumping grew consistent, and I could imagine her behind the door, stepping up to it, bumping into it, stepping back, then coming at it again. Over and over.

  My baby. Not you, too.

  If I opened the door, I could be dead really soon. If I didn’t, then there was a good chance the bumping into the door would grow more aggressive and alert the others in the hallway outside the laundry room that there was still something for them to get at.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Please be okay.”

  I put my hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. I took a large step back as I let the door swing all the way open.

  Out of the shadows, Selena emerged, her head cocked slightly to one side. Her mouth hung slack; her eyes remained rolled back in their sockets. She stumbled toward me.

  “Selena?” I said.

  She stopped, turned her head more in my direction, then adjusted her footing, this time coming more directly at me. A few seconds later, she raised her left hand. I touched her fingers. They were ice cold. Her hand gripped mine and she started to pull herself closer. I yanked my hand away and darted for the far side of the room, and scanned it up and down for something to defend myself with. Nothing. Nothing lethal, anyway.

  Selena slowly walked toward me.

  I stepped to the side. When my foot came down, it landed on the ground harder than I wanted. Her head immediately craned in the direction of the sound and then she started heading that way.

  My girl was gone.

  It was a feeling, it was a thought. Its reality sunk in quicker than I expected and immediately I knew I had to get rid of her otherwise I’d be her lunch soon enough.

  I let her get close to me before carefully moving out of her way in a semicircle. My goal was to get to the closet she had just come out of. There had to be something in there I could use to defend myself with.

  Keeping one eye on her, the other on the closet, I inched my way there, each footstep I took as light as I could possibly make it.

  Once at the closet, I peered in and scanned the shelves. Nothing but a bunch of cleaning supplies, a mope and bucket, a broom, some boxes and–the broom.

  I pulled it out. It wasn’t too thick, but thick enough I couldn’t break it over my knee.

  Slowly, I kept my circular pattern and went to the far corner of the room while Selena was at the other, her head weaving side-to-side as she tried to find me.

  I had only one chance at this, and I had to make it quick. I held the broom handle with one hand, leaned it on an angle and put my foot down on its head. Quickly, and as hard as I could, I stomped down halfway between the top of the handle and the broom’s head. Crack! The wood splintered, but didn’t break.

  Selena turned around and faced me. She raised her arms, her fingers rigid like claws.

  I stomped down on the broom again. It snapped this time, but not cleanly. I had to–

  She was real close, like six feet away.

  I flipped the broom over and came at it from the other side. The wood broke. I let the straw end fall to the floor, and I got the handle end ready.

  “Please, Selena,” I said. “If you can hear me, you need to stop. I don’t want to–”

  But there was no response in that dead face. No sign she recognized my voice. Not the slightest hint of contemplation.

  So be it, I said, and came at her with the broom handle.

  The sharp end plunged directly in her middle. I kicked out against her chest and pulled on the handle at the same time. The handle came out, bringing with it blood and stringy flesh. I brought it across her face like a baseball bat. The force of the blow was enough to knock her off balance, and with another kick I sent her on her back to the ground.

  “Forgive me,” I said, and plunged the sharp end of the stick into her eye. Her body twitched a couple time then lay still.

  I stumbled back a few steps and couldn’t believe how fast I had taken her down. For some strange reason, my heartache was gone. So was the confusion. Instead, I felt . . . nothing.

  Just . . . nothing.

  Who was I? What had I become?

  I had to get out of there.

  ·35: On the Move Part Four

  Telecom handheld transmission:

  There was a small, one-foot-by-two window toward the ceiling of the laundry room. Glass, with a grate on the outside. I broke the glass with the same broomstick that–

  Anyway, I smashed the window, then, standing on the washing machine against the wall, used the broomstick as a kind of thin battering-ram, all the while pounding on its end with the dustpan until, after an hour, the screws holding the grate to the outside wall finally gave way. I squeezed through the opening, took one last look at Selena’s body, and ran.

  The undead were gathered out front. I ran past them, and the few that tried stumbling after me didn’t have a prayer.

  Adrenaline propelled my legs. All I wanted was to leave Selena and that laundry room behind. But now, writing this to you, I would give anything to see her again. Yet I’ve already seen her, haven’t I? How many times had she recently come into my life only to die a short time later? Can I expect her return again? Will I see her? Did I really see her?

  I’m telling you, I don’t know if all this stuff is in my head or if it’s real. Maybe I’m lying in a gutter somewhere, suffering from a zombie bite and all these crazy hallucinations–even this journal–is some sort of side effect of whatever it is they carry that infects people and turns them into one of them.

  Are the zombies even real?

  Maybe I’m just a regular old lunatic in a regular old world? Maybe you’re as crazy as I am and we’re sitting in a padded cell somewhere, sharing the same delusional fantasy?

  Gotta clear my head.

  Wish I had some alcohol.

  Need sleep.

  Need Selena.

  Need . . . I don’t know what I need anymore.

  * * *

  His name was Jay. I met him after I took pummelled an undead old man after the creature tried to take a bite out of me. The old geezer still tried walking with his cane even though he didn’t have the coordination anymore. It was his cane that I used to beat him to the ground and eventually shove through his rotting throat to sever his head.

  It was out of his pocket this telecom handheld fell. It was the telecom that has the Wifi I’m using to send this entry out into Cyberspace now.

  Back on point: Jay. His name was Jay. He was black, tall, built like a basketball player. Now don’t go accusing me of being racist or stereotypical or anything. I’m sorry, but that’s just how he was. The best par
t was that he was alive. Real. A human. He was the first one I’ve seen aside from Selena in so long that–and I really mean this part–I forgot what it was like to relate to a real flesh-and-blood guy again.

  He wore a red T-shirt, black pants, and this pair of sneakers that were gleaming white with neon green. He must’ve just lifted them from somewhere because they were too clean to be anything but new. Regardless, the dude came out of nowhere right when I was sending my cane through the old man’s neck. He tried to stop me before realizing the old man was a zombie. Instead, he just came up beside me, set his weight on one him, crossed his arms and watched.

  Jay’s sitting across from me now in the alley that I’m transmitting this from. I told him what happened, but how I had to escape my building. I didn’t give him the lowdown on Selena. Only said someone I really cared about had just died. Jay told me I could cry about it if it made me feel any better.

  I’ve only known the dude for maybe a half hour, maybe slightly more, but I got to admit it feels amazing to be with someone other than myself and other than someone who haunted my mind and heart for so long.

  I almost feel normal, like things used to be. Must never forget, though. Must never forget that things aren’t normal not here, and not even out there, outside this crazy hallucination, if that’s what this is. Normal people don’t live in padded cells.

  Getting sidetracked. Starting to slip.

  Jay’s going to keep me grounded. I just know it.

  * * *

  We made it under the Maxworth Bridge. It’s in an older part of town, there for folks who can’t afford zipcars. That’s fine. There’re no social classes anymore anyways.

  Jay and I walked here, each keeping an eye on the other’s back. He told me he comes from a family of thirteen kids. He’s the second youngest and has eight brothers and four sisters. They’re all dead, died pretty much right after this thing started. His family was so huge that the house they had couldn’t allow for a separate room for everyone. Most of his brothers and sisters bunked together. He bunked with his younger brother, Willim. Jay doesn’t know which of his siblings got infected first, but soon his whole family was transformed and him and Willim had to split.

  They survived on the street for a long time; several weeks, Jay said. But his brother died. I asked Jay what happened. He only smiled and said, “Stupid kid slipped off a catwalk and fell. Hit the ground. Busted his head open.” At first, I thought Jay was crazy for smiling at the memory, but then I got it: Jay was happy his brother wasn’t around to experience any of this and, in a way, controlled his own death instead of falling victim to one of the undead. Jay’s religious, too. Says he doesn’t mind Willim’s gone. He says that one day, when the time is right, he’s going to join Willim in the choir in the sky, and not only Willim, but his whole family.

  Right now, we’re under this bridge, zombie free. I don’t know if it’s God showing Jay favor or if we’re just plain lucky, but we’re getting a break. No running for our lives right now.

  For the moment, I’m happy.

  Jay’s thinking about what we can do for dinner. I told him I had some food back at my place, but we agreed it’d be too dangerous to go back there after what happened, at least right now. Maybe a different day.

  We’ll figure something out, but if anybody’s out there reading this and can get to us under the Maxworth Bridge in Comtropolis, we’d owe you one.

  Is anybody out there?

  Anybody?

  ·36: Under the Bridge

  Telecom handheld transmission:

  Again, I’m sending this from a wireless handheld device. Excuse any typos. Editing on this thing is difficult. Already tried. Anyway . . .

  We’re under the Maxworth Bridge, Jay and I. Dinner was . . . awful, plainly put. Know what we had? Earthworms. Friggin’ earthworms! Jay said something about them being high in protein. Whatever. Though we both ate, I got the sneakin’ suspision he just wanted to see me eat worms. But, better worms for food than being wormfood itself. Can still feel them wiggling on my tongue, their fishy scent and rubbery shells filled with grainy, oozing flesh.

  Jay’s beside me, curled up on the ground, trying to get some sleep. I’m on the first watch. Was hoping we’d both be awake just for the sake of company, but I also realize that it’s better this way. At least for now. My hope is to get back to my place tomorrow. Doesn’t make sense the zombies would linger there once they find the building empty.

  I’m not going to talk about Selena this entry, in case you’re wondering. If anything, my brain needs a break from her, though I think about her constantly.

  The main thing now is: what’s next? Can’t live under a bridge like some troll. I’m thinking skipping town would be the best option. The problem with that is Comtropolis is huge, and getting to the edge of the city on foot would take at least two days, walking about ten hours a day. Maybe even three days.

  Right now silence is on the air, the heartbeat of the city long dead. Just keeping my ears perked for feet sliding across the pavement.

  I’d really like to know what started all this and why oh why the undead have to eat the living. What did we do to them?

  Frak! Just hate sitting here hence my rambling. When I write these entries, it takes my mind off what’s going on and off certain people. Sometimes I think that none of what I said makes any sense. Sometimes I think half of it is boring. But them’s the breaks for you. You should at least be happy someone is writing something and that somewhere there’s somebody alive who’s taken the time to tell you what’s going on in his life.

  What’s that? You want to be thrilled and chilled by reading this? Give me a break. You want thrills and chills, go stand in the street and wait for the first flesh-muncher to come along. No, seriously, wait for them. Then when they grab you, don’t try to run until their teeth meet your skin. Then you can try and rip your arm away from them. There’s your thrills and chills.

  And that’s precisely my point: the media has killed you. Do you hear me? Killed you, even worse than the undead have. Yeah, I’m serious. Whether in life or even in entertainment, you’ve been brainwashed into expecting certain things and when those things aren’t delivered to you, you throw a temper tantrum. I’m glad that technology is almost dead. I’m glad we don’t have adfeeds shoved down our necks twenty-four-seven like before. I’m glad the podcasts have silenced, that television has blinked out and even the blasted Internet is on its last legs. It’s done nothing but made people lazy and spoonfed instant gratification. Myself included. But at least I’ve made the choice to accept that life sucks, is hard and doesn’t satisfy me instantly. The zombies have at least taught me that much. So I’m writing this rant to you, hoping it’ll strike a nerve and even though you might hate my guts right now, I’m all you got. At least, if you have some semblance of a heart.

  Welcome to reality. Welcome to the place where there’s no plot, no neat little endings, no climaxes–just one crazy ride where zombies walk, some nut from Comtropolis writes to you, and somewhere someone is listening.

  Jay just farted in his sleep. Bet you didn’t see that coming, huh?

  What? That throw you for a loop?

  My point exactly.

  At the end of the day, we’re all just trolls under a bridge. Look at yourself and you’ll see what I’m saying is true.

  Still waiting for you to come round under this bridge, by the way. But you probably won’t. That’d demand effort.

  ·37: On the Way Home

  Both Jay and I are sore this morning. Sleeping under a bridge will do that to you. No matter. We’re just glad we’re still alive. The worst that happened last night was the calls of the dead floating on the night air. That, and one of those sleeps where you’re more dozing than actually sleeping.

  So this is what went down since then:

  “Hungry?” Jay asked.

  I nodded, but said, “I ain’t having worms for breakfast. Feels like they’re still crawling around my gut.”

 
“Well, food is on the B-list right now. Main thing is staying alive.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “But a true one.”

  “I want to go home, see what the damage is.”

  Jay looked off toward the buildings in the distance. “Not sure they’d be gone by now.”

  “Let’s head that way anyway and play it by ear. If we see too many of them, we run. If not, one step at a time. Cool?”

  The way he shuffled on his feet told me he was reluctant, but I’m sure he knew as I did that we’d be better off indoors someplace familiar than out here in the open. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Jay and I walked at a casual pace, keeping against buildings and cars, trying our best to blend in with the scenery. If we saw one of the creatures, we’d freeze and hope it’d pass us by. There was this rickety old codger out by the baseball stadium with most of his legs rotted away. His limbs were like a series of toothpicks all glued together. It was amazing they kept him standing. He saw us and, with head tilted back at an angle, started stumbling toward us, his dead eyes fixed on us the whole time.

  We picked up our pace. The old guy seemed to try and pick his up, too. After a few stumbly steps, he must have realized he didn’t have a chance at catching us so slowed down.

  But still kept coming.

  “Hope he doesn’t follow us home,” I said.

  “We’ll lose ’im.”

  I picked up a broken chunk of curb about the size of a hardball from the side of the road. I lightly tossed it between my hands as we walked, every so often glancing over my shoulder at the old guy shambling behind us. Soon he was joined by a pale-skinned Goth chick with bright red hair, the lower half of her jaw missing.

  “Cute,” Jay said.

  “If she wasn’t dead.”

  “Still cute.”

  I gave him a wry glance.

  “What?” he said. “A man’s still got needs.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  We quickened our steps. Unarmed aside from the piece of curb, I didn’t want to go toe-to-toe with the undead unless I had to.

  At the street corner, I checked around the bend. A couple more undead milled about. I checked the other way. Same thing. Going straight would take us out of our way, and there were a couple zombies off in the distance anyway.