XVI
There are, by now, seventeen notches in my notebook. The changes have stepped up their pace. I've gone completely deaf. For the last few days, I haven't heard a single sound. To make sure, I've rummaged the kitchen for a few plates and smashed them against the sink. Instead of the crashing sound I expected to hear, silence followed. It was a weird feeling, I have to admit: I've never done any scuba diving, but this is probably what aqualung divers must feel — silence that floods the world like the ocean bed, creating the impression we're all under this deep water pressure, which in turns creates the silence effect. Yes, it feels as if I'm now on the very bottom of an ocean of silence.
But as soon as I drift into sleep or have one of my fits of unconsciousness — which seem to happen more and more often — I can still hear things. It's usually voices: mine and somebody else's, we're talking there. At other times, it's a gentle melodious jingle: very soft, almost soundless sometimes.
My tactile and olfactory senses seem to be lost for good.
Fortunately, my eyesight doesn't seem to have suffered much. The out-of-focus effect keeps growing, though. I feel like a short-sighted man who's lost his glasses. Besides those dazzling flashes, I now see large spots of light, like wide semitransparent stripes. They overlap the objects of this world and penetrate them like some air swirls. I can't say anything about their colors, only that they're all different. There are no names for them in human tongues — and still I can see them clearly although can't for the life of me describe them. Similarly, I can't say much about the size of the spots: I feel them being quite big, the size of a car or a bus, for instance. Besides, I can see in the dark much better now while sunlight seems to impede my vision. It blinds me, not allowing me to see things in detail.
The other day I remembered I had a mirror: the large piece I'd left on purpose to trace any changes in my appearance. I've changed a lot, by the looks of it. My face is so lifeless and pale it's almost grey. If it's not my imagination, I've developed a few spots that look like pigmentation, on my face as well as my whole body. Although I haven't shaved once, I sport nothing more than a five-day bristle. Of other things worth noting: I look emaciated, my eyes have sunk, all facial features have sharpened. I have to admit I probably wouldn't inspire much trust in anyone. Now I do start to look like an early-stage zombie.
I've realized I can't remember the color of my eyes, but I can't see their reflection in the mirror: all I can see is the dark, diluted pupils.
My visual inspection has reaped an unexpected result: I feel like breaking the mirror as I can't bear to see myself in it again. I'll refrain from it for now. This is an experiment, and I must try to finish it.
The biggest changes are in the domain of my bodily perceptions. The feeling of the anesthesia has spread, and I've lost all sensations, including tactile. I don't feel the things I touch any more: I don't feel this pen and notebook as I write and have to rely on my failing eyesight to get the job done. I tried to touch and prickle myself; I pulled, pinched and even pressed my eyeballs hard — nothing. It feels rather like total anesthesia during surgery, but with partial awareness. Partial, because I lose consciousness much too often for comfort, floating into brightly colored dreams that I can't remember afterwards. I can also compare it to dental anesthesia, which for some reason has spread over my entire body.
As part of my experiment, I've also tried something else I want to share here. Years ago, I tried to take up yoga and can still remember an asana or two. I've tried to perform those of them that I could never master. To my surprise, my body readily accepted the positions needed. Only later, it occurred to me that I must have injured my senseless muscles or ligaments without noticing, and decided against trying it again, for fear of destroying my body before its time. And still, now I find it funny: these days, I can take any position, no matter how awkward or complicated; I can stand on one foot while bending in some fancy way, the other leg braced, arms wide apart; then I can stay in this position for as long as I wish (although isn't it a contradiction in terms now) without getting tired one bit. Amazing.
This "disappearance" of my body creates mixed feelings. I do understand that I devolve rapidly and will soon stop being human. At the same time, I'm relieved — almost happy — that I've lost sensitivity, because it means I'll never suffer physically again. Pain was my biggest fear — pain, and insanity. I don't feel my wounds and hurts any more, I'm never tired — that's magic! Only now do I realize that all my life, I've lived suppressed by my body's tyranny and its countless and usually unpleasant demands. This "anesthesia" is akin to liberation.
But naturally, there's the other side of the coin to it. I have to be very careful these days in order not to hurt myself. Even the simplest of movements have become a challenge, like eating, writing, walking and getting dressed. I've stopped dressing and undressing, it saves time. Also, now that I don't feel my clothes or their absence, nor the temperature around me, it doesn't really matter.
I walk like a puppet. To move about, I need to silently formulate my intention to get to another place — go to the other room, for instance. Sometimes I say it in my mind, which in turn creates intention. Then the body jumps up — it does it on its own accord, independently from me like a foreign body — and walks in its unnatural wooden stride wherever I've directed it. As I don't feel my steps or movements, I feel as if I'm flying or soaring in space. Self-awareness is located in my head area. No wonder: I only have my eyesight left, and my eyes are situated in my head. Sometimes my body loses its balance and tumbles over: I use my intention to make it get up and go on. Naturally, I experience no pain caused by such falls.
Elimination has proven to be an unexpected problem. I don't feel hunger, thirst or cold any more, which is great. But by the same token, I don't know when I'm supposed to use the bathroom. Feeding is easy: when I remember I haven't eaten for some time, I open some dry rations and stuff the biscuits and the rest into my mouth. Then, I use my intention to force my body to chew and to swallow; as I've lost all tactile sensations, I look in the mirror to make sure I indeed chew and swallow. But elimination is an apparent problem. I think if I stop worrying about it, my body will make do without it. It's possible that it's already dead, but the lack of communication prevents me from realizing it. As far as I know, zombies don't use the bathroom. Or at least they've never been seen pissing or defecating.
Another experiment: I gingerly cut the skin on my hand. It doesn't hurt, of course. There is a bit of blood, dark and very thick, which curdles almost at once, while in the past, I'd have had problems stopping a cut like that from bleeding.
I keep up with my Promedol shots, I've also tried all those pills out of the first-aid army kit. The absence of sensations makes it easy. I could swallow steel nails without feeling anything. I'm myself surprised by giving myself injections and taking medications — I couldn't tell you why I'm doing it. Those guys with their anti-medical Internet site have to be right, of course: you get used to taking medications and start seeing it as a ritual you're too scared to discontinue. It has to be a superstition, a bit like fear of black cats, only concerning pharmacology.
That's it for today, I'm too tired to write. No, I can't say tired, I don't feel it any more. Rather, I'm fed up because writing involves peering at my small handwriting all the time. So I'm bored. Yes, bored is probably the right word to describe it.
***
Twenty notches. Last night (or could be a few days ago) an amazing thing happened. When I walked out into the yard, I met a zombie. And he attacked me!
I walked out into the yard to check my altered sensations. They were what I expected them to be, but still, it saddened me that I couldn't feel the breeze. I could see it ruffle the grass and the tree branches, but couldn't feel anything. What a shame. I did so love to feel light summer breeze on my face.
The sun had nearly set. I noticed the zombie be sheer chance: he or she — I couldn't tell — stood swaying in the centre of the playground. I looked aro
und expecting to see more of them, but saw no one. Before, I used to rely on my hearing to detect them. He noticed me but didn't do anything: just stood there staring at me, as if undecided. Then, suddenly, he darted off to attack me. There were maybe twenty meters between us, no more. I let him come close, then let out a burst from my submachine gun. That was really weird: no shots slamming and no recoil. You'd think I'd have gotten used to it by then, but I still couldn't.
Before, this encounter would have left me feeling scared, or sad, or annoyed. Now though, I'm happy and proud. Just think: he mistook me for a human!
***
Today, as I came to from an especially deep slumber, I discovered that the last page, the one with the notches, had been torn out. Today — I really should stop using the word, it has lost its meaning; whenever I regain consciousness, it's always today. I found the page on the floor, torn into shreds. My fingers, stiff and disobeying, tried to piece it together when I saw it was pretty pointless.
The page was all covered in notches — hundreds of them. Some were crossed by more notches so that the resulting figures looked like crucifixes, and in one particular spot, the fancy pattern of dashes formed a Swastika-type shape.
Apparently, I tried to write in my diary while unconscious, the way sleepwalkers do. Luckily, the entries didn't suffer: the loss of a yet another chronicle would have been too much to bear. Keeping it was not such a bad idea: apparently, this activity did retain me in this world, not letting me die or disappear in those wondrous worlds I sometimes visited in my hallucinations.
***
Yet another valuable tool is lost. I've broken the mirror. The sun had just started to rise when I came to, judging by its bright light flooding the apartment through the broken window panes. When I closed whatever was left of the curtains, I noticed that my hands were covered in brown spots. I tried to rub them, out of habit, but predictably felt nothing, so I could only guess their nature and origin. It occurred to me that looking at my face could throw some light onto this mystery, especially because I hadn't done so for a while.
I walked to the bed where, next to the notebook, my stuff lay about: the guns, food, medications and a large shard of broken mirror. I took it with both hands and brought it to my face. I saw the ugliest mug, its hollow waxen face covered in spots, the eyes glistening madly, the lower jaw moving incessantly, either chewing on something or trying to speak. But the worst of it was, my mouth and chin were covered in the same liquid as my hands. No doubt it was a liquid: somebody's blood, to be precise.
I brought the mirror close to my face, trying to make out the details of that freak show. To my horror, I saw a shoelace hanging out of my mouth. It took me several attempts to hook it in my senseless fingers; I pulled it out and produced a lump of hair and a small leg of some animal, very much like a tiny human arm. I realized I was holding the tail of what once had been a living thing. I vomited — surprisingly smoothly and painlessly: I just felt a mental spasm: mental is the right word, it was something in my head; my body didn't feel anything although it bent down and disgorged the contents of my stomach right into my hands, also without feeling anything, leaving in my palms fragments of some dead rodent, a rat or a mouse. They were covered in something black that looked like shiny mold, and looked not digested, but rather torn into pieces and rotten in parts.
I had enough. My brain let out a silent scream of despair; I flung my hands up, causing the mirror to slide off my knees and break into a thousand pieces. I tried to pick up the biggest of them, but failed, cutting my awkward fingers to shreds in the process. I couldn't see myself any more; I'd also soiled the notebook with the vomit and the blood coming from my hands. But how could a zombie's diary be anything but? What a pain in the backside.
XVII
I can't remember the last time my mind was clear when I came out into the street. I seem to be doing it often in my sleeplike state. Brown spots cover all my clothing, even my shoes; the apartment floor bears footprints of the same color. I can't verify what they are, but have little doubt it's the blood of a living being. Judging by these blood-curdling signs, I've become a decent hunter during my blackouts. I just hope it's animal blood and not human.
An unpleasant thought occurs to me, stopping me from venturing outside in my lucid state. I thought that Alex, with his Special-Forces experience, must have easily seen through my childish direction-changing plan. It wouldn't be hard for him to track me down — for the sole reason of destroying me, naturally. I'm not worried about dying from his hand. I just don't want him to see me in my current state. Even I find my new appearance disgusting; I have little doubt that he, too, will loathe me. I'm ashamed of the way I look! I must be the first shy zombie in history having scruples about being one.
***
Sometimes I think, why hasn't anyone tried to do the same before me, tracking down and recording the changes after being contaminated? It's pretty clear with instant mutation: you die instantly so there's no one left to record your progress. But quite a few people have suffered slow and gradual transformation just like myself — why didn't they at least try?
I can only come up with one explanation, that the fear of death possessed them so completely they could only think about its inevitability. Just like for me at first, their world shrank to the size of the bite wound.
I have another theory about it. What if these lucid periods that allow me to write are caused by the combined action of Promedol, Taren and other medications I keep taking regularly? Or can it be caused by a random combination of the above? Regularly isn't the right word, really, considering I've lost any sense of time. But what if I stop taking them — will I immediately sink into the senseless zombie-like state?
This necessity to write despite my failing eyesight becomes too much for me: I'm tempted by the idea of stopping them altogether. But if they do help, then this desperate experiment will be over. So I probably won't do it. Besides, soon nature will take its toll: despite Alex's generosity, his medicine supply keeps dwindling. Sooner or later, I'll have none left.
***
My life, or whatever passes for it, has divided into two contrasting parts. My mind is absent from one of the two; freed from the burden of its body, it wanders in unknown latitudes incomprehensible even to myself. The body, at the same time, roams about, Mr. Hyde-style, committing acts of horror as befits a zombie. Me, as I write these words, I must be his Dr. Jekyll. When I regain consciousness, it's like surfacing from the depths of wondrous dream back into this living nightmare to find myself imprisoned in this half-dead carcass, a travesty of a human being. I don't remember any of my dreams, only disconnected scraps that light up for a moment only to disappear completely. Same way, I don't know and can't remember what happens to my body during my absence.
This dual consciousness is probably the only thing that differentiates me from your zombie next door. Who knows, they may all experience it although we have no means of finding it out. Writing this diary takes every effort of the will I have, and I believe this is what helps me to remain human, even if part-time. I also believe that these efforts prevent me from losing myself in my dreams and falling asleep for good.
I'm kept together by a purpose, something a normal person doesn't have as he transforms into a zombie. He or she is too scared of having to live in a dying — or already dead — body, which is why they look forward to being able to leave this cruel world and drown in the sea of their fantasies. Of course, this is nothing but my speculation, guesswork on the subject of mutation. But I have a funny feeling it's not very far from the truth.
There's something else to it, too. Isn't it how an average person lives his or her life on earth? All their life from birth till death is equally divided into sleep and wakefulness. When they're asleep, dreaming, they're unaware of this reality; and once they wake up, they forget whatever they saw in their dreams.
***
That's something else I meant to write about. All external sounds having gone, I now can hear thoughts.
Of course, I could occasionally hear them before, like most people do. Now it's different, though. In this omnipresent silence, thoughts tend to sound remarkably loud, replacing the white noise of the outer world. In this deep stillness, a thought grows bright and clear. Sometimes, it seems to be pronounced by a strange voice — not mine. Sometimes it's a man's voice, sometimes, a woman's or a child's, at other times, it's not human at all. I'm not sure any more whether they're my thoughts at all.
Now I have a crowd of people living in my head plus a band to boot. I would start talking to myself or hum a melody — all in my head, of course — and once I initiate the first move by just intending to utter the first word, all the fireworks go off, as if my intention sets everything in ice-breaking motion: the first crack in the ice triggers hundreds of others. Like in a game of pool, the first ball hits another, they fly in opposite directions and hit a few more until everything is set into motion that follows its own laws independent from my will. Thinking has become unpredictable. I start thinking about something, not knowing where I'll end up. Or has it always been like this, only I didn't notice it before?
Same with music. It's enough for me to hum a couple of notes: the same process turns them into a symphony. Everything resounds with so much body, power, and splendor, it never ceases to amaze me. Never in my past life have I heard anything like it. It's as if my hearing range has expanded to cover the entire sound spectrum, and also, weirdly, deep into the third dimension.
Another thing: I can now see these inner sounds. But how can I be sure they're inside? The deeper I dig, the harder it is to use our human language. The day might soon come when I sit down with these pen and notebook, unable to write a single word, so inadequate all words are in the face of this new reality I face. So I don't know how to say it, but I can now perceive sounds with my eyes. It turned out that single notes, as well as whole melodies and their fragments have a shape, color and dimension! But they're not the shapes, colors and dimensions we normally see. Still, aren't they beautiful! I can focus on one and immerse myself in it: it becomes a door, a gateway, and I fall through it into another endless world brimming with magic. I... I can't describe it. In all my life I had no idea that something like that could exist.
Call Me Human: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel Page 14