by Chris Lane
Hands and feet: Extremities become cramped and it becomes difficult for victim to walk or use hands in a functional capacity. At this point, the subject becomes bedridden and immobile.
Illness was only the beginning. People succumbed. And died. But within moments of death, really, just shortly after “death” was noted, the bodies snapped back into “life” as though something someone? a switch was flipped. The bodies didn’t even get to the morgue. Patients went from flatline to animation, though completely deranged. There is no scientific explanation. There may be a religious explanation, but—look we’re going to have to figure this out, I think we have to try to stick to the science.
Once there is brain death, a person is—should be—dead. Yet function, I guess that’s what it is, is reported to return among the “risen.” The corpse becomes animated.
Post-Mortem: Physical Symptoms
Eyes: Red sclera darken further, then blacken over time.
Nose and mouth: No visible respiration. The mouth is drawn wide open, in what
looks like a biting—or an anticipatory biting—position.
Chest: No physical change, but no rising or falling of the breast. No heart activity.
Reanimated subjects hooked to cardiac machines display terminal flat line.
Arms, legs, back: Movement returns to the muscles, albeit with a jerky, random rhythm, as if the dead subject is impossibly fighting against something, some organism?, animating him/her from within.
Hands and feet: Basic, primal function has been restored to the extremities: the dead subject can again walk and grasp things . . .
Once reanimated, the infected patient shows— I almost wrote “a single-mindedness,” we really don’t know what if any brain activity is happening in their “minds.” No one can get close enough to one of the dead to really understand much because they seem . . . angry. Violent. It was hard to accept this from the last broadcasts before the blackout—the reports that the dead weren’t just attacking, but actually trying to to eat the living. And then I witnessed it for myself, and I can’t deny what I’ve seen, even though it’s almost too awful to believe.
Our power’s out and judging by how dark the city is, it seems like the power is out on every grid. Internet access has been down for two days, along with cell phone reception. I can only guess that the same thing is occurring worldwide. We take for granted how much we rely on technology for information. I suddenly feel blind . . .
Only three of us remain in the office, and for all I know the entire building: the head of our lab, Dr. Carla Wilkins, my assistant, Paul Jenkins, and me.
January 13, 2012
Paul and I had to lock Dr. Wilkins in the cold storage locker.
She attacked us. I have known Carla for three years. Wife, mother, excellent researcher. She’s been with us here 24/7 for several days now, as long as Paul and I have. She’d left early on to check on her husband and son but came back within hours. It happened suddenly. She hadn’t been sick. I don’t know if she was infected, or how.
Paul and I had to repel her with the only thing we had—chairs. We pushed her back into the locker and wrangled the door shut on her flailing hands. I can still hear her pounding. I don’t know how much of this I can take. Paul’s downstairs, looking for something to treat the bite he sustained in the scuffle.
January 14, 2012
Paul’s dead. I killed Paul.
We tried treating his arm, but didn’t think about what we were actually treating it for. It’s clear now that the bite communicated whatever had infected Carla to Paul.
His “zombification” took a matter of hours.
He—whatever I killed, it was no longer Paul. It came at me fast. I fended it off with a chair for long enough to look around the lab and grab a bottle of Hydrofluoric acid, which I shattered on its face. I don’t know if it has brain function, but it seems as though a strike to the brain will kill—deanimate?—it. I’m drawing this in case the nature of the wound I inflicted on it is of any use later.
January 15, 2012
Climbed up onto the roof today. Since the lab is on the top floor, I only had to go half a flight up to reach the service entrance. I am purposely avoiding accessing any lower floors, as I have no idea what could be waiting for me. I also have reinforced my barricades of all seventh floor doors. I have heard no signs of life from below, but that’s little comfort.
On the roof, I was able to get a view of the city. Quiet like a Sunday morning. Debris everywhere. Smoke in the distance. At first no signs of life other than a lone Pine Grosbeak calling. Then the sound of a car approaching, an SUV with what looked like several people inside, some supplies strapped to the roof. I tried to shout and wave at them but couldn’t get their attention.
The car turned the corner of the building and I heard it driving away, then accelerate hard, then I heard the crash. I ran to the other side of the building and saw that the SUV was on its side, it had flipped—or they had flipped it—and the passengers were being pulled from the car and being attacked, eaten, by a crowd of the living dead. The screams were horrible, echoing. I can’t get the images out of my head.
January 16, 2012
Details and observations about the creatures' capabilities:
Strength: The dead seem to possess less-than-average strength. With no heart function there’s presumably no blood flow, which must decrease muscle ability. But being DEAD should decrease muscle ability 100%, so I don’t know what applies anymore. It’s unknown if the corpses go through a rigor mortis period, though that might account for some diminishment of ability. However, with enough of them—and I’ve seen hundreds on the street below the lab—they possess enough strength among them to overturn heavy objects and smash windows.
Speed: Decreased muscle function results in slower speed of movement. I haven’t yet observed them running. This may or may not be within their capabilities.
Appetite: They seem to possess a voracious appetite. But for what purpose? They are dead and need no nutrition? Yet they seem driven by this hunger. I watched six of them tear the stomach out of a struggling woman. Almost like lions would a gazelle. Many predators first tear open the stomachs of their prey, as it is soft flesh that leads to vital organs. Is it the same with the undead?
Socialization: I’m not sure what draws such a group together. It’s a bad sign.
January 17, 2012
Cold and dark in the office. My food supplies have dwindled. Since I tend to “live” at my desk during the week, I keep a supply of nuts, dried fruits, and some instant soups. They’re gone. I have pillaged the desks of my fellow coworkers. Considering they’re doctors, their eating habits are appalling. I don’t know how long I can make it on their cache of gummy bears and fruit roll-ups. I could really go for some baked beans. The office kitchen doesn’t have much—mostly condiments and coffee creamers. A few cases of bottled water . . . I won’t go thirsty.
I’d used a can of paint that I’d found in maintenance to write HELP on the roof, and hung a HELP sign out of windows on each side of the building, but I don’t think help is really on its way. So I can stay here, and eventually starve, or I can try and leave and fall victim to a flesh-eating horde. And go where?
“Carla” stopped pounding on the door of the cold storage locker. I didn’t notice exactly when, I’d basically just accepted the sound as part of the new reality. When I went down to check, I found her still animated, and definitely still interested in attacking me, but it could barely move—its muscles and joints seemed to have stiffened. So cold seems to have a similar effect on the dead as it does on the living.
January 18, 2012
I woke up to the sound of banging. At first I thought it might be coming from the storage locker, but that specimen was slower still than the last time I’d checked. I followed the low, rhythmic sound to the break room down the hall from the lab. Not about to stick my head around the corner of the doorway, I used a compact mirror that I found in a coworker’s desk.
> Mitch Parsons, a security guard at the lab, or whatever now passed for Mitch Parsons, was thumping on the front of the vending machine. I once saw Parsons do that—while living—after he paid for some licorice and it had gotten snagged on the wire coils inside. Why would a flesh-eater attack the machine? Surely they don’t crave candy. Do the undead retain behavioral traces of their former habits? The elevators have been out since the power went, but I saw the door was open now. Is that how Parsons go on the floor? Did the door just open, or did Parsons open it?
I was able to barricade a door between me and the break room. Parsons didn’t seem to hear me. I’m not sure about their aural function. I checked the barricades on this side of the break room but can’t really check the others.
January 19, 2012
Food’s gone. Up on the roof today trying to plot an escape route out of the city. Everything’s smashed. Abandoned cars. Bodies out in the open. The dead wandering in larger numbers, generally in groups of several or more. A somewhat larger group is in front of the lab’s main entrance intent on getting in. They can’t be after me——suddenly? How would they know? I’m thinking, okay so this is what it’s come to, I’m thinking that my best hope for finding a car is to look for a situation below where someone had been pulled from their car and killed—-the keys would probably still be nearby.
Running. There’s running in the stairwell.
So the group in front of the lab wasn’t after me, they were after Ryan Frances, a 27-year-old intern at the Seattle Mercy Hospital on Capitol Hill. He had seen my sign on the window and made it here. We think he managed to barricade the doors downstairs after getting in and it’s holding. The dead still seem to be milling about outside, like hungry sharks. He seemed (seems) clearly human and I let him in based on his running and shouting, something they don’t seem to be able to do. I’m recording his story here:
* * *
“A day before the outbreak, we were swamped with people coming into the ER. Everyone had the same symptoms—aching joints and muscles, burning eyes, stomachaches, rapid heartbeats, and shallow breathing. None of our treatments worked. There wasn’t much we could do but try to calm them. We were on a skeleton staff as many of the doctors and nurses were now patients in the hospital, too. We had some medics from the National Guard, but it wasn’t enough. Then the dead started coming back to life.
The hospital was just about the worst place in the world to be since it had the most infected people in one concentrated place. I hid in the cafeteria with two coworkers. Juan left after a few days to try to find his family, something we were all thinking about. Nancy and I finally decided to leave a few days after that—gotta do something. We hoped the dead had moved on and thought we’d try to get to my houseboat. I share it with my girlfriend on Lake Union. We found what was probably Juan scattered outside the hospital. The dead found us pretty much right away. As we made our way down the hill, Nancy was attacked on the corner Bellevue and Denny. There was nothing I could do. I hate to even say it, but that gave me a chance to get to here. There are a lot of them roaming around out there, but they’re not that fast if you start out with some distance between you and them. If they’re right up on you though . . ."
* * *
We’ll leave for the boat tonight just after midnight. Ryan says he thinks that the zombies’ eyesight is hampered by darkness. I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out. He hasn’t heard from his girlfriend since the cell reception went out almost a week ago. We have no idea if she’s alive. He’s distraught. There’s no reason to stay here. He found me, but neither of us thinks anyone else is going to show up and bring us any better options.
January 20, 2012
Made it to the houseboat. It’s a bad scene here. Blood in the cabin and on the deck, dried. Not clear whose blood. There’s no sign of Ryan’s girlfriend. The useless cell phone is here. That’s bloody, too. Ryan’s a wreck, hysterical.
The marina is quiet, but the creaking of the boats, the ropes, the docks, the sound of the tide makes it hard to dial down my nerves—expecting the sounds to mask an approach by the dead. We don’t think they followed us here, but unsure if there are any around. Hard to tell if they see worse in the dark than we do. In any event, that would cut both ways. We’ve been using a flashlight, trying to mask it from view as much as we can.
We made it downstairs from the lab and out the side door of the building and onto the street, and they were on us quickly. We’d armed ourselves with homemade clubs, furniture legs, and fought with everything we had. Clubbing them in the head seems to work best, it seems to stun them, body blows are less effective. Horrible. Their jaws are just gnashing, always, even if you’re taking its jaws apart with a club.
There’s food here, and bottled water. No weapons to speak of—Ryan’s old baseball bat. His neighbor has a handgun that he knows of. That’s where we’re headed next. Need to sleep. It doesn’t feel safe but it can’t be helped.
January 21, 2012
The neighbor had two handguns, some ammo, a couple boxes. Between his place and Ryan’s we have: flashlights, batteries, food and water, extra clothes, some camping gear—a handheld GPS! From before everyone had them on their phones—a first-aid kit and a couple backpacks, and the baseball bat. We got all this into a motorboat and pushed off and away.
They came as soon as we fired up the engine, which means they can “hear”, at least the roar of an outboard. Ryan has some experience with guns. I concentrated on steering. Bullets don’t really seem to stop them. Body shots do nothing, their physiology doesn’t make any sense. The force of the shot slows them but that’s about it. He nailed a couple in the head, but they kept coming. When I killed killed? Paul or whatever it was the acid had removed either a crucial part of the brain or enough of the brain to stop it.
Ryan’s ranting—we need higher caliber weapons.
We have a 9mm and a .22.
Zombies and water.
In their attempts to attack and eat us a whole bunch of them fell into the lake, or walked into the lake. They can’t move fast enough to tread water and, due to a lack of air in their lungs?, they sink. For the same reason, I don’t believe they actually drown. Somewhere at the bottom, hungry zombies lurk. Even from a “safe” vantage here in the boat, the thought gives me the chills. I keep thinking this is going to make sense. Anaerobic effects should be, they shouldn’t even be moving around on land. How long can they live underwater?
We could see them come out onto the banks as we steered out into open water of Elliott Bay. You can tell they’re dead rather than survivors because of the way they move.
January 22, 2012
We’ve met survivors. A woman named Jeri and her dog, JoJo. We'd run out of gas. Stupid! There was gas at the pier, we just didn’t think! 10 or 12 miles out the engine sputtered and Ryan and I picked up the oars and were scanning the shoreline when we spotted another small boat in the distance. We were thinking gas at the very least, maybe people. When we got close we could see movement, and hear a dog barking.
No gas. Jeri said she’d been floating for two days. We tied her boat to ours, waiting until dusk, and then rowed to what looked like the most zombie-free spot? on shore. What’s zombie-free? It looked woodsy. Jeri has a map. We think we’re somewhere in Snohomish County.
We’re in a craftsman-style house that we found up and in from the shoreline. No one inside or around. No car, maybe they got out. We checked the house carefully, room to room. Drawers and closets ransacked—left in a hurry. When it was cleared for zombies, we shut all curtains, locked and barricaded the doors, and lit a few candles that we found in the pantry alongside what was left of their canned and dry goods. No baked beans, but they left chickpeas, coconut milk, that can of water chestnuts everyone has but never uses, some other stuff. Food rotten in the dead fridge. Should probably board up the windows but worried about the noise, just moved some mattresses and tables to block the candlelight somewhat. Crashing together on the couches and floor downstairs. Ryan is w
ired, he gets the first watch.
January 23, 2012
JoJo is clearly an asset. He growled a few times last night—whether due to a passing zombie or what, a raccoon? we don’t know. No one is going to investigate. Worried though if he barks. A few panicky moments. Breakfast was corn flakes, coconut milk and water. Bowls and spoons, weirdly civilized. Jeri told us her story, which I’m recording here.
* * *
“I live in Poulsbo. My parents and I were staying at a cabin we have. They turned into those . . . When they died, they just woke up and attacked us. JoJo and I just ran.
My dad had been having chest pains, my mom too. I put them to bed and was trying to take care of them the best I could. They couldn’t breathe and I called an ambulance that never came and then they died. Then they, got up. JoJo and I ran to the neighbor’s house, but they were already . . . the neighbors and my parents chased us and we ran to the boat and just left them, they kept coming into the water after us. What’s happening? I don’t understand why nobody’s helping, what’s happening?”
* * *
The house is freezing and we’ve been burning wood in the fireplace to keep warm. No firewood left at the house and the furniture is barricade material, though also perhaps not good to burn treated wood in a closed space—maybe that’s the least of our worries.