by Create50
According to the news, we’re a plague on society, a drain on resources; or, as some extreme politicians keep delighting in saying, that we should be exterminated. I kid you not. They actually used the word exterminate. Some of the greatest minds ever known are now zombies, that’s why only the dross are left, the ones who used to be tin pot councillors, but are now high-flying politicians. I’d love to get my hands on them. Mind you, they probably wouldn’t taste very nice either, worse than a vegetarian.
I’ve heard on the rumour mill that there are plans afoot to round us up. Herd us like cattle, probably for purposes of extermination. They’d have to catch us first. We won’t take it lightly, there’s too many of us now. I’m sure normal people are now in the minority. But we don’t have any rights. Talk about second class citizens, we could get gunned down in the street and nothing would happen, it’s not even considered a crime.
We were human once.
People seem to forget that. I, personally, blame all the movie propaganda. Always portraying zombies as the bad guys. Well, there is the eating human flesh thing, which I agree is rather anti-social.
But why not give us your criminals, the social outcasts? You wouldn’t have to worry about prisons, or prison overcrowding. We’d take care of that for you. It’d be a win-win. Society would get rid of its ne’er do wells, and zombies would be fed, and you never know, maybe even pacified. But who’d listen to me? I am, after all, only a zombie, and I’m not supposed to have a voice; people don’t know that I exist. Except until I come round your house and start chewing your face off!
I jest. I wouldn’t do that. Unless I was really hungry.
That wasn’t a joke. I would eat you.
That’s the thing about us zombies. Survival. We all want to live forever. Although I realise that ‘live’ is a very loose term, seeing as how we are all technically dead. And the prospects for us zombies are not very good. Not job wise, I mean, who’s going to employ a zombie?
Unless it’s for target practice.
It’s the quality of life. I’m in the very early stages of the condition, so I can still articulate. It’s the progression that I’ve got to look forward to, the steady slide towards full zombification.
And it is, as far as I’ve seen, just like the films. The lumbering walk, the inability to communicate much further than a moan, and the insatiable need for human flesh; and yet, the very thing that keeps us going also seems to be the thing that accelerates our decline.
I mean, I’m no scientist. In fact, I have a vague recollection of something to do with shoes, but you’d think we’d change from human flesh to say, beef. Go back to burgers and the like. Would cause people a whole of a lot less hassle. But what do I know?
I would try and cut down myself, but the craving can just get so great that it’s impossible to hold yourself back. It’s like a drug. The worst drug imaginable.
And that’s what I’ve got to look forward to. For the lust for flesh to become so powerful that I am no longer human.
I’m barely human now to be honest. I have to hide myself away during the day, there’s certain telltale signs of my condition that attract the wrong sort of crowd.
Would you believe there are such things as zombie groupies?
Unbelievable.
But since the virus is so widespread there’ve obviously been some celebrities that have succumbed. Loads of former soap opera stars, pop singers, even the odd footballer. They all soon found that their fortunes couldn’t protect them. Television crews still seek them out, so they still have a modicum of fame, although the ones that are now too far gone have no idea of their former existence.
There are some that are still in the early stages of the condition, like me, who have tried to cling on to their fame, but once they’ve been “outed” there’s no chance for them.
The groupies go after the ones that are too far gone; the further gone they are the better, the more hardcore they appear. It’s like they have a points system: the more famous you were the more points you score, and if they’re famous and completely zombiefied they are worth way more points. Put the two together and bingo, you’ve hit the jackpot. You become famous by association. Zombie Cool they call it, all the kids are into Zombie Cool.
There are some rumoured cases of people having pet zombies; the über rich using them like attack dogs! An intruder on the premises, set your zombie on them and watch the carnage unfold.
Me, I’m just an ordinary run of the mill zombie. I doubt I was that important as a human, and I’m even less so as a zombie. But that’s the way I like it. If I keep my head down then nobody’s going to bother me. I live by the same principles as a human and they seem to work for me.
I know it’s going to be dark soon.
I know I’ll have to hunt soon.
If I’m lucky there will be a road accident and I won’t have to do any of the killing.
I’m not proud, I don’t mind a spot of scavenging; in fact, I kind of prefer it that way, I can justify it to myself if I’m not the one that took the life. Soon though I won’t have much choice, the flesh lust will become so great that I won’t be able to fight it. I won’t even know what a principle is; I probably won’t even know what I am.
Maybe blissful ignorance will be good?
Maybe I’ll discover I make a very good zombie? Rise up through the ranks and become King Zombie! Set up a zombie society, make us civilised, cricket matches, and afternoon tea parties.
We could be better than humans.
Maybe that’s why nature came up with the virus? Eradicate humans, and replace them with something more civilised.
King Zombie has a ring to it don’t you think?
Do zombies even have ranks? I’m asking that as if you’d know; it is me that’s supposed to be the zombie, after all.
I told you, I’m new to this!
I wonder if my family are zombies? That is if I had a family. I’d like to think I did, and that they’re safe. Soaking up the sun, picnicking on an immaculately cut lawn.
That would be good.
The sun looks as if it’s setting, the sky is turning red. There used to be a rhyme about that, I’m sure.
It won’t be long before you’ll start to hear them, the proper zombies. They’re not exactly known for their subtlety. Dustbin throwing seems to be a speciality.
Did you hear that? Dustbins. The hunt has begun.
Early prowlers, or maybe early victims?
The flesh lust creeps up on you. It’s not like hunger pangs, it’s like an addiction, a burning, an insatiable need that must at all costs be sated. You can’t stop it, no matter how civilised you think you are.
I can feel the flesh lust rising, getting twitchy. And it is fortunate that fate has presented you to me. After all, why else would you be here? Why else would such an easy kill be presented to me? But seeing as we can call each other friends now, okay acquaintances, I’ll make it quick.
You have my word, my word as a zombie.
We can at least be civilised about it all.
Mirror Image
By Alistair Canlin
The stair creaked underneath John’s foot. He held his breath.
He was sure he could hear the old house breathing.
A creak sounded above him.
His eyes darted to the top of the stairs. Every muscle in his body tensed, his knuckles turned white as they gripped the banister in an attempt to steady himself. It took him a moment to realise that the constant thud thud thud was in fact his own heart.
A strangled laugh nervously escaped his lips.
Silly prat, he thought to himself.
The stair creaked again as he shifted his weight off it and continued up the stairs. His heart continued to thud, and he had to slide his hand up the banister, as he was too afraid to let go. All he had to do was make it to the landing just a few steps ahead.
He noticed a window on the landing, so yellow with years of dirt that it cast a creepy light over him.
&nbs
p; He was about to rub at the window with his sleeve when he heard another creak above him. His heart started thudding again. Whatever it was it was moving.
He swallowed deeply, wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and put one foot on the next flight of stairs. His mouth went dry, he tried to swallow, his head felt dizzy. Thud thud thud his heart raced.
He took the next step. The banister wobbled under his weight.
The creak above him sounded again, it was in a different place, it was moving. His stomach turned several somersaults, his eyes were fixed on the stairs, he couldn’t bring himself to look up.
The creak sounded again, it was closer. Thud thud thud his heart pounded.
He felt sick, he didn’t want to be here, but something made him carry on up the stairs.
There was no window on the next landing; only thin shafts of yellow light seeped from the landing downstairs.
From the landing above, John was certain he could see more light. He wasn’t going to hang about in this gloom. Without thinking he bounded up the next flight of stairs.
He stopped suddenly.
What he saw confused him. It wasn’t a window, but a massive mirror in an ornate gothic frame.
A curious silvery light shone out of the mirror. John looked behind him. There was no light. The light in the mirror was not a reflection; it was coming from the mirror.
John nervously stood in front of the mirror. His reflection stared back at him. His reflection was bathed in the curious silvery light.
John cocked his head to one side. His reflection copied him. John reached out to touch the mirror. His reflection reached out to touch him.
Thud thud thud. John’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.
John put his hand to his chest. is reflection put his hand to his chest. John’s mouth went dry.
His reflection looked down at his hand on his chest. John hadn’t moved.
THUD THUD THUD. His heart almost deafened him.
His reflection looked back at him and smiled. John frowned. His reflection beckoned him.
THUD THUD THUD. His heart was bursting out of his chest.
His reflection beckoned him with a crooked finger. John couldn’t stop. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. His reflection smiled. Inches from the mirror, John reached out. Their hands almost touching.
THUD THUD THUD. His heart was louder than any drum.
His reflection smiled. Their hands touched.
THUD THUD TH…
John found himself in darkness, complete darkness. The house seemed to sigh. The landing was quiet. The mirror stood alone. Then there was a creak.
John’s smiling reflection stepped out of the mirror and stood alone on the landing, basking in the curious light that now illuminated the entire house.
Pig
By Chris Jeal
It was a hot day on the farm. Samson the pig was in his pen, his big pig-head resting on the bars of the enclosure looking out over the courtyard. Samson favoured this spot. He could see the whole farm, the farmer’s house, the horse stables, the fields filled with sheep, but it was the tin shed next to the farmer’s house that held his attention the most. Samson had been studying it for weeks now, trying to figure out what went on inside. He used to think it was a bigger pen for pigs that got too fat, but lately, he had a much more sinister hunch.
The door to the shed clattered open. The farmer stood in the doorway shouting at someone inside. “Get out of it, ya dirty bird.”
A large crow swooped out through the open door and flew high into the air. It squawked at the farmer, as if shouting piss off.
“Stay out!” the farmer screamed before disappearing inside and slamming the door.
The crow glided over to the pig-pen and perched on the bars by Samson’s head. The bird chirped and clicked in his ear as if sharing juicy gossip.
Samson’s eyes filled with sadness at what he was hearing. “Thank you,” he sighed.
Samson pushed his snout into a bundle of straw and uncovered a small chick that peeped and hopped in circles. Using his snout, he tossed the yellow fluff into the air. The crow snatched it up in its beak.
“Payment,” Samson grunted. He shuddered, and turned his attention back to the pig pen. It was home to many pigs of all different sizes. The bigger pigs lounged in the corners of the enclosure, while the little piglets leapt and darted like pink lightning bolts.
Samson stomped to the centre of the pen and let out a thunderous Oink! “Everyone, listen. I have something important to tell you.”
The adult pigs pricked up their ears and told the piglets to sit still and behave or they’d get no slop. Samson had the pen’s attention and all the pigs looked on, eager to hear what their leader had to say.
“We have to leave. We’re not safe here,” he snorted.
“Why?” asked one pig.
“The shed, it’s not a bigger pen like we thought it was. The farmer he’s – ” Samson paused, there were piglets present but this needed to be said. “He’s fattening us up, so he can slaughter us for food.”
The pen fell silent.
“For food?” asked Bullet, one of the more ignorant pigs.
“Yes, eat us. Like slop.”
The air filled with gasps and weees.
“But the farmer loves us, takes care of us. Who told you such nonsense?”
“Twitter, the crow,” Samson grunted.
“The crow? Crows are liars,” squealed Bullet.
“And pigs are stupid!” Samson bellowed, stomping his trotter and glaring at him.
Bullet deflated and shuffled back into the crowd.
“Listen to me. Every mouthful of slop you guzzle is taking you closer to your death.” Samson’s gaze moved from one pig to the next as he spoke. “I’ve been observing what’s been going on for months now…” Samson paused and lowered his head. “The crow just confirmed what I already knew.”
“What are we going to do?” squealed one pig.
“We’re leaving tonight. We’ll go and live in the woods,” said Samson.
“How will we get out of the pen?”
“I’ll take care of it. Rest now, we leave tonight.”
The pigs dispersed, squealing in hushed tones. Samson went back to his spot and rested his head on the bars. He glared at the tin shed.
Bella, Samson’s wife, trotted up beside him and rubbed her head against his.
“Are the piglets okay?” he asked her.
“They’re piglets, Sam. They think it’s an adventure. What did the crow see in there?”
“It doesn’t bear repeating.” Samson’s expression softened. He turned to Bella. “All the pigs taken to that shed, your uncle, my mother and one day, even our own piglets. How could I have been so naïve, Bella? The pigs look to me to lead them.”
Bella nuzzled Samson’s neck. “Why wouldn’t we trust the farmer? He fed us, kept us warm. Even let his own child play with us.”
Samson’s nostrils flared and he grit his teeth. He boiled at the thought of the farmer’s betrayal. “How could he act as our friend, only to slit our family’s throats? What type of animal does that?”
Samson’s gaze snapped back to the shed. “Leave me, please, Bella. I need to be alone.” Bella nodded. “I love you,” she whispered, but Samson didn’t hear. thoughts of revenge had taken him to a dark place where words of affection couldn’t reach.
Samson stayed in that same spot for hours, staring at the shack, his mind rotten with hatred and the need for revenge. He knew that later that night the farmer would do his rounds and check the pen – this is when Samson would strike.
The moon was high in the sky, when Samson’s eyes locked onto the farmer making his way towards the pen. Bolt, the sheepdog, followed him sniffing the floor.
“You still up, Sam?” the farmer called.
Samson would normally reply with a grunt, but instead he just stared through him.
The farmer reached the pen and patted Samson’s head. It made Samson f
eel sick, and a low growl escaped his mouth. The farmer stepped back, puzzled. It was the first time he’d heard a pig make such a sound.
“You getting ill, Sam?”
Bolt sniffed up alongside the farmer, in striking range of the pen. This is what Samson was waiting for. He thrust his head through the bars and clamped his jaws around Bolt’s front legs. Arooo! the dog cried as Samson yanked him inside and dragged him to the centre of the pen.
“Bolt!” the farmer screamed. He fumbled for the keys to the gate. Samson released the mutt’s mangled legs from his mouth. He looked up at the farmer and oinked: Come and fucking get him!
The farmer opened the lock and threw open the gate. He raced inside. Samson charged at him and smashed him to the floor. The raging pig pounded him with a trotter and locked his jaw around the farmer’s kneecap. With a crunch, bone and cartilage shattered inside Samson’s mouth.
Samson released him and looked to Bella. “Go! Lead the pigs to the woods.”
Bella nodded. “Everyone through the gate!”
A steady stream of pigs dashed out into the courtyard and fled. Samson circled the farmer and Bolt as they flailed about, their legs broken and useless.
“Sam! Come on,” Bella called.
“Those slaughtered deserve revenge,” he grunted. “Go. I’ll catch up.”
Bella nodded, knowing that to argue would be a waste of time.
Samson turned his attention to Bolt. The dog was licking its mangled legs, picking them up in its mouth and straightening them out as if by doing so would fix them. He looked up at Samson, confused.
Samson oinked: I’m sorry. He placed his gaping mouth around the dog’s head and clamped down. Bolt yelped as his skull cracked and crunched between Samson’s jaws like it was eggshell.
Out the corner of his eye, Samson could see the farmer was trying to drag himself away. He spat out the crushed head, and looked beyond the farmer to his house. That is where he would have his revenge.
Inside the house, Samson stalked up the stairs. He moved toward the nearest door and bullied his way inside using his snout. In the room lay the farmer’s wife, asleep in bed. Thin white sheets covered her legs, leaving the rest of her large barrel-like belly exposed to the sticky night air.