Haitus (We'll be back!)

[Hiatus for college and Two-Bit Magazine]

Day Two

I took a little hiatus from writing to rejoin my compatriots, and our ranks have since swelled. The survivors I mentioned in my last entry are now undead, and, to be frank, I think they are finding it a far more engaging existence. They apparently spent the last three weeks inside that building, living off of candy bars and soft drinks. Tell me the truth, do you consider that living? While they were fighting like animals over the last three skittles in the bag, I've been out enjoying this pleasant, late summer weather.

I was in the crowd that finally managed to break through their fortifications, and the conditions we found inside the office were atrocious; I would argue we were doing the group a favor. They had taken to using the cubicles as toilets - there isn't any running water - and the place was positively malodorous, and if a fellow who is constantly surrounded by the reek of decaying flesh can identify still a worse scent, I think that's saying something.

Even up until the end, the poor saps were begging for their lives; it is amazing what one will go through to prolong the beating of the heart. I will betray that I, dear readers, felt a small tug of compassion, of sympathy, for when I was alive, and became aware of the growing zombie "infestation," (now, I find it hard to understand why I was so thoroughly aggrieved by the whole thing), I resorted to methods that I am not proud of to survive - but that is another story for another time. I was discussing the survivors. We had taken most of the living when one of the men decided to shoot himself, rather than become a zombie.

I'm going to take a moment, because I always get frustrated when confronted with such a situation. It's not just the needless taking of a life (and the ruining of a fine plate with the bitter taste of gunpowder); it's insulting. Why do the living think that existence as a zombie is so negative? Yes, maybe some of the higher mental faculties suffer in transition to undeath, but who really thinks that being "smart" and being "happy" are synonymous? As a zombie, you no longer have a fear of death – mortality, that limitation, goes right out the window! And so what if the trade-off is an edacious urge to engulf living tissues! The victims, or so they see themselves, will soon enough be right there with you, shoulder to shoulder. Some zombies even, for I cannot believe myself the only one of my kind, may be blessed with the remnants of an intellect, if not one keener than when they were alive. I think my mind something of a burden, to be honest; unlife was easier when I didn’t feel a pang of concern while meeting the eyes of my latest meal.

My frustration goes further, because the very act of shooting oneself in the head shows blatant disregard for the complexity of the human brain. Movies and books about zombies have it only half-right. Yes, you can “kill” a zombie, per se, by destroying the brain, but one must destroy the brain outright and completely. One cannot simply maim the brain. The undead don’t require the function of, now, such vestigial organs as a heart or lungs. Yes, the digestive tract is still important, but the zombie digestive system can be better likened to a compost heap (albeit one that breaks down matter extraordinarily quickly) than to the human digestive system you are familiar with.

In short, we need very little of our brains to actually function, since, in majority, we are content with lumbering around and feasting. And clearly, when the fellow decided to unload his weapon into the pinnacle of his mortal frame, he wasn’t considering this.

In short, he is now one of us, although a little vacant looking, even for a zombie.

Day One: Introduction

You may ask yourself how it is possible that a zombie could be writing this; the proposition is, of course, absurd. I admit I was not a scientist in life (I certainly have not become one in death - or, should I say, undeath? I suppose that word is considered more appropriate) and cannot offer any learned opinion. Speaking from strictly anecdotal experience, most of my brothers and sisters are more concerned with lumbering, groaning, and devouring human organs. Even I am not immune to such desires. Earlier today I found myself partaking in a particularly scrumptious morsel of skin that had been aging in the sun for some time, as the best sort of fare should, and found it delectably ripe. It is one of the most common misconceptions about us, that zombies will not ingest decaying meat. Certainly, we have enough decency not to consume one another, but say an arm falls off in the course of a day, or perhaps a bullet nicks off an ear- do you think we should let these little gifts go to waste? It isn’t simply an appetite, but a necessity. The laws of thermodynamics demand that energy be supplied in some form or another, and despite what some of our undead gurus and yogis would have you believe, we can’t subsist on sunlight alone. Yes, we can’t die, per se, but our bodies do slow down without proper fuel, and we’ve been known to enter states similar to hibernation, like lizards when they are without food long enough (perhaps an echo back to our most primordial reptilian state eons ago). And so with this in mind, clearly you can be more sympathetic to our unquenchable predilection with eating your brains.

But I digress, because none of this answers our central question, namely how it is possible that I am here, writing this so that you may read it. I would not say that I am evolving. Even now, my brethren are making for an office building where a group of survivors has been discovered, and there is a burning need to go and join the horde surrounding them. I clearly have not been elevated above these most base pack instincts. When passing a house, though, while on the way to assemble with my kin, I noticed the flickering of a screen near the window – the monitor of a computer – and I was overcome with an urge almost as strong as my compulsion to feed: to come, and sit, and tell our story. Perhaps it is divine intervention. Perhaps it is the fountain pen that was jammed through my right eye just yesterday by an enfeebled writer (the old man was particularly chewy and unpleasant). Perhaps it is because we simply have a story that needs to be told. Whatever the reason, I am here now, and I hope you will take the time to read, to appreciate us a little more, to understand that maybe we’re not nearly as terrifying as you imagine.

I hope you have time to keep reading, at least. We’ve already infested a good portion of the southwestern edge of the continent, and I understand that we’re hoping to make New York City in time to see the ball drop on New Year’s.