Ok, here's the start of my heretofore unnamed forray into zombie fiction. I'd really dig feedback.
At 3:38 AM, Ian's blood showered his headboard in crimson. After the initial thoughts of HELP HELP HELP, I CAN'T BREATH! PLEASE DON'T LET ME DIE. PLEASE DON'T LET ME DIE. PLEASE DON'T LET ME DIE, a certain sense of calm washed over Ian. It was probably due to the sanguine river flowing through his torn throat that he felt so lethargic, but lethargy seemed a welcome change when compared to abject terror. Completely devoid of fear, Ian thought, Wow, I never thought I'd die like THIS. THIS only happens in the movies, right? Maybe this is just a bad dream and if I close my eyes everything will be okay when they flutter back open. That thought made Ian laugh, no one in the movies wakes up, no matter how bad they want to be dreaming. At least it was quiet. Ian craved quiet to quell his chaotic life. I always figured she'd yell me to death, but this is pretty close, he considered while pointlessly clutching at the fleshy morass in his neck. Maybe I was half asleep and it didn't really happen like that. Maybe I'm remembering it wrong. She had a knife or an axe or something. Nobody does THAT in real life, it's insane. Ian's hand fell to his side, there's really no point, I'm tired. I think I'll just rest for a bit, things can't any worse. Right? For a moment, the bedroom was peaceful. I've always wanted nice red sheets… Then, everything turned black and Ian slept ever so briefly.
Then came the voice echoing inside Ian's mind, GET THE FUCK UP NOW! That constituted Ian's last coherent thought, after the voice Ian ran on pure visceral instinct. Thus, Ian acted on the prodding of the voice, pulling his matted black hair from his blood soaked silk pillow. Every single part of Ian screamed with pain. Tugging his head from what was once a decadent luxury felt like his scalp might simply separate from his skull. The cool hardwood floor of his bedroom felt like ten thousand tiny needles puncturing the soles of his feet. Ian's senses tingled to an excruciating degree. Not only did Ian's pain exist physically, but his mind too ached unimaginably. It seemed as though a million voices shouted to Ian. No words, no reason, just brutally painful noise. Angry noise, a waking nightmare, a cacophony of rage and terror. If Hell on earth could exist, Ian stood in the dead center. With all of his torment and pain, he stepped into the cold pre-dawn air that felt like razors against his face. Something called to him, he needed to sate a desire that he lacked the capacity to describe.
This desire drove him with a fervor unmatched by anything Ian ever experienced in his former life. Every instinct pushed him to spread the sickness within. Spurred by feeling rather than cognizance, Ian plunged through the bay window of his unfortunate next-door neighbor, Anna.
Anna grew up a devout and obedient Catholic girl, but at 24 and away from the microcosm known as family she decided that she needed to expand upon her life's experiences. All the clichés of sex, drugs and opulently gothic rave parties made up her world. Her parents gave her a life with blinders on, thus she gave herself a life in which blinders didn't exist. Sure, screwing guys and slamming pills like so much Pez may not constitute a “good” life, but that didn't really matter. She had plenty of time for her and God to call even. At least, that's what Anna told herself. She hadn't expected Ian.
Tomorrow, I see the ring! OMG people!
Posted by Mike at March 18, 2005 09:38 PM