Oh God. Pease God. I’m so hungry. I can’t. It hurts. It burns. It’s slicing me open from the inside out, with a knife so dull it has to saw, back and forth and up and down, as it pushes through the sinew of my muscle, my stomach, my intestines.
I should die.
It’s better to die, give up and let the hunger consume, than to live another moment.
Oh God. It hurts.
But no. I can’t die. Not yet.
Instead I shuffle forward. Always forward. Something inside me, so deep I cannot see it, prods me along. It won’t let me die. It needles me, poking me, a cattle prod left too long in the fire, stabbing my buttocks flesh, the backs of my thighs. I cannot stop. I cannot lay down.
So I shuffle forward. Always forward.
Each step kills me harder. The asphalt’s made of upturned nails. Screws. Pins. I swear it has to be. With each step, they dig further into my feet. I want to scream, I want to yell, but nothing comes out when I open my mouth to wail, but a snarl and a growl and a feral howl.
Oh God. I’m dying.
I must be dying.
This has to be me dying.
I want to die.
But what’s this? A breeze crosses my face, and a scent insinuates itself up my nose. It worms its way up, up, up, and it’s warm and wet and juicy. It throbs. It thrusts.
I want it.
The world around me is a blur. There are objects in front of my feet. I stumble over them, tripping and lurching like a drunkard in another world. The sky burns red. It’s on fire. I can’t look up, can’t look away. I can only shuffle, nearing the smell.
I want it.
My mouth is open. My tongue tastes the air. I taste the scent.
Hot and wet and juicy.
I remember this thing, this small being that’s standing in front of me. Like from a dream, I remember it. Something about it – the way it’s staring at me, curious, head cocked, interested. The way it reaches its hand out.
The way it says a single word.
I want it.
It’s the only thing that will take away the hunger. The thirst. The pain.
I want it so bad I’ll die for it.
I’ll kill for it.
I’ll kill it.
Whenever we read zombie lit, it’s told from the perspective of the survivors. Of the humans. With the exception of a few tales (Warm Bodies comes to mind, but since that toned down the brutality of the zombie-idea much like Twilight did to vampires, I prefer not to count it right now), we never have any idea of what’s going on in the zombie’s head.
Which begs the question: is there anything going on in the zombies’ heads?
My answer is: I don’t know.
I sort of don’t want to know, not really. Because can you even imagine? What if there’s a part of a person stuck inside, a part that is still cognizant, a part that still remembers being alive and un-zombied? What if that part watches in horror as his body consumes human flesh? What if – I’m struggling to even write this – but for me, what if I was a zombie, but there was a part of me that remembered, and I was standing there, facing my own child, ready to – gulp – eat her?
Seriously, I can’t imagine anything worse. It’s my nightmare.
So what do you think? If there were really zombies, would they remember? Would they know?
I’m a writer, and I often write my nightmares. Up above – that’s my nightmare. That’s my worst-case scenario.
I can’t even.
How about you? What’s yours?
* * * * *
The stench of rotting flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 30+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of June.
Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!
Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!
#SummerofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!