encountered a crowd of Zombies after leaving the parkade. The Zombies had given chase. George was not surprised to see the Zombies dressed in the familiar blue uniform of the South African Police Service. Having had brushes with the law before, he fully understood how the one group of people who were always armed and had radio contact with each other could fall before a horde of Zombies. The officers had probably not realised that putting out a hand for a bribe would lead to being bitten. They must have been the first to turn.
Being pursued by flesh-eating creatures had added that much urgency to the drive. It was surprising, George thought while hurtling down the M1 at a very unsafe speed, that Zombies in movies had always moved so slowly, and had no intelligence whatsoever, but in real life they turned out to be extremely quick and quick-witted. Movie Zombies couldn’t drive, but the real ones could. Of course, one could not expect the movie version of reality to be accurate - after all, movie cops generally solved their cases, whereas while South African cops were very good at petty crime; they hardly ever got caught or convicted of it.
They were almost home when the car slid out of control and was stopped by a long (and thankfully shock-absorbing) fence. If it weren’t for Edith crying, George would have bawled his eyes out too. As it was, he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the wreckage and started running, trying to outrun the Zombies, the darkness and the whole ridiculous mess that had been the Zombie Apocalypse.
Today …
… had turned into night. George and Bennie had taken refuge in the shed of a proper suburban home. The house itself was a shambles, devoid of all life, both living and undead. They agreed that the shed would be less likely to be searched by invaders and had made that their camp. George barricaded the windows, all the while feeling even worse than he had previously. Obviously, there was more to this than the alcohol - possibly the weed he had smoked yesterday was bad, or had been smuggled around in paint-remover.
His head hurt ever more now, and he was certain that his face was numb. His memory was working sporadically, recalling snatches of the hellish day. His mind, it seemed, had turned against him and was now extracting revenge for all he had put it through today. He still had the disquieting feeling that he was missing a few important facts. His mind threw him the memory of being shot at that morning by Harry The Bad Shot. He winced at this memory, even as he was still barricading the windows. Not yet finished with torturing him, his mind served up the memory of breaking into his ex-wifes house. He remembered Bennie saying “Good thing they missed this time, hey?”
Barricading done, and still extracting what he could from his memory, he strode of towards the garage intending to find something that would be useful in a barricade. He was halfway there when he remembered what next happened, last night, with Edith and himself.
Yesterday …
… George had half-dragged, half-frogmarched Edith and had finally made it to a shelter of sorts, a fuel station with bars on the windows and bulletproof glass for the cashier. Along the way he’d had to fight off a small child Zombie who had initially fooled Edith into compassion, but then had turned out to be flesh-hungry. They had got away just in time, Edith stepping towards the child with her hand held out, George screaming “NO!” and the child, within touching distance of Edith, just a hint of a smile on his lips.
He’d had to tackle her to the ground and when they looked up the child was sprinting down the street. George had then looked for the nearest place to barricade in, and had seen the fuel station across the road. “Thank God!” George exclaimed when himself and Edith were safely ensconced within the confines of the bulletproof glass and bars, “It’s a good thing South Africans take their security so seriously.” said George, conveniently forgetting his earlier private tirade against secured cars. “This place is built to resist an assault force with automatic weapons. I can’t see them getting in here in a hurry.”
“They’re already in,” Edith said quietly.
Today …
… George stopped dead in his tracks, his memory of what Edith said next gone from his mind. There were noises coming from the garage! He could hear Bennie, or Hennie, or whatever he said his name was, talking to someone. Didn’t sound too friendly. He edged closer to the garage wishing he’d had the foresight to grab a weapon before going exploring. He hoped he’d live to regret this.
Rounding the corner of the masonry wall slowly, George looked into the garage. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. His memory chose that moment to spew up another scene from yesterday.
Yesterday …
… George looked around nervously, “I think you must have hit your head, Edith.” He looked around quickly just to make sure, “There’s no one here but us, see? All safe now!”
Edith started weeping. Slowly, she held up her hand. It had a small set of bite marks, with a small half-moon of flesh missing from the palm, just below the little finger. A small set of teeth made those marks, and stole the flesh. A set, perhaps, belonging to a child. “He got me after all, George.” She wept.
Today …
… Bennie or Hennie or whatever his name was, had a prisoner. Tied up with rope. Georges tired mind battled to understand. His stomach chose that moment to assault him with fresh hunger pangs. His patchwork memory flashed a picture of his dog growling at him, then running off, then another memory of him stumbling into his house late last night. The holes in his memory were becoming more severe, even as he looked at the prisoner and struggled to understand why Bennie-or-Hennie would take a prisoner.
Yesterday …
… George stared at Edith’s bitten and bleeding hand. “Oh no, Edith, Oh no,” George had whispered, “Don’t worry, it will all come out all right!”
“No, it won’t,” Edith replied, still sobbing, “This is the end for me, George” She sniffed, her tears abating slightly, and raised her face to his, “And for you too, I think, now. You’re the only one left … maybe.”
“Listen,” George said urgently, “There must be more people, especially in my neighbourhood where every cowboy owns a gun. I bet we’ll be safe there!”
“No, George, you go. Leave me here, but you go, and go quick, I don’t know how long it takes,” she dabbed at her eyes with her blood-stained hands and dragged a fist across her nose to clear the mucous before continuing, “Before I will want eat you”. She smiled a sad humourless smile at him.
George bent down and kissed her face, then her mouth. He left her, feeling more lonely than he had ever felt before.
Today …
… George was in the kitchen of the house with Bennie-or-Hennie, arguing over the prisoner. “Why the hell did you go and do that for?” George almost shouted.
“Hey, they were going to kill us, remember? What should I have done? Let him go for reinforcements?”
George had to admit that Bennie-or-Hennie had a point. Also, he was almost unable to function properly and so his debating skills were at an all-time low. His memory was still playing havoc with him. He could remember being hungry in the morning. He could remember Bennie-or-Hennie saying “Good thing they missed this time, hey?” He could remember that his fingers felt numb. George raised his hands to his face, and remembered ...
Yesterday …
… George jogged all the way home. There was no one about, it seemed, but he took no chances either and kept to bushes whenever he could. He could taste blood in his mouth.
Today …
… He felt his face, but his fingers weren’t working properly, and he couldn’t feel much. What he did manage to feel felt awful. His face was bleeding. He was hurt. He remembered how he had gazed at the strange creatures through the window of his house. He remembered seeing the prisoner, and at this point his stomach prodded him with even sharper pangs of hunger. He remembered Bennie-or-Hennie saying “Good thing they missed this time, hey?”
“Besides, we need this,” Bennie-or-Hennie was still talking even though George was not listening, “We haven’t eaten all day, remember? WE
NEED THIS!”
George, with the shock that comes with true revelation, ignored what Bennie-or-Hennie was blathering on about and walked out the kitchen and found a bathroom. He went in.
Yesterday …
… George wondered at which point of the day he had hurt his face. There was blood in his mouth, after all. He resolved to check it out properly only once home. He was not far now, only a block to go.
Today …
… George regarded his face in the mirror. Harry The Marksman had not missed his target this morning, when he fired the shotgun. The reason that George could not feel half his face was because half of his face was missing. Harry had not missed. George grinned mirthlessly into the mirror; Harry The Annoying Git and the rest of the pursuers were obviously still human. Edith had been wrong - there were still other humans around. And George had been right - George’s neighbours were still human.
Yesterday …
… George examined himself in the bathroom mirror back at his house. He had just enough time to realise that the only blood on his face and in his mouth was the infected blood from Edith’s hand before the convulsions started, and he passed out. He had no idea that, when he woke up, he’d be a whole new person, hell, even a whole new species …
I hope