– “THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED”
Like Dostoevsky banished to Siberia, I was trapped no matter where I tried to go.
I woke up and Mack the ugly kid was gone. My legs had disappeared again – a cruel dream after all it seemed. The rest of the house remained eerily quiet. I heard a faint noise, like a child gently tapping their knuckles against a wooden door. I followed the distant chapping, my gut forgetting about its hunger and focusing on turning nervously like a cement mixer.
The basement, it was coming from the basement. I pressed my ears to the door to clarify the source. It was definitely coming from the basement. Something or someone was down there. I could almost make out moans behind there too. Agonised moans from something that needed to be put out of its misery. I reached for the doorknob and twisted it open slightly. The moaning went all high pitched as if I’d startled whatever it is that’s lurking in the basement. Eventually I plucked the courage to pull the door, but it bursts open with an exerted force from the inside, prat-falling me onto my ass. When I look up I see the ugly kid. He’s different though. His eyes were hollowed into deep caves, and when I looked closer I saw that one eyeball was totally gone, like it’d been pecked out by a buzzard. The left side of his face was wasted to tissue. He shambled forward a little and revealed his mother Martha traipsing behind him. The massive shotgun wound I’d dealt her hung open in a flap of skin on her left side. She opened her mouth and a spit-ball of blood poured out. Its blood that looked infected – bright red like the Kensington kind. The fog around the trailer park town had clearly had an effect. The Crimson Sphere was not meant to inhabited. I was shocked to see Martha’s once full head of hair reduced to dead strands over her naked scalp. They both lurched towards me making choked, guttural sounds.
– You guys look awful – I say, trying hopelessly to make light of this, to make them give up the charade. What little flesh remaining intact seemed to be ravaged by sepsis. They’re both saturated in viscera too, as if they’d been eating each other through no alternative.
I couldn’t move, not even crawl. I could see the expressionless faces of the un-dead creatures become a sinister rictus when they realised that I could provide them with food. Just in time I dragged myself upwards, back to the wall and crab-walked through the kitchen and into the bathroom. I frantically locked the door behind me.
Outside I heard them stumbling around, knocking over lamps like malfunctioning robots in a china shop. The adrenaline pumped courses of blood through my ears. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in my face. There was only one thing to do. I’m going to have to kill them AGAIN!
After taking several deep breathes, I was ready to get out into the living room where the zombie humanoids were still wandering aimlessly, motivated by their craving for flesh. I turned into the kitchen and located a weapon – a sledgehammer from an open toolbox. It was heavy in my hands and I was going to have to be careful swinging this thing around without any legs to steady myself. I followed the moans and in turning the corner, was left standing directly behind Mac’s back. Before he even got the chance to face me, I’d descended the sledgehammer into the roof of his head, caving in the skull on immediate impact. The huge swipe required my entire torso. Sprays of blood and matter squirted up into my face. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, ceasing his monstrous groaning. Mother Martha was slow to react and I’d plenty of time to spring across the room, deftly avoiding a futon and magazine rack, to smash the hammer into her face. She goes careening back through the drywall. A shower of dust and plaster rained down over the hole she created. Neither zombie really reacted to the pain but once I’d destroyed the brain they both went down straight away. I sat for a moment stunned. The sledgehammer fell from my hands to the floor and made a splintering hole in the plywood where it stuck, handle facing upwards. I had to get out of there. I felt the fear shake me involuntarily.
First – a sort of malarial headache then something else. A lump forms in my throat like a road block and I struggle to swallow it back down. So I let go. I was so fucking scared.
Out the window I’d seen something I never thought I’d see. It was something plucked straight from the most absurd, dark nightmare imaginable. Waves of limping, groaning corpses were walking in files down the street like an un-dead gay pride march. I hoped this was a nightmare.
Out the window the zombies were making a commotion. A space craft buzzed by overhead. For a moment I thought it might’ve been one of the expedition coming to rescue me.
It seemed as if they were all dying from starvation anyway. Then something hit me – how could I have been so irresponsible? I fed from the bodies in that town. If I’d consumed infected flesh, that meant I was destined to become a zombie stuck here on the Crimson Sphere! My zombie folklore wasn’t great. I forgot the rules. I was already in the process of changing into something. Who knew what kind of a fucked up mutant hybrid I might wind up? I felt devoured by panic and dread. At least I knew that when it came to my survival they could be held off and killed.
Downstairs, I couldn’t even bare to look at the sledgehammered corpses. I picked up the weapon that’d become embedded in the plywood.
And so here I am…
This is the ultimate fight for me. I guess I’ve always been fighting against the living… even you. Out the front door, the zombies are all moving clumsily in the same direction like extras from that Michael Jackson Thriller video
They’re slow and cumbersome so I’ve time to throw myself around and avoid being bitten. Although they’re vicious and alert they have a cowed sense of mistrust deep within the dead stare, as if something in them has been broken – perhaps the spirit? I’m finally getting used to the weapon. Morrissey gives me some extra strength – ♪ I want to go home ♫
A zombie wearing a camouflage shirt and faded jeans gets his jaw bone knocked right off (it was already rotted and almost detached anyway!). He comes towards me with his tongue flopping around, drooling saliva and dropping little teeth from his mouth in the shape of crooked gravestones. The top of his head is dappled with liver spots. I smash his brain in with the hammer and he swoons backwards onto his back. Another guy, (whose decomposition began long before the nuclear fallout, with his chain smoking eyes and bitten fingernails), paws at me, misses and falls directly onto his chin which crushes against the pavement and causes the remainder of his face to collapse. I’m getting cocky. The enemy isn’t as formidable as one might’ve thought.
By the time you find me I don’t know what condition I’ll be in. I can hold off these redneck zombie aliens for a while but I can only swing this sledgehammer for so long. I may be hideously deformed by the radon gases on this planet’s atmosphere – the changes have affected me significantly.
I am sorry for what happened to my crew, to my friends, but I am already losing memory of who I was before I landed in the Crimson Sphere’s desert plane…
So I suppose I must belong somewhere else now.
But somewhere else…