Thanks Ted: A Zombie Short Story

A short that explores the experience of turning into a zombie.

     Blood. Dripping from my hand. The silence that surrounds me is surreally out of place. I look down at the sanguineous claw-hammer still clutched, backwards, within my cramping fingers. “Stupid” I thought. “A hammer? You’re in a f*****g toolshed and the first thing you go for is a hammer…” I look up to see not only ski poles, but even an oar for the canoe beside them in the rafters. If only I’d have had more time, I could have reached for something with more range. I could have kept him at bay.  Pain shoots through my forearm like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s accompanied by the strangest numbing sensation.

     I’d been bitten before. Hell, I grew up with a brother. He was a biter. The b*****d would lunge at me, no warning, jaw gnashing wildly. I can still hear the way that the sound from his teeth would resonate in the hollow void of his mouth, hoping to get a piece of me in there. On occasion, he would. His teeth would sink deep into my flesh. My hand, my arm, my face, wherever he could frantically place that meat grinder of a mouth. It hurt, bad, but not like this.

     This was altogether different from that familiar, haunting pain. It feels like a bizarre chemical burn, poisonous. Was this even happening? I must be having a nightmare, right?

     I look at my neighbour, Ted, lying motionless on the floor. I knew that this was happening. It’s been all over the news for days, but in my neighbourhood, already? The closest reported case had been over 300 kilometers away. Apparently, this s**t was spreading a hell of a lot faster than anyone was letting on. Surprise, surprise.

     I don’t blame them, I guess. I understand the panic it would cause. By now, though, we were all starting to panic anyway. All they did was delay the inevitable. Misinformation for the sake of the nation. Sometimes, we don’t need to be babied. Sometimes, what we need is the cold, hard truth, no matter how f*****g bad. It sobers us up. I know I would have been better prepared.

     My plan had been to go out to the shed, gather some equipment that would be useful, and go back inside to fortify the house. Nothing ever works how you planned it.

No sooner had I opened the door to the shed when Ted shambled up behind me. I should have been paying more attention, paranoid as I was. Alas, I heard nothing. He seized me from behind, one arm around my shoulder, one around my waist. I could hardly breathe, his strength was incredible, though it may have been partly due to the shock of the situation. How I didn’t void my bladder and bowels, I’ll never know.

     I felt the Vulcan death-grip of a pinch on my left shoulder, beside my neck. What’s that muscle called, the Trapezius? I can’t remember, my head is swimming.    

     The pinch was from Ted trying to bite through the canvas jacket I was wearing. It’s only early fall, but it’s cooled off considerably. I managed to slip out of the jacket and went straight to the workbench. That’s where the hammer had been lying. I grabbed it off the bench, the two claws used for prying nails facing out. I spun around violently, in case he was already coming for me. Sure enough, he was right on my tail.

      The claws missed, barely. They missed by so little, that the curve of the claw is what actually made contact. I felt his nose break as the head of the hammer whizzed past his. Blood spattered everywhere, but it wasn’t red. It was brown, like old rust, but in liquid form. The blow didn’t even phase him, let alone stop him. As momentum carried my arm to play out its full course of motion, it also made Ted play out his.

     He continued forward, pinning me against the bench. My arm displayed like a buffet. F**k…A hammer? Really? I look at the shovel in the corner, a short spade with a handle, splattered in what used to be blood. A veritable battle axe against neighbour Ted. I see the chainsaw also spray painted in syrupy rust. Not that I would have had time to start it, but still, it fills me with regret.

     Ted’s teeth sank into my flesh, deeper than my seemingly feral brother’s bicuspids and canines ever dared venture. The back of my right forearm, no longer covered by canvas armour, burned like nothing I’d ever experienced. I glimpsed Ted’s eyes for the first time, as they locked with mine. Gray and animalistic, a shark ravenous for blood. I saw no evidence of the person I once knew as “Ted” in those eyes.

     The man tried too damn hard. He reminded me of every character I’ve ever seen Tom Arnold play, every annoying neighbour on every annoying sitcom. Ever. He wore Hawaiian shirts all of the time! Seriously. Even now, with rust coloured splashes, there’s a f*****g Tiki mask smiling at me through the gelatinous mess.

     I always figured that if I had to kill someone, and it was Ted, I would have just a little bit less remorse than I should for doing it. I was right. It could also have something to do with the fact that I’m f*****g infected now. Thanks Ted. You douchebag.

     His soulless gray eyes, peering into mine. His bloody lips, kissing my forearm. For a brief moment, I could only stare. My heart was beating so fast, it made time crawl. Out of instinct alone, I wrenched my arm away from his mouth. The pain amplified itself, even more intense than before, rippling through my body. My stomach did backflips as I felt my tissues tear. My knees went weak, but my arm was free.

     My left hand, already around his neck, I brought the hammer high into the air and unleashed its fury, claws first, deep and hard into the top of Ted’s forehead. He began to convulse immediately, foaming at his bloody mouth. His legs went limp and I yanked the hammer out of his skull, taking with it a semi-solid mess between the claws.

     Ted dropped to the floor, gurgling. I must have crushed his esophagus. His convulsions ceased as I backed up to sit on the edge of the bench, trying to collect myself. Take stock of what the hell just happened. Entranced by my gaping wound, my veins already a dark purple around it.

     Ted twitches every now and then as what’s left of the life inside takes its leave. I see, for the first time, what looks to be a small bite mark on the outside of one of his hands. It’s small. Too small to have been committed by an adult-sized set of teeth.

     It’s Saturday. Middle of the month. Jesus. This was the one weekend a month the poor b*****d gets to see her. Ted’s daughter, Leena. It’s hard to believe, but this f*****g guy was married at one point. Turns out she couldn’t stand him either. Took everything he had, including their daughter. Cute kid. Curly brown hair. Must have been infected when she was dropped off.

     F**k me. Ted’s Ex is only a few hours from here. 300 k or so. F*****g hell, what a s****y way to go. I wonder how long this s**t needs before it takes over, and I become one of them. Feasting on the living. The only thing they do know, is that there is no cure. Not even death.

     What do I do? Live or die? Wait it out? What do you do when to continue to live is to die? I could kill myself, or let this fucked up kind of nature take its course and become a monster.

     Ted’s dead. By the amount of brown goo that’s seeped into those mocking f*****g Tiki masks, I’d say that Leena isn’t trying to bite anything anymore. How fucked up is it to have to kill your own daughter because she’s trying to eat your face? That means that if there is going to be a local outbreak, it would be from me. I’m no patient zero, but I’m a means to its stretching, infected tentacles.

     Is that my purpose? Outbreak monkey? What a title. So much for a college education. So much for my diet and all that gym time. Washboard abs don’t mean s**t if your skin is melting and you’re looking to make a snack out of someone’s intestines. How many calories does one serving of human have?

     I realize I’m still gripping the handle of the hammer, sticky and slippery at the same time. The only reason I’ve noticed is because I’m losing the feeling in my fingers. From my shoulder down now, everything feels somewhere between the pits-of-hell on fire, and euphorically numb, if that’s possible. I’m not even sure what’s possible anymore. I was obviously mistaken.

     My whole sense of self seems distant, detached. There’s a peace behind all of this that I cannot explain. In the face of the God-damned Zombie Apocalypse, I feel f*****g peace. I suppose it’s because, now, I’m part of it. Now I’m part of something at least. Life is so twisted.  

     The hole in my forearm, starting to look like rotten meat. Gray and lifeless. I feel sick. This can’t be happening to me!? Can it? This is totally happening. Get used to it.

     I’m not going to be all “Why me?” about this. I just don’t know what the f**k to do.

     If I kill myself, in an attempt to stop the outbreak from spreading in this area, I would pretty much have to use a gun. Need to destroy the brain, that’s what they said on the news. A shotgun would work best, really. One has to be sure. I don’t own a gun, though. I guess my dad was right, “Everyone should have one.” Well not everyone, but, you know.

     If I choose any other way, I’ll just come back as one of those things. I die if I do. I die if I don’t. Time is running out. I can feel it, working its way through me. Would I be preventing a plague, or just delaying it? Like the f*****g news and the inevitable panic.

     I’ve never been a religious man, but I do have to ask myself, where the f**k is God in all of this mess? Was he ever f*****g there in the first place? Will I take my own life and risk “Going to Hell” or allow “God’s Will” and become a flesh eating zombie a*****e? Is that God’s Will? F*****g Zombies!?

     Suicide Hell, or Zombie Heaven? What would you decide?

     Thanks Ted. You douchebag.

Author's Note

Sentence fragments are on purpose. I enjoy that style.

Reviews

[HeidiGrace]

How many calories DOES a serving of human have?? *Loved* it, Craig. The sentence fragments really add character, and I love that it''s a believable train of thought in the situation. The only thing I think I would poke at is the god-part near the end, seems just a little bit cliche, but the rest of it is genius. I didn't think a zombie story would be for me, but I thought it was great. Kinda reminiscent of the Jonathan Coulton song. Can't wait to check out your other stuff!

[NamelessBeast.]

I loved this, it's well written and captivating. I love the character that this guy has. Personally, I think the God part is a little cliche and overused, but I guess that's what a lot of people would think if faced with the choice of to become a zombie or not. You've got me wondering how many calories a serving of human has... I'll have to find out.