13 Drops of Blood (14 page)

Jeez. That’s a bummer.

I didn’t consider
that
until just now.

Huh.

Anyways––

From what I can tell there are about forty-five people here, inside this… whatever it is. I guess it’s an office. Four physicians. Ten wounded. Another ten military and about twenty civilians––normal people like you and me. Well… not me. But you know what I mean. Plus there are fifty or sixty zombies kept in different cages. I was one of those, picked at random and given the shots.

Hold on.

PLEASE LEAVE.

I’M FINE.

NO. HONEST, I’M FINE.

I FEEL GREAT.

YES. THANK YOU.

PLEASE, GIVE ME BREATHING ROOM.

THANKS.

Sorry. They came back in, wanting to check up on me again. I can’t say I blame them. I would have checked in on me before now.

Oh, here’s something else I should mention: I have no tongue. I chewed it off at some point, which is why I’m typing instead of being interviewed verbally. This is also the reason (as I’m sure you can guess) I have to write my thoughts to the men in charge. If I could tell them what happened––or tell them to bugger off while I write this note––I would.

So, I’ve avoided reliving my personal story for as long as possible. I guess I should begin. After all, that’s what they’ve asked me to do, and that’s why they’ve put me inside this room: to tell my tale.

But really, I can’t help thinking: what’s the point? Is my depiction of tragedy going to be much different then all the rest? I think not. The fact that I’m writing these pages should be proof enough that the medicine they’ve given me is working, right? Isn’t
that
the significant thing? I think so.

So, for what it’s worth––doctors and scientists––the medicine is good. It’s a little late in the game for me, though. In case you haven’t noticed.

For those of you in charge: you should try your remedy out with the
recently
infected, give them the injection
before they die
. Or at the very least: shortly after.

A side note:

Do you know what I’m looking at?

My fingers.

Do you know what my fingers look like? Can you guess?

Let me give you a hint:

I’ve been dead for three months. My flesh is rotting. I’ve used my hands to smash through doors and walls, to break windows and dig holes, to rip apart throats, break bones and snag flesh from muscle. My fingers have shredded peoples ribs and faces and been dragged along asphalt. Not only that, but my wounds won’t heal.

Now can you guess what my fingers look like?

I have no pinky on my left hand, no ring finger either. A zombie chewed them off. My knuckles are showing. Not the skin, I mean the knuckles. I have tattered piles of green meat bunched together in-between my fingers. My fingernails are all black and gray––except for the three fingernails that are missing. (BTW - I have no idea what happened to them so don’t ask.) If I squeeze my bloated hands into fists, maggots fall like rain. I stink. Even
I
can tell how much I stink.

God… I am so disgusting now.

I hate to say this, but they need to kill me. I mean, like, REALLY kill me. Cut off my head or something, you know? I’m not in much pain, believe it or not. But I don’t want to live this way.

Live.
Huh.

I guess this isn’t exactly
living
now, is it? Not with my heart sitting in my chest like a cold, dead frog.

Uh oh.

I can… I can feel the medicine losing its potency. Oh no, oh no. The sickness inside my brain is returning. Shit.

Know how I can tell?

Easy. The anger is coming back. I can feel the fury and the hatred bubbling just beneath the surface of my thoughts. The rage and turmoil inside my body is growing. This is no good. I probably need another––

GET OUT OF HERE.

NOW.

NO, I DON’T WANT YOU HERE.

GET LOST!

Sorry. The military guys came back again.

What was I saying? Oh yeah. The medicine’s effectiveness is weakening. This means––

Damn. I feel stupid admitting this, but I shouldn’t have told the soldiers to leave. I should have asked for another injection.

Well, shit. Too late now. Next time they come in I’ll ask for another shot. No biggie. I’m sure they’ll return before long.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

Okay. I’m going to tell my story before I lose my train of thought. I’m a family man. No, wait. Lets start with the basics. My name is David Kyle McClure. I’m a 38-year-old bus driver, or at least I was before the shit hit the fan. I’m six feet tall. I have short brown hair and a light skin tone. I like basketball; my favorite team is the Nets. I enjoy reading books by Dan Brown, Michael Crichton and Ian Rankin. My favorite type of music is eighties rock. Bands like Depeche Mode, The Smiths, Human League, The Cure…

Ugh. I’m not going to describe myself this way. It seems stupid somehow. I’m just going to… ah, never mind.

Let me start again.

For the past nine years I’ve been married to the best women in the world. Her name is Kathy. She’s the love of my life and I’m so lucky to be with her. Kathy and I were married in California on a warm summer’s day and we have two wonderful children: Tammy and Josh. Yep… that’s right, a boy and a girl. Tammy’s ten and Josh is – was – eight.

Damn. This is hard.

Okay… let me give it another shot.

My wife’s name… was… Kathy.

Fuck.

I don’t know if I can do this.

Oh crap. I’m starting to cry.

Give me a minute…

GET THE HELL OUT!

GET OUT!

I’LL FUCKING TELL YOU WHEN I’M READY!

Sorry. I was just thinking about stuff, is all. For the last twenty minutes or so I haven’t been typing anything. I’ve just been sitting here thinking about all the terrible shit that’s happened to me.

It’s not fair, you know? It’s not. Everything is so fucked up; it makes me very upset.

Why am I the infected one, huh? Why me? Why not someone else? Why am I the one to have his fingers chewed off by that friggin’ priest?

Oh yeah. I probably didn’t mention THAT part of the equation, did I? That’s right. A priest infected me! Kathy thought it would be a good idea to go to church. She said, “We might not be any safer but at least we’ll be in God’s hands.” The kids were crying and I’d been awake for about forty hours and I didn’t know what to do. I needed rest more than anything else in the world and she said if we went to church we’d meet up with other people and they’d be able to take watch for a while. I argued with her. I said it was a stupid idea but she kept complaining, again and again, until I finally snapped.

I said, “Okay honey! We’ll go to that stupid fucking church if you’ll shut your big mouth… but it won’t be my fault if something happens. And guess what? Something happened! Zombies were everywhere and we were attacked before we made it to the bloody car! Oh fuck. If I had realized how stupid my dumb bitch of a wife was I never would have listened. Sometimes she makes me sick! I should have stabbed her with a fucking machete. I should have smashed her goddamn face apart with a hammer. I’m not kidding. I hate stupid bitches. I don’t know why I ever married that fat fucking cow. I could have done so much better than her. I’ve hated her for years. She ruined my life, giving me those useless fucking brats. I should have left her. Or better yet, I should have demanded a pair of abortions and then left her.

I fucking hate my children, and I fucking hate stupid fat fucking know-it-all-sluts that think they’re smart but are so goddamn dense they should fucking die. Bitches like Kathy make me furious! I wish I had smashed her teeth out with my fist and blasted the kids with a shotgun. I wish I had raped her ass with my fist and chopped her head off with an axe.

Want to know what happened? Listen to this:

I had Tammy’s hand. Kathy had Josh. I opened up our front door and out we went. We didn’t have a gun; we didn’t have a knife. We didn’t have anything but a GOOD FUCKING IDEA, right honey? Right, sweetie-pie? Right, love of my GODDAMN life? Yes. Of course that’s right. And then what happened? There’s no need to guess ‘cause you know the fucking answer: out came the zombies! That’s right! They were on the street, in the yards, between the houses. One jumped off the neighbor’s roof!

Oh Kathy, why did I listen to you? You’re a stupid whore and if you were here right now I’d snap your fucking neck. I’ll cut your throat and drink your blood. I’d rip the eyes out of your head and stuff them up your goddamn cunt. I would. I swear it, I really would.

I don’t want these fucking ropes on me. I fucking hate these ropes. They’re making me furious.

I’m taking them off.

Otay. Where was I?

Oh yes. We were running to the car and these zombies came at us. I wish I could say that I didn’t recognize any opf them but I did. I did reconizr= tehm. Howard Zolfo was there. He looked ;so fuckin stupid. He had hafe his face tornd off and all dis blood on his shirt. He was screaming and chewing on something and

GET THE FUCCK OUT! 

GAT OUT!!!!

His shirt was bloodie and his face was filled wif scabs and he grabbed my boy. My stupid boy. I watched him snap my boyz neck with wif his zombie fingers aand I yelled don’t but he did it anyways and what do i care? Joshs eyes turned whte and blod s plashd on the drivewey and I runned to the car and it was only my wife and me and my little gurl Tammy. They ate josh. I hate him and tammy so much that i started 2 cry when I saw that she had blod all over her face and her arm ribbed a part. I loved thm and ii hated tham and I runned over some people on the road when we were driving and some of them were zombies but not all of themm . some ware people. Like misses haper. I runned over misss s harper but ii din’tt meen two. i saw her head smash opan and i was crying and so was my wife and we went to 2 church but it was no better.

Preople weree screeming andd thay were fighing and the zombies were everywhere they took myn girl. They took tammy and she sad daddy! daddy whe I was trin to get tham 2 stop she sad daddy and they bit my fingerz. Iscreamed but it didn’t matters. I watched my wife got biten and i killed the priest with my broken hands but it waz to latye. I was enfected. My lattle girl was rppid intwo pieces. Laterv that night iwas a zomboe i and aand I ddon’tb know n what happin next but ii was eating people and I kiiled my wif an she was good. she tasteddgood that tastedb like steaks aand I wants 2 eats morev= steaks cause- i love killing i love killing i love killing love and ii chued my tongu off caz id was hungreee killm di.d mjhr fin9877 an eatiung steajs zombies were averywhere aand ii was one oftham and i liked blood it and

soon they will cum inn the door ands

IcOMEe

IN CoME Innn

I will kill them all ccccause that’s whnat a zombie do. COME INN and ii ama azombie now now kkk kkkkkkkkkkkill tham all rurf r rirqh ghhg gihgqr9qri’GjjjQcause now I like eatinkillingieat preole ii wants them 2 come in come inR;m 888ir9gpt hy bgpfaeo

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* * *

SUMMER OF 1816

She was a writer who couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. The words on the page came slowly, painfully, if they came at all. After an hour and ten minutes, Mary Shelley, frustrated, lowered her head and dropped the pen from her hand, allowing the ink to drip. She slid her high-back chair away from the lavish table an inch, maybe two. She had no concept, no story. Inspiration was thin at best.

It was time to quit with the scribbles, call it a night.

The downpour of rain, the violent lightning, the excessive thunder. These things brought darkness and gloom, painting an image of misery while casting an enormous eclipse over the city. Tonight, like every other night this month, the storm was dominant, making it virtually impossible for Mary to maintain a level of attentiveness or concentration.