Diaries of the Damned (17 page)

Chapter 13 – Do What You Need To

Tim looked none of them in the eye as he spoke. Despite being unsteady on his feet, he refused to take a seat. “There isn’t really that much to tell. I mean, you do what you need to do in order to survive. You get from the start of a day to the end in one piece. The world has changed. It isn’t like what it used to be. Our values have had to change, too. Survival. That is what it is all about.”

“I agree with you, Tim. How did you change? What did you do to survive?” Paul asked, hoping to get the conversation into a flow as soon as possible. The man was drunk and seemed more interested in playing the tough guy than offering anything constructive.

“You’d love to know that, wouldn’t you? You all want to know how Tim survived. Well, none of you wanted to know about me before it happened. I wasn’t fucking good enough!” He slurred his words and fell suddenly silent. His eyes took on a distant, glassy look. For a moment, Paul was certain that Tim’s role in his story had already reached its conclusion. Then, with a wet belch, consciousness returned, and Tim resumed his story. “You all looked down on me before the zombies arrived. Never gave old Tim a chance, did you? Now look who is coming crawling back looking for answers.” His voice rose with each sentence uttered, and one by one the other passengers turned their heads to stare his way; an act that only seemed to enrage him further.

“I have never met you before, Tim. I do not know you, nor do I judge you. Please, have a seat and tell me your story. How did you survive out there?” Paul kept his voice emotionless, but his tone sincere. Tim stared at him, his face a deep shade of red. He gave a sigh, and collapsed into the seat beside Jessica. She gave a quiet groan – which only Paul heard – and adjusted her position in the chair.

“Fine, I’ll tell you anything thing want to know. You want to hear all the gory details? I mean, I didn’t fuck any of them, like this schoolboy here.” He pointed with an unsteady finger toward Robert. “My dick would have been colder than their cunts at the thought of it.” He made no attempt to hide his lecherous gaze that rested on Jessica.

Jessica, who no longer saw the need to stand on professional ceremony, rose from her chair with a disgusted look and stepped over Paul to take the spare seat on the other side. Paul couldn’t help but smell her perfume; Chanel No.5. It had been his wife’s favorite also. “I’ll get
him some coffee,” she growled when Tim shot her a grin that made his glance seem almost suave. “And I might just throw it over him,” she grunted in an angry whisper that only Paul and Leon heard.

“Where do you want me to start then, hey? I can tell you all about how I busted th
eir heads open, or about how...they ate my wife.” The emotion in his voice changed from anger to pain midsentence. “Is that what you want to hear, Mr. Writer?” Anger once again flashed in Tim’s eyes, and Paul realized, as he had done when he leaned in to reassure Monique, the intense trauma the man had been through.

“Start wherever you think is the important place to start. This is your tale to tell.” Paul knew he would have to be patient with Tim, but it didn’t bother him.

Chapter 14 – Tim Dunn

“I can’t believe this flu,” Mary Dunn sighed as she set the phone down on the kitchen worktop.

“What’s happened?” asked Tim, her husband of fifteen years. He sat at the dining table, which was in the center of their open kitchen-cum-dining area. His face was a picture of concentration as he scoured the wanted advertisements for any job he could find.

“The hospital just called. There are only two nurses on duty tonight. The rest have all called in sick. They need me to go back in right away,” she answered him as she cast a glance over her shoulder at the meal she had been working on all afternoon. “I know it’s our anniversary, but they didn’t give me a choice,” she began to sob. Tim rose and embraced his wife, kissing her on the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’ll love you even more tomorrow, so we can celebrate then instead.” He took her face in his hands and tilted her head so that she looked into his eyes. “Go save lives, honey. I love you.” He kissed her and tasted her tears.

Mary turned and instructed Tim on how to finish cooking the meal, and made him promise to serve himself up a plate so that it didn’t go to waste. She then went upstairs to change, and Tim returned to his job hunt. He had worked for the same electronics company since he left school, and had worked his way up to being a regional store manager. Three weeks ago, he had arrived to open up the store only to find a paper notice taped to the window advising all staff that the company had gone bankrupt overnight and that all of their positions had been terminated, with immediate effect. Since that morning, Tim had applied for more than fifty jobs, been invited for three interviews, one of which was given to a potential candidate before he even got the chance to answer any questions.

“I don’t know when I will be home. They said it would be open shifts until this flu passes or the staff numbers get back up again. I’ll call you from the hospital the moment I know more,” Mary called as she grabbed her coat from the rack by the door. Her phone was vibrating in her pocket, advising her of the five missed calls she had received from the hospital. Her mind was occupied with all manner of things, so the fact that there was a figure on the other side of the door didn’t even register. It was only when she walked into it that she noticed it was there.

She gasped, but stifled her scream the moment she saw that it was their neighbor, Russell Bishop. He stood still, and didn’t make a sound. He stared at Mary, his eyes sunken and dark. His face was pale, and he was dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and his underwear. Before Mary could do so much as expr
ess her concern at his lack of dress in the freezing wintery air, he attacked. Russell was a sixty-year-old, lifelong accountant, who had lost his wife to cancer two years ago. Yet as his hands clamped down on Mary’s arms, his grip felt like a vice. His hands were cold, like stone, and the speed with which he moved had a graceless, jerky quality to it. Before Mary could scream, her mouth filled with hot, coppery blood, and she was drowning. The pain didn’t register until the heat subsided. Russell gave a growl and shook his head like a dog with a new toy. Mary’s skin tore away and sent thick arcs of blood pumping into the air. The strength left Mary’s body immediately. It was all she could do to raise her bare hands to her throat before she hit the floor. As Russell stood over her, Mary remembered he had been sick the day before, and could see in his lifeless eyes, that he was as dead as she soon would be. She tried to call out, but all that escaped her lips was a rushed gargle of air. She closed her eyes, waiting for Russell to move in once more, but he didn’t. A scream from out in the street caught his attention. He sniffed the air like a predator, his mouth still full with flesh cleaved from Mary’s neck. He swallowed it, turned and walked away, in pursuit of a new kill.

Mary tried to move, she tried to inch herself into the kitchen, but the floor was slick with her blood, and her old tennis shoes slipped without gaining any traction. With her body in mid twist, her hear craned back in search of her husband, Mary felt her body grow cold. A convulsion rocked her entire frame, followed by a burning cramp, which moved like a wave, and ushered in the inevitable darkness of death.

Tim had not heard the scuffle between his wife and neighbor. The entire encounter had lasted but a few seconds, and he had once again immersed himself in the job sections of the local paper. A chill wind swept into the kitchen, and rustled the paper on the table. Tim looked up, and felt the change in room temperature. He rose, checked the pans on the stove and turned them off, as instructed.

With no idea as to what awaited, Tim walked into the living room, in search of the reason for the draft. He saw the front door was open, and for the first few steps he took, that was all he saw wrong with the room. The moment he saw his wife, the way her body laid still and twisted
on the floor surrounded by a sea of congealing blood, he collapsed. The tears were instant, they burned his cheeks the same way the rising vomit burned his throat.

“Mary,” he called, as h
e crawled over the floor toward her.

Tim
could see the wound in her neck, and the look in her eyes. Her upper body had turned, while her legs remained flat, in an image reminiscent of a baby during their first attempts to turn.

“Mary,” Tim called again. The room began to spin. Another gust of cold wind ran down the street and into the house, bringing with it the echo of a multitude of screams; a wailing anguish that surely contributed to the cold feel of the evening.

For Tim, time stopped. All he knew was that his wife was dead beside him. He did not even entertain the notion that the killer might still be in the house. It didn’t bother him. The haze that had gripped his mind like a cold fever dulled everything to a strange pulsating nothingness. This was a sensation Tim would happily live with for the rest of his life if it kept grief at bay. Only when he heard a deep, foreign growl did he move his gaze from the ceiling. He turned his head and noticed immediately that Mary had moved. Her body was no longer twisted. Her arms reached out in search of solace no more. She lay on her front, and her hands were flat on the floor besides her shoulders. It was Mary that had voiced the growl. As Tim watched, the muscles in her arms twitched, and she pushed herself from the floor. The blood she had laid in had congealed, and dropped from her rising body like a jelly. Tim sat in silent incredulity as Mary got to her feet. Her white nurse’s uniform was stained a violent red. Loose shards of flesh around the wound in her neck billowed like flags in the wind. She gave another growl, and moved toward Tim.

“Mary…
you’re alive!” Tim scrambled to his feet, not to flee, but to embrace his wife. They had been friends before lovers and remained both long after marriage. Tears filled his eyes once more, but the joy in his heart cooled them.

Mary took slow and unsteady steps, her balance all but gone. Her feet shuffled along the floor rather than lifted. “We need to call you an ambulance. Come here.” He held out his arms, and Mary moved in close to him.

She gave another growl, and as Tim wrapped his arms around her, he felt how cold and stiff her body was. He pulled her close to him, and felt her draw no breath. His brain made the connection long before his heart would admit it. Even as her grip tightened and her head moved in toward his neck, with her jaw stretched wide, Tim refused to accept any thought other than his wife had somehow survived the unsurvivable.

She survived death…death, co
ming back, she came back to me…from the dead…the dead are rising…zombies…FUCK!
The thoughts hit Tim in a rush, as he felt his wife´s teeth graze his neck. “No!” he yelled, pushing his wife away with a strength that surprised him.

Mary stumbled backward
, her jaws gnashing in hunger-fuelled fury. Her face was white from blood loss; her eyes sunken pits of darkness. This told Tim all he needed to know. Whatever it was that caused his wife to get back up, life wasn’t it, and what had returned resembled his wife in body alone.

Another growl came from Mary’s throat. She moved forward once more, her hands reaching out not in search of comfort, but nourishment.

Tim sidestepped her advance with ease, and ran from the hall into the living room. Mary followed, as he expected. The living room was small, and filled with two sofas, a coffee table and a dresser unit. A quick lap of the room and Tim was standing by the kitchen while Mary was struggling to maneuver around the coffee table.

“I’m sorry
, my love,” he whispered as he closed the door. The sound of pounding fists came not too long after the door closed. With no lock on it, Tim knew it would only be a matter of time before his dead wife either figured it out, or broke through the cheap wood.

Tim’s mind charged at a mile a minute; his breaths coming quick and deep. He was close to hyperventilating, and his vision was dull and blurred. Tim stumbled into the kitchen, with the grace of a drunk on Saturday night. He opened the cupboard beside the oven and grabbed the first bottle from the shelf. He opened it and drank deeply. The fire of the alcohol burned through the fog and brought with it a sense of clarity. There was a crash from the hallway and Tim remembered that the front door was still open. Grabbing the kitchen knife from the counter Tim moved into the hallway, uncertain of what lay in wait. The screams from elsewhere in the street were enough to tell Tim that something was wrong. He tightened his gri
p on the blade and moved toward the door. The source of the crash had been a fight between three neighborhood cats, who now all sat side by side lapping up the cooling pool of blood. They looked up at Tim as he approached, their eyes wide and dark. All three growled at him, their claws at the ready.

“Scat.” Time clapped his hands and stamped on the floor. The animals moved, but did not run. They backed away, keeping low to the ground, their ears flat against their heads. Tim knew
that they were afraid, and so tried a different tactic. He crouched down and called them to him. “Come on, it’s ok, come here.” He rubbed his fingers together and tapped his nails on the floor, but the animals backed even further away. They were half way out of the door when the first one pricked its ears up and ran away. The other two felines attempted the same evasive maneuver, but stopped when a pair of undead hands clamped around their middles. Tim jumped as Russell appeared in the doorway. His face and chest were stained with blood. He had a large gash on his flank, which had been the cause of his demise. He held a cat in each hand and squeezed. The animals cried and twisted their flexible bodies in an attempt to break free, but were unsuccessful. They moved in a flash of teeth and claws, but the injuries they inflicted were ignored. Russell’s grip tightened, the muscles on his forearms bulged – solid from years of golf and country club tennis – until one of the beasts also began to bleed. Blood spat from his lips as it hissed and growled at the man that held it. Russell shook the creature until it fell silent, not dead but dazed. He raised it to his mouth and before Tim could move either in defense of the creature or retreat, teeth had sunk through the fur and pierced the skin beneath. Blood spurted from the wound and ran down Russell’s hungry face. As he tore the flesh away from the animal’s body, the cat let out a cry that was beyond description. A high-pitched wail that sounded human.

Russell spat out the mouthful of fur, and grabbed the dying animal with both hands. His other captive fell to the floor immobile; its spine broken by the powerful grip. Its head thrashed on the floor, while urine and fecal matter flowed from its rear the way blood flowed from its then deceased friend. Russell buried his face in the animals flank and gobbled down the bite-sized organs with a satisfied growl.

A crash from behind him told him that his wife had made inroads to her escape also. Seeing no other option than to fight or flee, he charged at his dead neighbor, plunging the large knife into his chest. It slid through the man’s flesh with a slick ease. Tim released his grip and stepped back. His hands shook, and his jaw dropped as the man he had comforted after the death of his wife stared at the blade, and proceeded to amble toward him as if nothing had happened.

“Russell. Hey neighbor, it’s me… Tim.”

The zombie showed no interest in conversation. His mouth moved, but only with hunger. Strips of cat flesh hung from his teeth, while blood had painted his lips a deep burgundy.

“Shit!” Tim cursed as the door to the living room cracked down the middle only to be forced open by Russell, who had mistaken the occupant for being alive. It gave Tim a window
however, and he took it. He ran through the house, into the kitchen where he slammed the door closed and pushed the dining table against it.

With no time to collapse into the shock that tempted him so delightfully, Tim grabbed the bottle of drink and took another long, throat-scorching gulp. He followed this up with two more.

By the time fists began to pound on the kitchen door, Tim was long gone. He vanished into the world, leaving behind a half empty bottle of liquor and a knife rack that was missing two blades.

Tim and Mary lived in a cozy cul-de-sac in a small town just outside of the city. When they had bought their house, it had been a small rural community. As the years passed, the farmland that had separated them from the city was replaced by housing estates and promises of planned development.  The road through their town filtered directly onto the ring road. It was there that Tim headed, panic and alcohol fuelling his movements. He gave no thoughts to whether others had experienced similar fates, at either end of life’s spectrum.