Holiday of the Dead (32 page)

I keep writing as it gets dark. The noises from the undead seem to be amplified in the desert night air. It’s quite cold but I’m comfortable and I write through the night. I do get up a few times and walk around in an attempt to make myself tired enough to go to sleep. I shuffle, in true undead style, all over the park and witness its grotesque and pitiful inhabitants going about their routines. Many act as they did when they were alive. I see three men in a circle feebly kicking an old red ball to each other. Some women seemingly admire each other’s clothing. Many of them even smile. Most, however, just scream and scratch at walls and the ground completely mad. I look up and see the lit walkways with the park’s guests looking down at us. Perhaps thinking that it could just as easily be them down here … Perhaps not …

As the sun rises I’m sitting under my bridge by the creek writing. It makes me feel comfortable to do what I love. I have a strong desire to shut out the world and ‘not look up from the page’ as it were. My writing and I, forever … It seems more possible every minute I’m here. I begin to hear voices and realize I’ve picked a spot near where visitors come to view the undead. The voices are garbled at first but soon become quite clear. I can see the people as they approach, and I can smell them as well. I can smell their cologne, their perfume, their sweat …

I can smell their warm blood.

“Hey I know that dude!” One voice rings out over the rest. “Shit that’s James Christian the author! He’s a freakin’ Zombie? No way!”

“Yeah it says here in the program that he killed and ate his girlfriend, that actress Carrie Cassidy, after he turned! Then he attacked and killed his publisher after he brought him here!” The other onlooker exclaims. “Wait, is he trying to write in that notebook? I gotta get a pic of this! It says here they try and hold onto what they loved in their lives.”

I hear them and see their gawking faces. How I wish the bridge and wall between us weren’t so high so I could taste their flesh. Fully aware, I look down at my journal. Torn, blood-scratched pages, nearly a hundred, turn in the breeze. Not a legible word to be found on any of them. It was now going to be impossible to fool myself any longer. The mind is a powerful tool, and you can make yourself believe anything really. But this charade may be over. I kept it alive as Nick and those men took me out of my apartment to bring me here. How long have I been dead? I really don’t know. The horrified looks from Nick and Carrie began weeks ago, just after I was bitten by the woman I thought was delivering my Chinese food. They tried so hard to keep me hidden in my apartment. Hoping I would stay docile. Hoping a cure would be found. I guess after killing and partially devouring Carrie that morning something had to be done with me. I enjoyed that immensely, but miss her terribly. When it did come time to be moved, Nick even wrote me that letter to make it easier on me. It must have been him; I knew deep down it wasn’t from the ZOMBIE WORLD Director. Nick fooled me into believing the story, out of love. And how did I repay him? By taking a large bite out of his neck in the receiving room as he dropped me off and said goodbye. But I truly feel no remorse … They kept me too long. It’s their fault not mine. I’m ill damn it! Sick to death literally! It was THEIR fault!

Yet somehow I managed to push all that out of my mind. To stay sane? Perhaps. Will I be able to do it again? There’s no way of knowing, but I hope I can. It’s blissful not to know. No matter now, as I’m likely about to continue the descent into uncontrolled madness that all of us eventually seem to succumb to. I’m as dead as any of the other poor souls here in ZOMBIE WORLD. I look up at my two fans taking pictures of me and talking to each other. I smell the air and I can almost taste their sweet flesh. I keep hoping somehow they slip and fall over the bridge and into my cold lifeless arms. The thought of tearing into their soft abdomens causes me to shriek at them long and loud. Loud enough to make them step back in fear, angry enough to make me smile a broad, toothy, smile.

I’m so very hungry, but I must stay on task. I must continue my writing. I’ll block them out; I’ll block them all out and work on my journal. Yes, I’m a writer after all, and I do have this journal to complete documenting my time here. My writing is all I have when push comes to shove. I’m a writer. A writer of books.

“Look he’s tryin’ to write again!” The familiar voice shouted. “He’s just scratchin’ at the paper. I think he believes he is writing. Poor bastard. Poor undead bastard …”

I hear them and laugh quietly at the fact that they are taken in by my ruse. I’m a writer and an actor it seems. I’m doing a story, a story that needs to be completed. I’ll shut them out, I’ll shut everything out, and journal it all.

I’ll write …

Day 2: I was viewed by park spectators today and even seemed to fool them into thinking I was a
Zombie
. They took pictures, amazed at how I acted and looked. How much more amazed they’ll be when they read this book! I’ll walk the grounds today and continue to gather entries. This opportunity is great and I need to stay on point to make the most of it. Once my time is up Nick and Carrie will come back for me and I can finish the book at home. I miss them both so much. Until then I’ll be a
‘
card
carrying’
resident of ZOMBIE WORLD.

THE END

SCHOOL’S OUT

By

Derek Gunn

Richard Doyle leaned out his car window and looked along the line of traffic in front of him. He sighed as he saw an endless line disappear round a corner at least half a mile away. Bloody traffic, he thought, it was getting worse instead of better. He jabbed at the off button on the radio, cutting short some politician’s boring tirade about the wonders of the new traffic and road signs that had been unveiled that week in preparation for the tourist season.

“You should come out here and see the chaos your bloody signs have caused and you wouldn’t be so smug,” he snapped at the now silent radio and then shrugged and looked around sheepishly at the other cars in case they had heard his outburst. No one had. He spent a few minutes looking around at the people in the lane next to him. He shrugged, smiled weakly and raised his eyebrows as he caught a woman’s eye in a car stuck in an equally long line going in the opposite direction. She smiled back with a bored expression and Doyle continued to look around. The early morning sun was already high in the sky and the heat through the windshield made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat. He loosened his tie and rolled down the window.

It wasn’t much better with the window open; the air was heavy with exhaust fumes and the stench set off a dull throbbing in his head. But the faint cool breeze was welcome regardless. He certainly hadn’t expected such good weather after yesterday. The news had been full of stories of the damage from the storm; trees uprooted, house roofs stripped bare and downed electricity lines all across the country. The warnings of the still dangerous cables pumping their power into the ground had filled the airways before that idiot with his road signs had come on.

Doyle only lived three miles from the school but it could still take nearly an hour to get to there. Of course, it didn’t help that he had left late either. He had stayed in the pub for a couple of extra pints last night, the unseasonable electric storm had made walking home something to avoid until the very last minute. Unfortunately, his late night had ensured that he just couldn’t get out of the bed without setting off explosions of pain in his head. He had been able to feel the heat from the early morning sun through his bedroom window. He had forgotten to close the curtains last night and he had lain in his bed, eyes tightly closed in fear of the searing light that he knew lay in wait, ready to pierce his eyeballs and send daggers of pain through him as soon as he opened his eyes.

It wasn’t until Jill had kicked him out on to the ground, where his bladder had decided that it deserved more attention than he was paying it, that he finally stumbled blindly to the bathroom. Once he was up it had been easier to dive under the shower and let the water kick his senses into gear than risk Jill’s wrath for disturbing her.

The cars moved another ten feet before stopping and Doyle moved forwards dutifully and pulled at the handbrake with a little more strength than was needed, leaving him struggling with the release when the car in front moved on again. The car behind announced its displeasure by honking loudly, its occupant gesticulating wildly.

“At least it’s the last day,” he sighed. Although, even one more day teaching those brats about their heritage just didn’t have the same appeal as it had a few years ago. He passed the gates of the cemetery on his left and his spirits rose; it was only another hundred yards to the school.

He’d always considered the placement of a school right opposite a cemetery a rather strange decision, but no more strange than putting unintelligible signs up all over the city and unveiling them for the first time on a Bank Holiday weekend. “People are dying to get in there,” he quipped as he finally moved past the cemetery and pulled into the car park, locked his battered Volvo and entered the building.

“All right settle down,” he said as loud as his throbbing head would allow. He had just managed to grab a strong cup of coffee before collecting his books and rushing to class, making it just in time before the bell rang. The Principal was just looking for an excuse to haul him over hot coals, pompous git that he was.

“Henshaw, sit down,” he snapped without even having to look up to see if the boy was indeed out of his seat. Henshaw was always out of his seat and, sure enough, this morning was no exception. Some things in life were gratifyingly constant.

The morning dragged and Doyle found his attention drifting as the boys wrote furiously. He had been delighted when he remembered that he had scheduled an exam for this morning, an extra hour to let his head settle was just what he needed. He glanced out at the sky and frowned. The sky had been blue when he had come in but now a large black mass was spreading over the sky like a cancer, corrupting the pure blue on contact and bringing with it a strong wind that whipped at the tops of the trees around the school.

“But, sir,” he pleaded, “there’s a woman out there with no clothes on.” The following rush of thirty five boys in the prime of their adolescence to the windows was unstoppable and Doyle resigned himself to letting them look before he even attempted to regain order. He gave into his own curiosity as he peered over the boys, ignoring their crude guttural grunts and comments as to the size of certain parts of the female anatomy.

Doyle’s classroom was on the first floor and at first he couldn’t see what the boys were ogling at. He was about to look away when he noticed two figures at the far end of the yard. They were just far enough away to make him squint but close enough to see that one of the figures was indeed female and totally naked.

What the hell? He thought. The woman was too far away to see in detail but he could see that her hair was plastered to her head in a wild tangle that covered most of her face and her breasts drooped badly as if the muscles had been unsupported for years. She stood perfectly still and didn’t acknowledge the man standing beside her.

The man, even more surprisingly, didn’t cast so much as a glance in her direction. He wore a suit; however, even at this distance Doyle could see that it was dirty and dishevelled. He was about to call the boys back to their seats when he saw John Gatley exit from the side door and approach the two figures, his coat outstretched, ready to wrap around the woman.

It would be Gatley, he thought as he watched the portly Maths teacher approach the woman. Gatley was a nut; frowning on drinking, smoking and any talk of a sexual nature. He condemned these vices and many others, damning any who might partake in any one of them. Doyle was hard pressed to find one of them he didn’t regularly partake in so he pretty much stayed away from Gatley. He had gotten used to the severe looks he received when he arrived into school somewhat the worse for wear.

Gatley reached the woman and Doyle could see his lips moving constantly, he was either praying really hard or giving the poor woman a hell of a lecture. The woman and man simply stared at Gatley for a second longer and then lurched towards him.

Doyle felt his heart pound in his chest as he watched the two figures approach the teacher. They moved awkwardly, almost drunkenly, and Doyle realised that they must be either pissed, stoned or both. He exhaled a breath in relief and opened his mouth to call the boys back when he heard the screaming.

The three figures appeared to be dancing in the yard with Gatley in the middle. Doyle squinted his eyes almost closed to try and see more clearly but they were too far away. Gatley screamed again and then fell to the ground where the two figures straddled him and began to tear at him. The woman leaned in close towards his head and seemed to pull hard at something before jerking backwards suddenly with something in her mouth.

“Oh Shit!” he whispered as his brain began to fill in the pieces. “Henshaw, Pierce, you two run down to each of the classrooms on the other side of the corridor and ask the teachers to come in here urgently. Don’t panic them but be firm. Higgins, Blatty, you two take this side. Everyone else back to your seats, now”

“But, sir,” a chorus of complaints filled the room.

“Now.” The boys recognised the authority in his tone and reluctantly obeyed. Doyle wasn’t entirely sure what was going on but Gatley had stopped screaming and his body was ominously still. The two figures continued to tear at the Maths teacher’s body. Doyle’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. Wild thoughts threatened to pull him in directions he really didn’t want to go but he forced himself to breath calmly. He would take this one thing at a time. First things first. He needed to secure the school and then he could allow himself to consider his raging imagination. Doyle scanned the yard just as Teresa Stuart, Geography and PE, came through into his classroom with a frown on her face.