Saturday, 2 February 2013

A Day in the Death of . . .

Morning. 6 o’clock. Too early. The alarm blares, filling the otherwise peaceful bedroom with a painful siren of activity. Slowly, the body in the bed rises a hand from underneath the covers, and slaps it against the clock.
Doing so, it dislodges one of his thumb-bones. The little white speck rolls out of the rotten flesh of those fingers and onto the carpet, to disappear amongst the forgotten socks and debris. The arm was green and yellow from rot, with skin hanging loose like forgotten, laundry left on the clothesline during the rain. Slowly, he rises from his bed, and throws his legs to the floor. Half the toes of his left foot were left under the blanket, and his feet kept flaking skin onto the floor as he finally rose and stumbled out of the bedroom.
Slowly, creakily, he makes his way into the kitchen, opens a cupboard and fetches a chipped coffe mug. He pours cold water from the kettle, coffee from the jar, sugar and milk in it, then opens the cutlery drawer.
Hmm. No spoons.
He picks up a knife and stirs with the handle. Then, having achieved a lumpy brown, watery liquid, discards the knife in the sink and drinks from the mug. Without lips, the cup clinks against his teeth and spills half the liquid down his throat and the rest down his bloody pajama front.
Happily caffeinated, the zombie drops the cup to the ground with a beautiful smash! and turns to the bathroom. Switching the tap on, he steps inside the shower and stares, with one blind, white eye, up into the stream and blinks as it hits his face. A few more strands of hair fall down to get caught in the plug hole, as well as the spilled coffee, some flaked scabs and an unlucky fingernail. When his pajamas are sufficiently soaked through, he turns off the tap, steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around himself and heads for his bedroom again.
Water drips on the floor all the way down the hall, wetting the the dirt, blood and broken belongings all over the floor. In the bedroom, he stands before the cupboard and opens the door. There’s about three pairs of suit pants and two business jackets left. He drags a set off the hangar and drags them onto his body. As stiff as his limbs were, getting dressed was rather difficult. But the zombie manages to pull the pants on, one leg at a time, without losing any more toes, and slips the jacket over his shoulders. Finally, finding a tie on the ground, he ties it in a half-hearted knot and heads out of his room. Tripping over some of the bones and crap on the floor, he heads to the front door.
Stepping outside, the sun was bright, stinging the iris of his one good eye. The zombie groans as he heads down the driveway, but the sun felt nice, and the last thirty or so strands of hair on his head were still wet from the shower, and appreciated the heat. Next door, his neighbour was busy weeding the garden. Seeing the zombie, he suddenly jumps to attention.
  “Hey! Good morning, Zee,” says Mr Jenkins.
  “Urrgarrh,” says the zombie.
  “Say hi to Patty for me, will you.”
  “Hurr rargh,” replies the zombie, opening the car door, and slipping inside. The windscreen was cracked. He turns the key, already in the ignition, and turns on the windscreen wipers as he backs out of the driveway. The car hits the street, running over the neighbour’s dog with a short yelp as he spins into the correct lane and drives off.

After crashing into his parking space, the zombie gets out and heads for the lift.
     “Morning, Zee,” says an unimportant colleague already inside, as the doors slide open.
     “Yerr rargk,” says zombie, mashing the keypad.
The lift heads up to the thirteenth floor.
     “Hurrg Brargh,” grumbles zombie.
     “Good morning,” says Patty, the receptionist. The zombie heads into the office and finds his cubicle. He sits at his desk and looks at his computer. The screen was smudged with something green and sticky, and was cracked in the top corner. Turning on the computer, the zombie immediately starts hitting at the keys, mashing randomly. With a missing thumb, it was hard to type, but he made up for it by using his palms to slap haphazardly at the spacebar.
     “Morning, Z,” says his boss, walking past.
The zombie grunts in response and keeps ‘typing’. He had a lot of work to do . . .
After about seven hours of that, zombie finally grunts, happy with his work and scans over the word document:

  Vbni[ xdg ko’mk;sv’ksdb;fnkl’aFJ O’ sV gk;aJ’Qerjo; Adfghi ’asfgm; VB’ASDGIPHNBK;N AMSFDn0020 klASFGBjiopAh 0020djasdn k;gl’asdNK: ajip Wjo GBPDN;H C adgnimkl;a?

Grunting with approval, he turns off the computer and stands up and heads for the lift.
  “See you tomorrow,” says Patty, not looking up.
  “Mmgrurgkh” says the zombie.
He heads down to his car and pulls out, swerving wildly as he drives out of the car park, sideswiping most of the cars as he goes.
Stopping at the supermarket on the way, zombie stands in front of the meat fridge, staring dumbly up at the produce. There was an awful lot of it.
Holding his shopping basket up to the shelf, he swipes an arm across and tips a heap of steaks, sausages and meat into the basket, and a whole heap more onto the floor. He turns for the door and stumbles out.

Heading back up his driveway, the car tires skid over the red stain of the neighbour’s dog, and slams heavily into the garage door before zombie takes his foot off the pedal and turns off the car. Grabbing the groceries in his arm, he stumbles back into his house, again tripping over the bones and crap on the floor.
with his arms full, he pulls open the fridge door with his teeth, chipping one in the process, and drops the contents of his arms onto a shelf. He closes the door, but it doesn’t close properly. After slamming bodily against it and still failing to close it he opens the door, removes a dismembered head that was in the way, then slams it closed again. It shuts properly.
Then he opens the door again, removes a pack of sausages, and gnaws at it with freshly chipped teeth. The pack tears, and so do the sausages as he rams the minced meat into his face.
the meat was dull and flavourless, and unappealingly cold. But the zombie chews it slowly, consuming the flesh.
  “Gruhh,” the zombie sighs. It was so dull. What he really wanted, really craved for was some fresh, warm, juicy brains. But of course, there were none for him here. No matter where he looked, he couldn’t find any brains. No living people. He was surrounded by zombies.
The zombie finishes his sausages, drops the packed on the floor and heads for his bedroom. Tearing off another business suit, he discards it on the floor, and climbs into bed.

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