Our Undead

OUR UNDEAD

ABE

By Theo Vigo

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013, Theo Vigo

Editing by Theo Vigo

Cover Design by Gabriel Ponce de Leon

EBooks are not transferrable. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher's permission.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Published in Toronto, Canada by Theo Vigo

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

*Disclaimer* As it is stated on the previous page, this is a work of fiction. Although I chose to use real locations/destinations in this book, their characteristics have been altered as I see fit to suit the plot. Any medical information is skewed as well, although, I did my fair share of research on specific medical procedures and equipment. The best way to think about the world in this novel is that it is our world but in another dimension.

This is my first attempt at self-publishing and believe me when I say that I worked hard at it. Throughout this journey there have been unexpected obstacles around every corner. There is always some problem that needs to be fixed, and I expect there to be many more. I welcome feedback of kinds. Whether good or bad, if you feel the need, leave a comment, because I need to know what I'm doing right and wrong. It's the only way I can get better as a writer and self-publisher.

I came up with this story in the summer of 2011, about a girl who trains a zombie. During that summer I wrote the premise and brief descriptions of the parts I saw in my head, however, I left it at that and didn't start writing on it again until May 2012. Ever since the idea's conception, the characters and events of the story never stopped tumbling around in my mind, so when I started taking it seriously in May, it was easy for the many ideas I had to be transmitted on to my laptop.

My initial plan was to have it written by October 2012, just in time for Halloween. Oh, how naive I was. I had no idea how much work had to be put in when writing a novel, especially when you're working on it by yourself. I am a man of little means at this point in my life, so looking for professional designers and editors was out of the question for me. I didn't have money to spend of them (and still don't), so I put in hours of extra work editing and formatting by myself. It had its moments of extreme tedium, but I learned a lot and I think I'm better off for it.

At first, I didn't really care what people might think of this work, but the more time went by, the more seriously I started taking the process. I still have a thick skin, and I expect comments both good and bad. I think the most important thing is that I am finally satisfied with the story I am about to share with you. Thank you to those of you who continue to read on. Whether you end up liking the story or not, at least you took a chance on me, and for that, I am appreciative. For those of you who choose not to continue, that's fine. Go find a book that you can fall in love with.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thanks to one of my most talented friends, Gabriel, for taking the time to discuss this story and help create its awesomely distinctive cover page. May its simple image be burned into the minds of all until the actual zombie apocalypse comes to fruition.

Thanks to my mom and brother for a their support, both financial and sentimental.

To my dad, for always stressing the importance of reading. R.I.P

To zombies, the writers who scribe their tales, studios that make their movies, and everyone else who celebrates the zombie experience.

To my friends, any who have played a part in keeping me laughing and properly motivated.

My friends and family are like my fuel.

And lastly, thank you to my-self. I wouldn't have been able to do this without you, dude.

Downloadable Audio eBook On Last Page

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1-Reborn

2-The Origin - Part 1

3-Hard Times

4-The Origin - Part 2

5-Worlds Collide

6-Elucidation

7-Bow To The Alter

8-What's In A Name?

9-The Third Wheel

10-Young Hero

11-Secrets

12-Stalker, Suit & Salvation

13-Left 4 Dead

14-Eternity

15-Sacrifice

16-Lab Rats

17-Vibe Rating

18-Life From Above

19-Come Together, Right Now, Under Me

20-Night Clasped

21-Gone Missing

22-Unexpect The Expected

23-Fausta The People

24-Secrets Revelled

25-Free-For-Some

26-The Origin - Part 3

27-Suhh Suhh, Eye To Eye

28-The End Of The Beggining

REBORN

His second life begins in an empty dark room of a hostel, where a single tube light on the ceiling flickers, and the dust never seems to settle. Ironically, this windowless room in which a man is given a second life, a cursed life, but a life nonetheless, is rank with the foul stench of death. He lays on the only bed in this small room, flat on his back with his eyes closed, looking sickly, yet peaceful. He is a handsome man, probably in his forties, but most likely in his late to mid-thirties. His skin has gone pale, chalky and dull, much more grey now than the dirty peach it had been before. His hair, however, is still the same dark auburn, only sweat through and messed from the trauma and fever. There is no way of knowing for sure how long this man's body has been inoperative, but we meet him at a special time, where in a matter of moments a transformation will come into complete fruition. He opens his eyes.

Had you a chance to converse with any of the members of his family, they would tell you that this man's eyes are the most vibrant shade of hazelnut anyone has ever seen, but now they are greyed. So much so that not a hint of their nutty brown hue can be seen, and anyone not knowing him prior to this transformation, could ever guess that they used to be such a color. Even his pupils have lost a considerable amount of opaqueness. As if getting used to them again, he remains on his back, blinking and staring at the ceiling.

Even though he is covered up to his waist by a dirty blanket, we can see that he has been partly undressed. A white dress shirt sits messily on the floor beside the bed, and the man has been left wearing a white t-shirt. His feet are also uncovered wearing no shoes or socks. His left arm has been wounded, and has been wrapped up amateurishly with bandages that have already been bled through. Beads of sweat sit on the undead man's forehead, possibly from the fever that took his life, or maybe from the room's insufferable heat. His body cooks in this, his personal tomb.

Possibly, it is this heat that prompts him to swiftly sit up in bed. Staying seated, he takes a moment to scan his surroundings. Beside him on a bedside table sits an empty picture frame, and all over the room items are scattered; a couple of chairs beside the bed, an opened backpack on the floor, a few shoddy medical instruments on the opposing bedside table and a dresser drawer at the foot of the bed with a few more. Whilst scanning, a soft rumbling becomes apparent to him. It is coming from somewhere else inside the building, and his eyes roll to the left to stare at the door. His head slowly follows suit.

With a goal now set in mind, he attempts to ease himself off the bed, but his injured appendage fails him. He must have forgotten about it in this new state he is in, and the weakened left arm falls out from under him. On his way down to the floor, the undead man smashes his forehead on the bedside table causing it to wobble. The picture frame that stood on it comes tumbling down after him, hits him on the back of the head and lands on the floor next to him.

Laying face down, it is seen that he wears a pair of black dress pants to go along with his white tee. Our zombie slowly pushes himself up with both hands and turns to look at the picture frame. He stares blankly at it until more muffled crashing noises call out to him from inside the building. They manage to take his focus away from the broken frame that he seems to be so lost in, and he continues to lift himself up from the floor. A normal man might've felt the pain from that bloodied arm, let it beat him, but zombies don't feel physical pain. When he is up on his feet, he makes his way out of the room.

He begins walking down one of the long dark hallways of the hostel. It looks quite lived in, run down and is just as dusty as the room our zombie woke up in. The hallways are, however, lit slightly better, though some lights still commit to flickering. Some of the rooms he passes by have been boarded up by 2x4s, some with signs that read, SICK ROOM, DEAD INSIDE, and LEAVE US ALONE. Some doors are completely open, but no one is around or in them as our zombie walks down the hall toward the source of the resonating racket.

After some wandering, he finds that not all of the corridors are well lit. Lights have either been broken or blown in some areas, leaving them almost, if not completely dark, but the undead man walks along unbothered by his frightening surroundings. More and more the unsettling sounds grow louder as he is most definitely getting closer to wherever they are coming from. He comes upon another one of the darker, badly lit corridors and turns the corner to see what should be a familiar sight.

There is a man at the other end. He is stooped down and leaning against the wall of the far corner. His back is the only thing that can be made out, but it is easy to see that the man is breathing deeply and shaking distinctly. He seems to be distracted by something that is going on around the other side of the corner he is hiding on, constantly cautiously checking around it as if to make sure no one or no thing is following him. Unfortunately for the troubled, preoccupied man, he doesn't hear our zombie approaching him from behind, and by the time he does, it is too late. This is our zombie's first taste of human flesh, and it is good.

He feeds vigorously on the back of his victim's neck and torso. You would think that he hasn't eaten in years. He may have picked the man to the bone if not for the fast approaching footsteps that run up and make a squeaking stop on the tiled floor in front of him. They get our zombie's attention, and he lifts his head from the corpse of the distracted man to see a teenaged girl with short blond hair and dark eyes. She wears a grey hoody that is two sizes too big, with the sleeves pulled up and a black short skirt. She is standing several feet in front of him, and her face turns from one of terror to hopelessness when she sees the now reddened face of our zombie.

To him, she is nothing more than his next meal, a much fresher meal. He gets back up and starts hobbling toward her, quicker than one might expect a zombie to hobble, but instead of running, the hopeless girl slowly backs away, shaking her head and sobbing.

ShortBlondeHairedGirl: No… no… Please stop… Please.

But he doesn't listen to her. Comprehension of the English language is just one of the many faculties lost to the disease that stole his normal life. He continues walking to her, quickening his pace the closer he gets, as if his first taste of flesh has made him eager for his next. The girl finally comes to her senses seconds before she is within our zombie's reach and runs away, back to where she came from. He watches her run around a corner, and a door can be heard being opened and then slamming shut. He follows her round it and sees that the girl truly has run through a door; a double door into another room. The sounds of screaming and disorder become louder, plural, and frenzied, as our zombie gets closer to it.

When he pushes his way through, he finds himself in a massacre. It seems this hostel was being used as a safe house of sorts for many families and other random folk. This room he is in is a much larger one that looks like some kind of neutral waiting area, and has been overrun by our zombie's kin. They had burst in through a couple of badly kept windows, and now have the hostel's tenants fighting for their lives.

Before joining them, he takes a few seconds to look around and absorb his surroundings. Many tenants have already been caught and eaten, their chewed up bodies spread about the floor. Some people cower in fear like the man from the hallway. They tremble as if it isn't humid, as if the air isn't as warm and moist as it currently is, frozen in such a heat. Others fight for their lives with whatever weapon they can get their hands on. The most popular weapon seems to be the lightweight foldable steel chair, but some are fortunate enough to have proper weapons. There are a few with baseball bats, one man with a machete, and a few gun shots are even heard going off, although, it is hard to tell whether they are being shot from inside or out. One thing is clear, and that is that the residents inside this hostel had not been properly prepared.

Our zombie stands sentient by the double doors he had entered, watching the brouhaha unfold, until one unsuspecting gentleman gets too close; an innocent man, merely trying to escape his situation, but unaware that a new flesh eater has gotten mixed into the equation. The moment he gets too close, it's like a trigger is pulled inside the mind of our new zombie, like the snapping of an elastic band. He brings the man to the ground and gorges upon him arrogantly. A few of his opportunist undead mates join him.

The teenage girl from the hall stands not too far away from it all. The whole room is frantic and buzzing around her. Escapists bump into her as they run by, as do their hungry pursuers. A guardian angel must be working overtime, or karma in her debt, for no zombies take notice of her while she stays there in her daze. She is unconcerned with everything going on around her except our zombie, the new zombie. Her eyes on locked on his new face, so pale, not at all like she remembers it, with red globs of skin and muscle hanging from his mouth.

Before her karma runs out, luck comes to her in the form of a real life guardian angel. A girl, who looks to be about the same age, with the same blonde hair but longer, in a white t-shirt and black shorts, notices the stagnant teenager lost in despair, stuck in the middle of everything. The golden haired hero runs over to her similar looking friend and shakes her roughly back to reality. She turns to see what the dazed girl is looking at, and immediately understands the reason for her friend's current state of paralysis. She too recognizes the man. Her expression is sad but understanding, comprehending of everything, especially the fact that this is not the place in which they should be standing around. Her friend, however, still doesn't get it, so she grabs her again and gives her another startling shake.

LongBlondeHairedGirl: COME ON!! I'M SORRY, BUT WE HAVE TO GO NOW!!

Her desperate attempt to regain the other girl's consciousness is a success as she snaps her out of it. The dazed girl can no longer help but move now, seeing as she is being relentlessly tugged away by her similar looking guardian angel. She takes one last drawn out look at the undead man before getting pulled back into the thick completely and losing sight of him forever. The two teenage girls run away through the crowd, dodging prey and predator alike.

LongBlondeHairedGirl: MOM! DAD! WE'RE COMING!!

When the victim has run his course, our zombie gets up, and like it is his second nature, continues partaking in the customary festivities of his new lifestyle. His first two kills were only the beginning of this, his first co-operative take over. The room is still ripe with plenty of palatable living beings. The aroma of them is so thick to him, it is as if he is swimming in their musk, not only pleasurable to the smell receptors, but causing a deep yearning in him, an emptiness that needs to be filled. He satisfies this emptiness again, clawing at a businesswoman's dancing black locks of hair. Seconds ago she was trying to bat a zombie off of her kid sister, and now she lays pinned on the floor. She fights for herself, but is unable to overpower the three more infected that join our zombie on top of her within seconds. They finish her, behaving like a champion pride of lions.

With each kill, it becomes clearer that the higher up on the body he goes, the more flavorful the taste. He intrudes on one of the other zombie's kills, biting down on the neck of a Spanish man, helping in bringing him to the ground. As he does this, the two teenage girls escape through a broken in window, along with a middle-aged woman, a woman who looks like she is just entering middle age and two other men; one fat, one tanned and well-built. All of them are encouraged to move quickly by another middle-aged man who waves them through and leaves the scene last. They all exit safely while our zombie chews down on the man's neck and moves up to the cranium. It takes some time to break through the resilient human skull, but our zombie has an insatiable need to get to the source of the scent beckoning to him from inside. His teeth puncture the tough shield and expose the soft brain therein. It's difficult, even for me to explain the feeling he experiences, but I would imagine the effects on our zombie are easily comparable to the effects felt by a first time crystal meth user.

He must have another taste, so he gets up from the Spanish man's emptied out skull and looks for another meal. It's becoming easier to spot the vulnerable humans, the ones who are not fully aware of their surroundings, either because they are busy fighting or because they are scared useless. He quickly spots an injured young man, limping through the crowd unnoticed, a perfect target. Our zombie pushes passed everybody in the crowd, locked on his prey, not even considering any of the other potential feeds, until his prize is only a few feet away. Just as he is about to grab the wounded man, another zombie intercepts the kill and gets the first bite. This quicker zombie drags the young man to the ground, leaving our zombie the second dibs.

Who would think that a zombie could ever get upset with one of it's own kind? It seems improbable, but it is in this way that our zombie reacts. He reaches down and pulls the intruding zombie back up to its feet. When he gets him stood up, he thrusts him roughly away, and his competitor goes stumbling off into the crowd. He looks down at the meal that was rightly his in the first place. The poor young man writhes from his initial injury, plus the added bites caused by the intercepting zombie. You can tell that it was making its way up to the brain by all of the bite marks on the top and side of the boy's neck and head. Our zombie throws himself upon the man and finishes the job. The walker who had been defeated comes back and takes a secondary feeding position a little lower down by the collarbone, but gets shoved away by our zombie, demoted to the ribcage.

The waiting room slaughter continues until the room is practically void of any human life. Our zombie finds himself fighting for scraps, discovering that some of these dead walkers are stronger than he is, namely, the muscly ones who were either athletes or body builders in their previous lives. One of the brawnier beasts actually lifts our zombie a few inches off the ground before tossing him backward through the thinning crowd. He gets back up, but something in his mind keeps him from trying to share with the bigger ghoul again. Perhaps, some spark of common sense. He stares blankly at the big monster finishing it's meal, and then around the room. Not only does he not see anything worth eating, he no longer senses that delicious zest in the air. The room has become barren and boring. He roars in either frustration or victory, and some of the other zombies join in the chorus.

Desperate for another taste of his new favorite dish, our zombie makes a slow and deliberate scan of the conquered waiting room. He takes notice of a few of his kinsmen at one of the broken windows. Having forgotten all forms of etiquette, the three of them clamber and struggle with one another, fighting to be the first one to get back outside. Our zombie has never been outside, at least not in his current form, but if these three infected men wanted to get out there so bad, there must be something amazing to be had, hopefully, something delectable. He makes his way over to the window, walking passed many undead vessels who are staring intently into space, and others who are still chewing idiotically on bones that have already been fully stripped of any of the good parts. Our zombie pays them no mind, for the closer he gets to the window, the more that sweet smell, once again, begins to radiate. It must be what his impatient friends are after, the poor fools. They are so beside themselves trying to satisfy their craving, that they don't notice the free broken window that is right beside them. The fragrance is pouring in from the free window in gusts, it's a wonder the three stooges don't simply back away and take the better exit, but it works out in our zombie's favor. He puts his right leg up on to the sill and levers himself up and over into the outside world.

He ends up exiting with a front flip, and lands with a bang, his buttocks meeting the pavement. With his new eyes, our zombie looks upon a changed world. Even if he could remember what life had been like, he still wouldn't be able to recognize the environment that surrounds him. The waiting room was only a preview. The city is on a whole other level when it comes to being infested, to the point of being overrun and half way to ruin. The sun is closing in on the horizon, setting on corner store businesses gone ablaze, car accidents, gushing fire hydrants, people running every which way and their brain starved assailants close behind them. Truly, a suitable end to a long and horrible day for the men and women of this town, but a lavish welcome for our zombie who feels a mixed storm of jealousy and desire circulating through his system. He must become more like them. He must make them a part of him. He must eat.

The town is on the verge of becoming theirs. Previously, he had been a mere average Joe, working for the man in an office cubicle cage. When he gets to his feet, he walks out into a world that he is now a ruler of and gets to eat freely as the supply of humans is still plentiful. It is as though the outbreak has only recently reached its climax. Body traffic is everywhere, and our zombie easily joins many feedings and starts some of his own. He indulges in a seemingly endless buffet, on all of the different flavors and physiques. He gets the most flesh he can off the leg of a grey haired African-American man, before getting up to look for a more robust selection, but an unexpected incident brings his plan to a dead halt.

YoungCivilian: NOOOOOO!!!!

Like a ton of concentrated bricks, the flat side of a shovel comes down on the crown of our zombie's head and lays him out on the ground. Everything fades to black. Can this be the end? Already?

THE ORIGIN - PART 1

On a beautiful evening in mid July, the sun shines down on everything and gives a shimmer to all that it touches. Everything is soft and candescent as if observing a memory in someone’s mind, or a flashback in a film. A clean, average looking blue car is driving down a moderately busy street in a happily populated neighborhood; a handsome older man in the driver's seat. He looks to be in his late thirties, or early forties with a suitable tan and dark hair down to his ears that sport tinges of auburn in the dominant brunette. He drives slowly, watching all of the teenagers parade the sidewalks, going home in their individual couples and cliques. He pulls up to the front of a high school and turns into its driveway, making sure not to hit the idling kids that pretend to not see him coming. He shakes his head at their youthful inconsideration.

Ah, to be young and aloof. This is the school system his daughter is immersed in, such a change from the days when he was a teenager. Kids these days seem to be getting more and more disrespectful, and it frustrates him the most when he sees the effect it has on his daughter. At home, her outbursts have become more frequent, and she is liable to snap at him regardless of what he might be trying to tell her. The other day, he had only wanted to offer her some of the brownies he had brought home from work, but when he opened her bedroom door without knocking, he was battered with shot after shot of how selfish he was and how she can never have any privacy in this house, to get out, because she didn't want any of his stupid brownies. What torture, not understanding as a parent how to communicate in a decent manner with your children. As he parks, he spots her in a group with three of her girlfriends and toots the horn.

When she sees him, she sighs a deliberate sigh he would've been able to see if he were sitting miles away. Confused, he thinks of what he possibly could have done this time. Her friends seem to know, because they giggle at her and cast haughty glances toward the car. All three of them look like they've been cut out of some tabloid magazine, the type of girl he might've called plastique back in his high school days. It's hard for him to believe that that is the group that his daughter has chosen to consort with. Gone are the days of her wearing comfortably fitted jeans and dresses that go past the knees. Now, she wears these tight things that leave nothing to the imagination, and worse, she wears short little skirts like the black one she is wearing right now. He's told her before how he feels about her wearing that kind of stuff, even fair about it, he feels, compromising that the jeans are okay, but one little gust of wind in those short skirts and everyone is seeing everything. After almost ten minutes, she begrudgingly bids her friends farewell and starts casually making her way to the car.

She opens the door, enters, closes it and clicks her seat belt in place without saying one word to her father. He makes a comment about it, and she throws him a sympathy salutation. He sighs in response to her attitude.

The ride home is silent for the most part. He wants to talk to his daughter, but the only thing on his mind is that damn skirt. Every time he looks over, thinking about taking a shot at conversation, he sees his daughter’s thighs blatantly staring at him. They are almost fully exposed as she sits there, and he can't get it out of his head, the image of her sitting at her desk, surrounded by all those perverted adolescent savages, all of them gawking at her. He can't help himself, and the next thing that comes out of his mouth is about her skirt and how she could ever wear something like that. Doesn't she know that these boys have selfish intentions? Doesn't she have any respect for herself? She responds with the notion that he just doesn't understand her; times have changed since he was her age, and she isn't stupid. She isn't about to get taken advantage of by some guy. He tells her that he believes her, but some of these boys can be aggressive. Give them an inch and they take a mile. He just doesn't want her to get herself into any situation where some douche thinks she's open for business like some floozy. That skirt she's wearing might give them the impression that she's ready to act like some sort of hooker.

He didn't mean to say it. He knows that his daughter isn't a hooker, not even close to being or having the same personality as one. He didn't mean it in that way, it's just that he gets a bit passionate when it comes to his daughter's sanctity. He didn't mean it that way at all, but it is too late, the short-haired blonde firecracker is exploding in the passenger seat beside him, hollering about how she can't believe that he compared her to a street walking whore. She can't believe that's what he thinks of her. He tries to interject, to explain what he was trying to say, but she leaves no break for the opportunity. The last thing he wants to do now is attempt to talk over her, not while she is in full-out rage mode, flinging her arms around and shaking her head fiercely back and forth as she yells. Her hair soon becomes a fluffy blonde mess, and her father decides to retract into silence for the rest of the ride.

When they get home and pull into the driveway, his daughter gets out of the car, slams the door and scurries off to the front door of their house. As she does, a short gust of wind rolls through and blows up the back end of her black skirt, exposing her light pink cotton undies to her father. He rolls his eyes while disappointedly shaking his head again, and gets startled when she slams the front door of the house. He sighs to himself and gets out of the car.

HARD TIMES

When he opens his eyes again, nighttime has fallen upon the city. Instantly upon regaining consciousness, he feels the monster inside of him callout to be fed, and he obeys it, now, willingly. He gets to his feet, but is welcomed back by disappointment. Most of the streetlights are still functioning, so visually things can be seen quite clearly. The reach of the infection must not be that grand, but still, there is no sign of human life. The chaos has died down considerably in these, his surroundings that now lay in the early stages of ruin-hood. However, a diverse population of dead walkers are still patrolling and wandering around, a complete replacement of the citizens. Trying to find a human in this can be compared to trying to find Waldo, but Waldo is most likely a corpse, one of the many scattered about, and most likely in pieces.

With nothing to eat, some zombies fight over the left over meat on the bones of the slaughtered. There isn't much of it, but nonetheless, they claw and bite at each other to get a taste. Some zombies are staring into broken store windows, at products and appliances as if window-shopping, and some stand around the fires, staring intensely into their pits as if hypnotized. Some zombies don't even need a meal to fight over. They naturally seem to dislike each other and push and shove one another, like over-excited young men wasted in the bar scene. In this city, they have actualized their sovereignty, but to what end, when the land is barren of sustenance?

Our zombie looks around at the layout of flowering blazes and blinking car lights, shining through and over the zigzagging heads of his people, under the night sky where the healthier stars have put themselves on display, despite the interfering lights of the street. It's almost beautiful in a sinister sort of way.

Perhaps he doesn't sense the human essence in the atmosphere anymore. Maybe he is drawn to something in the metaphysical. Perhaps there is some memory swimming around in his grey matter, beckoning for him to travel to a place lost in his internal oblivion, a place he used to know. Or maybe the city is just too crowded for our claustrophobic zombie. Any of these reasons could be the one to explain why he walks ignorantly past the space-cased ghouls gazing blankly; past the fires, crumbling buildings, and broken down cars, their alarms wailing as if crying out for their missing owners. He walks past them all, dodging the dog fights, while at the same time managing to avoid tripping over the many bodies laying about the ground. He walks until he is no longer surrounded on all sides by moving bodies, until he doesn't have to push any zombie out of the way. He walks through neighborhoods that have been just as devastated as the town's inner core, if not worse. He goes even further, past the neighborhoods and far off from where the death had been so concentrated; he walks past it all and finds himself on the outskirts of the city.

Out here, there are not nearly as many of the cursed ones. Still, if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to look in any direction without seeing one or two, even with the cloak provided by the night. There are even a few standing dead still on the highway he approaches. Walking past them all as well, he is the only zombie who seems to have some place to go. On this highway, cars outnumber the amount of zombies and humans put together. The roads are lined with them as far as the eye can see. Most of them are empty. Some contain dead bodies, recently killed. There is evidence all around of people who have tried and failed to escape. The less brave ones have locked themselves inside their cars. One hopeless woman has herself crouched down on the floor where the front of the passenger's seat has her crushed in between it and the glove compartment. Her dead boyfriend or brother is sprawled out on the driver's side. She cowers when our zombie walks by his window, but only passing and paying her no mind. Perhaps, she would survive the night hidden there. He walks by another car with an abandoned man who has turned. The poor trapped soul bangs half-heartedly on the window as if saying, Let me out of this car!!! Sadly, he would stay in there forever, for our zombie ignores him as well, and continues walking.

He walks for a long while down this highway and soon the sun rises, bringing light to the morning. Being about six to eight hours into his journey, our zombie begins to show signs of getting tired. His pace has slowed significantly. The sun is so blazing hot, even for the morning time; it can wear out the undead with its heat. The rotting of his flesh is definitely being helped along, being cooked by the heat wave as he travels. If one would listen closely to his skin, they might be able to hear a sizzling. He walks by a dozen more cars until he hears a sound that brings him to a sudden stop.

He waits for a few seconds, and then hears it again. It sounds like the high-pitched whine or whimper of a dog. He turns his head to the left and heads in the sound's direction. It seems to be coming from the far side of the car our zombie is standing adjacent to, and when he gets to the other side, he sees that it is actually a dog. It looks either seriously injured or extremely tired and hungry. It's understandable. With no master to feed it any longer, the domesticated animal is completely disoriented in the wild. At the sight of our zombie, the canine's whimpering becomes much heavier. It tries to back away when our zombie approaches to pick it up, but can't make it far due to its frailty. It gets lifted up by it's front under arms, much like a baby or small child and is held there for a moment, in the air, by our zombie. He examines it, eyeballing it quizzically up and down, trying to decide whether or not this mutt is fit to be eaten. The dog doesn't want any part of it. It has seen what these new human beings can do, so it gnaws frantically at our zombie's hands and wrists, however, with inactive pain receptors, our zombie can't feel it and makes his decision patiently.

After a few more seconds of thinking about it, he sinks his teeth into the dog's neck. It squeals in agony as its throat gets ripped out from beneath its fur. It is a gruesome scene, our zombie dining on the dog. It doesn't take too long for it to fall silent, and then our zombie eats in peace. The dog is nowhere as flavorful as the human flesh had been. Not to mention, the fur that is getting stuck in his mouth and on the sides of his face. What a troublesome meal, but it would have to do.

When he is through with the carcass, he simply drops it and continues on down the highway. A couple of late-coming zombies close in on the leftovers as he leaves the scene.

He spends the rest of this day walking, from when the sun sits on it zenith, to the commencement of its descent, and then one more day. He walks until the highway becomes a country road and then further, until the road comes to an end. By the time the sun has set, the concrete road has been replaced with dirt, twigs and leaves, and our zombie has obviously lost some weight.

Moving forward at a steady but leisurely pace, our zombie starts the third night of his new life, trudging through the woods. It's relatively easy to make his way through the trees and their protruding limbs, but he can't help but run into a trunk every now and then, or get a big mouth full of leaves from time to time. He never bothers to avoid them, just barrels through them, until something catches his eye.

Through the thicket, he thinks he sees something, and then is sure of it when the object moves and makes a rustling in the bushes. He pushes his way through more trees, making his way closer to the thing deeper inside and exits the thick into a small clearing, wherein he discovers a doe. Unfortunately, it was not the female deer that he saw, that was making all of the noise. It has already been caught and is pinned down on its side, the lower portion of its belly being eaten out by another zombie. It looks like the kill has been recently made. There aren't many bite marks on it yet, and the feeding wound isn't that large. As he gets closer, he notices that the deer is actually still alive. It's head and mouth make small movements, but no sounds escape it.

Our zombie doesn't hesitate in kneeling down and taking a place on the opposite side of the deer, closer to the prey's head. A full-grown deer should be big enough to share, not that this is his reasoning. He only wants to feed, more for the nourishment now than for the taste, as it usually goes. He gets in there and starts making his own opening, biting and pulling at the deer's hide. To this, it releases a short but impassioned bleat, and the noise alerts the first zombie, who looks up and is surprised to find that he is now sharing the prize he caught by himself. Irritated, he shoves our zombie's head roughly away, and proceeds with eating.

Food is scarce for all zombies in this region, and this one is not willing to share, but our zombie is not willing to give up this find, and plunges his head aggressively back into the gash of flesh he created. The deer bleats in pain again, and once more, the other zombie sees that he is sharing, so he once more, pushes his intruder's head away. Again, he feels he has made his point and proceeds with eating. But he hasn't, and this time our zombie retaliates, pushing the first zombie back. It looks up and flings its left arm as hard as its uncoordinated body can manage, delivering a heavy backhand to the side of our zombie's face. It doesn't hurt, but it triggers the rage response in him, and our zombie sends a warning to the other in the form of a low growl. When the other one returns the growl, our zombie pounces over the deer and tackles it.

They begin wrestling and rolling about the ground for a minute. First, one is on top of the other, then the other way around, until they finally settle with our zombie in the dominant position. He sits perched atop his selfish aggressor in full mount like an undead Ultimate Fighter. The other zombie struggles from below to get free, but can't manage to get our zombie's dead weight off of him. What makes it even harder are the cold hands gripping him tightly around his neck, keeping his head down. For all of his wild arm waving and