They endlessly pursue, decimating entire cities. Where there was once life, now there is only a horde of mindless zombies feasting upon the flesh of the living. There are rumors of other survivors, but alone I crawl from location to location trying to find living among the living dead. This is my life and this is my story. I welcome you to Sydney, Australia.
The zombie is no loner. Their purpose is two-fold. They must consume and, as a byproduct, they must turn others to their cause. A zombie is thrown into vigorous movement when human life appears before it. Wishing to tear at flesh and bone, the zombie pursues. Without life, the zombie is content and dies slowly.
Who are the zombies? Were they born from the religious fanatics who eat flesh and move around in hordes? Did they evolve from the groaning grey and black suited capitalists — devouring the weak with their sunken eyes and creaking limbs?
The zombies have reduced humanity to mere individuals or small groups that constantly seek sanctuary. Superstition has consumed these remaining communities. They wear strange clothes, amulets or titles to ward off different breeds and strains of zombies. These communities never fail to attract zombies — who as an endless tide divides and conquers.
Yesterday, I was hidden in a house. The space was so tight, dark and safe. I choked on my heavy breath, trying desperately to hide any sign of life. Footsteps and screams forever drawing closer. The sound of a door being ripped off it’s hinges sent me running. I smashed my body through a window, climbed with difficulty over a fence and sprinted into the brush. I ran like a jaguar, leaping off all four limps. I clambered over fallen trees and sloshed into piddling creeks. Every time I outran one horde, I was spotted by another.
The zombie is attracted to noise. A sea of noise is safe, but punctuated breaches will call upon their fleshlust. One must sound like a zombie, to hide from a zombie. Some hold their breath and others groan endlessly. One must appear as inhuman as possible. A zombie does not dream, use the toilet, listen or cry. To draw attention is to embrace becoming a zombie.
There is suggestion among the survivors that the zombie evolved from homo sapiens. Books and newspapers that line empty homes celebrate stalking humans, devouring the living in great machines, ignoring the cry of weak humans and great hordes hungry for blood. Many a survivor has thrown themselves into the horde to embrace the future of humanity.
I just run. I wear wreathes of lavender and bite-proof leather. I’m not sure whether my mother, brother or friends have been turned. I search for them in suburbs and jungles. There is a system of graffiti in place. Messages scratched or sprayed onto walls read:
“Don’t give up”.
“We are waiting”.
“You must survive”.
I don’t know who writes it but I’ve started writing some myself. I don’t know if the authors are still alive. Are they waiting for me in paradise? Do I reach for them or do I fight for my own?
Zombies can’t be destroyed. Killing has never worked. There is no treaty to be written. Many survivors have cleansed cities with fire and bullets. But look at the world we live in! They will hunt life, they are attracted to it. They feel nothing but desire. That makes them better than us. I have to sleep. I have to dream. I have to search.
You can’t even trust survivors. Perhaps, one of them was bitten a week ago. The turn can be slow and invisible. I’ve walked with others. It’s hard to know when someone has stopped living. A half turned human may lead you to the horde. A half turned human may strip your flesh in your sleep.
My friend became consumed with the desire to find their father. I understood their loss and followed them from suburb to suburb. We found no success. I grew increasingly tired as our hunt never lost pace. I should have noticed the fervor of the search. My friend grew increasingly restless, the conversation circled over and over about the location of the father. They were certain that their father would know what to do.
Then we finally found him. Holed up in a basement, withered away to the bone. He was delirious and his hideaway filthy. The air electrified. My friend launched at the wispy father. Tearing the flesh away from his neck, consuming him. Once again I ran.
The zombie holds no greater lesson. They are simply a creature that has claimed the earth. They come to eat and we offer them an endless chase. If we die, they die. If they die do we live?
I have a nightmare that I’ve become infected. That my running is a circle, just like my friends search for their father. That the circle never ends and that I am the new breed of zombie. That I’m devouring the ghosts and dreams of this world.
But then I wake up. I write
“There is hope”.
“Life prevails”.
“Keep running”.
Magogy 