The exercise was to switch the point of view halfway through a scene, and i thought it would be fun to peer through the decayed eyes of a zombie. Enjoy!
My lungs feel like a blown out tire; empty with zero chance of ever holding air again.
Still, I run.
My legs are wobbley, like at any second they would give out on me, leaving the decayed ghoul chasing me a wonderful chance of devouring my flesh.
Not today, fuck-o.
I don’t know why, but while everyone else is calling these flesh eating demons: zombies, I have been referring to them as fuck-os.
It’s stupid, I agree, and maybe if I survive this, I’ll be able to delve into my psychology and figure it out, but for now, I run.
I run into the woods, carefully avoiding the mud puddles, while trying to maintain speed.
Fuck-o’s don’t really run, but they walk fast as hell.
They don’t give up, either. Many of times, I’ve seen ‘em run on bloody stumps and when they can’t do that, they’ll crawl at you, wriggling like a retarded deformed snake. It’d be comical if the circumstances were different.
I’m running funny myself, limping every time I put my right leg down, feeling the warm blood oozing down my leg.
If I had any sort of weapon, even a tiny Swiss army knife, I’d turn around and make a stand, but I had to ditch my back pack and my machete was stuck in some poor fuck-o’s head back at the overran hotel.
I look back to see my pursuer is still chasing me, bottom jaw missing, bloody tongue bouncing off his neck with every step, following my path around the puddles and gaining on me.
I embrace the pain and kick my body into overdrive.
Seeing the fuck-o dodging the puddles was new. Usually, they are pretty stupid; easy to fool and trap. I was curious: are they getting smarter, or was he following my exact scent trail, or was it something else?
Another inquiry I’ll have to reserve for later.
I jump over a fallen tree, but my injured right leg snagged on a tree branch, sending me face first into the mud and leaves.
Inches from my face was a branch as thick as my arm, broken to a sharp point.
Perfect walking stick.
I grabbed the stick as I jumped up to my feet and got ready to stab the fuck-o through the eye.
Brains, I thought.
Brains, flesh, blood, chewy muscle.
I follow Meat. Wherever Meat goes, I go.
Meat was running from me; blood was in the air.
Meat is getting slower.
I’ll eat this Meat, then find more Meat.
I follow the strong, fresh smell of blood.
Around these things growing from the ground.
I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t care.
I only care about Meat.
Meat fell down. Stopped.
I go faster.
I’m so close. Smell of blood is so sweet, so close, I can taste Meat.
Why won’t you just let me eat you, I wondered, I’m obviously very hungry.
I ran at Meat, as fast as I could.
Meat was back on his feet. Holding something, but not moving.
Meat was going to let me eat.
I moved faster, but the same thing that stopped Meat-
I fell into sweat, blood. Blood!
The smell. So hungry.
I looked up to see Meat coming towards me.
This was strange.
Meat always runs.
Meat was so close.
I reached out to grab Meat.
Grab Meat, eat Meat, more Meat.
I was on track.
Meat pulled the thing in his hand back.
I saw something coming at my face.
I wanted Meat.
The thing went into me.
Everything went black.
I couldn’t smell blood or sweat or Meat.
Just saw black.