I Was a Middle-Aged Zombie

                               by Jeff Alan

It happened again last night. I tried to sleep—even managed to doze lightly for an hour or two—but a familiar and horrible need disturbed my uneasy slumber.

I swung my feet to the floor, guts squirming like a desperate, blood-slicked animal. I waited for the nausea and dizziness to subside enough so I could stand. I rose, swaying on unsteady legs, choked back the burning bile. Too fast; I should have sat a while longer

. . . but I needed to feed.

Were I five or ten years younger, I would have gone boldly into the night, attacking with wild abandon anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross my path; but the hunters are more vigilant these days, and I haven't the energy to tangle with them.

Prior to becoming the wretched creature that I am, I had held the common misconception that zombies do not suffer the effects of age; on the contrary, our bodies decay and we become slothful and cranky, much like ordinary humans.

So I shambled down the dark hall toward the kitchen.

It felt like I was walking on a spinning merry-go-round in some kind of twisted carnival. I leaned into the wall for support, my nightshirt catching on nails where pictures used to hang. My mind was numb— thoughts jumbled and disjointed—but the need drove me forward like a feral instinct.

I saw the cat sitting on its plump haunches under a dining room chair. The neck would snap easily enough. No! shouted the part of me that was still human. Refrigerator.

My attachment to my cat is a sentimentality which, like aging, I had not expected. Inexplicably, I have maintained a modicum of scruples—albeit more liberal than those I'd had before becoming infected.

It seemed so far away, the kitchen . . . but I pushed on, stumbling through the darkness, finally crashing heavily into the refrigerator. I opened the door, the bright sliver of light piercing my eyes like a thousand arrows launched by God himself to punish each of my unholy acts.

When I could see again, I scanned the shelves: empty, except for expired condiments— and a single package of meat. It bulged under the plastic wrap like a fresh brain. But it wasn't a brain; it was just ground beef—and this was the last of it.

Laura had left almost a month ago when, in one of my nocturnal frenzies, I had bitten into her arm as she lay sleeping beside me.

Years ago, she had helped me through the aftermath of being attacked, nursing me through those initial, fevered nights as the virus took hold. She had endured the loss of friends and family, whom I drove away with my guttural grunts, groans, and embarrassing habit of drooling while leering at their skulls. In recent months, as I became increasingly unwilling and then unable to provide for myself, she had even supplied me with calf brains— a workable, although less satisfying, substitute. She had watched helplessly as my humanity slowly slipped away.

But the biting . . .  that was the last straw for her.

In the weeks that followed her departure, I had eaten my way through the stock of brains, and then I was in a sorry state because all that was left was her food: a few chicken breasts and some beef. I was weak and listless from subsisting on these meager meals. It had become a constant struggle to stay away from the only brain available, which was now just a few yards away, underneath the chair.

I forced my attention back to that last lump of meat, which had been in the freezer a few days ago and was now defrosted. I grabbed the package and slid down to the floor, tearing greedily at the wrapping. I clawed into the meat: cold and wet, raw and wonderful. It wasn't a brain, but it was something. When I was finished, I left the bloody package on the floor for the cat.

As I drifted off to sleep next to the refrigerator on the cool terrazzo, I vowed to call the animal shelter in the morning and have them take the cat before I would do what needed to be done.

I think Laura had known that it would come to this. That's why she left the gun.

Jeff Alan is a self-described gypsy, having lived in more states than he can count on one hand. He presently resides in a small, quiet town in North Carolina. His work has appeared or will soon appear in MicroHorror, Flashshot, and Six Sentences. His online home is www.bonescribble.com.