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Journal of an Undead Man


Almost a decade into this writing experiment, I might be ending it. I am going to post some of my WIP stories for you.


Hey, how are you doing? Me? Well, I could be better. Why you ask? Well, let me tell you. You see, I used to be a normal guy, working at a normal job. I lived in a normal house in a normal town. No aspirations beyond keeping my job (which I loved) and maybe someday settling down with a wife and a couple of kids. That was my dream. Well, that dream is long gone now and has been replaced by a vastly different reality.

My reality is now a nightmare that refuses to end. I don’t know if it will ever end.

I guess I ought to introduce myself before we go too much farther. My name is Tim Corman. I was working as a History Teacher in my hometown school. I grew up in Tupper Lake, New York and graduated tenth out of fifty-two before going to NYU and getting my degree in Education. I came back to teach History in Tupper Lake High School and had just finished the fall semester there when I decided I needed a break. Well I wish I hadn’t taken that break. Sometimes when you go for something you think will be fun or relaxing, something entirely different comes along and craps right on top of your head.

You see, I was infected with that disease that creates zombies. You know, a zombie? The living dead? Those shuffling, stumbling, drooling creatures of television and movies? I watched those shows and movies and took it all with a grain of salt. That crap ain’t real.

Well, I was wrong. Boy oh boy, was I ever wrong.

December 31st, 2020. I was about thirty at the time and enjoying my life immensely. My buddies were having a New Year’s Eve blowout and I was not one to waste a good party on not going, so I was at the place where it all went down. We went to this little cabin on a lake in upstate New York, girls and booze abounding. I went chasing this little gal out into the woods for a midnight kiss, stumbling along in the dark. I heard her scream but thought she fell or something. Then, in the dim moonlight I saw a thing standing over her body as it lay on the ground.

Hero that I was, I ran.

Straight into another one that had appeared behind me. I tried to run but I couldn’t get away from it or the others that had seemed to appear out of nowhere. They converged on me and began to grab at me with their horrible hands that seemed to be dripping blood and something else. I screamed but no one heard, or at least no one who was able to discern I was in trouble. The weight of their horrible bodies bore me to the ground and I felt their teeth tearing at me as I passed out for the last time. Well, I thought it was the last time.

I don’t know when I came to but the sun was up and bright. It hurt more than I could ever remember the sun hurting me before. I staggered upright and made my way through the woods to the cabin I had been partying at. I knew I needed help and that was the closest place I knew of that would have someone who could help, but it was hard to move. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. It seemed that I was moving underwater, real slow like you know? I was stumbling around, moving in a kind of shambling shuffle. It took forever but I finally got to the cabin. The remnants of the party were everywhere but I didn’t see anyone about. So I shuffled my way to the door of the cabin and opened it up to go inside. What I found what could only be described as bloody chaos.

Bodies, and parts of bodies, lay everywhere. Some more or less intact; others just limbs laying around like some kind of Halloween decorations gone bad. As I stood there I saw one of the bodies move, then make its way to its feet. Looking closely I saw it was one of my friends. I went to speak to him and found I could not form any words; just sounds emerged from my mouth. I tried again, and it didn’t improve. My friend looked at me and as I stared into his eyes, I got scared. What I saw was what I hoped he wasn’t seeing in me.

I turned and tried to run but couldn’t; I could only stumble along in that same shuffle. I did make it outside and looked around more closely. All of the cars were totally trashed, windows shattered and seats torn up like some animals had been in them. There was nothing there to help me; no people and no functioning cars at all. Giving the thought of an escape up I went back into the cabin and began looking around to see what wasn’t destroyed. Not much. A few odds and ends, nothing really. I went through the house poking and prodding into every nook and cranny. I mean nothing was left intact. It was as if a bunch of wild animals had literally torn everything apart. Finally, in the back bedroom on the only piece of furniture not dumped over sat a laptop computer. Not much, but something. But what good was it, really? What am I gonna do, type out a diary or something?

Why not? Might as well.

It hasn’t been more than a few days and I have decided that while I still have some sort of cognoscente ability I was going to put my thoughts down somehow. I know, I know: zombies can’t think. At least that’s what all the movies tell us. The reality is that I can still think. I wonder if it is because everyone always says that we as humans only use a small percentage of our brains to begin with, something like 3 to 5 percent or so. Maybe a zombie only uses 1 or 2%; hell I don’t know. I do know I can no longer speak, that I have trouble walking, and I shake continuously: but I think. I may only have a percent or two still intact but I will use it for as long as I am able to write what I am experiencing. Who knows; I may have one of those post-life best sellers that happen every now and again! So, I made my way back to that bedroom and the laptop.

The First Few Days

It is the first week of my zombie experience. I feel no hunger or thirst, nor do I feel any drive to kill anyone yet. Perhaps it is because I was somewhat corpulent in my life. My body is feeding off of the fat stored in my flesh so I do not need to feed on the living. Hey! Score one for the fat guys! Anyway, other than my almost non-existent motor skills regarding walking, I am not feeling too bad, really. Considering the circumstances of course. Of course, I look like shit, but hey: I wasn’t anything to look at before so no great loss there.

You may wonder at the fact that I can still type. I do as well. I guess some small motor skills are still intact, and I still have some small amount of memory remaining so that I can form words and sentences on the computer, just not with my mouth. We’ll see where I go from here, and how quickly I get to the point of those I saw that night. Even though I know I am becoming one of them they still give me the shimmies. I have to wonder just where they came from though. Were they just less capable individuals in life and went downhill faster than I am? Had they been dead longer, and just hid in those woods waiting for someone stupid (like me) to come along? For that matter, what causes this and where did it come from in the first place? I may never know.

So, I’m not hungry, I have no desire to go out and bite or kill or eat the living, what the hell do I do? I sit here, thinking, typing, wondering. ‘Bout it. No use wandering around outside. It’s snowing like hell and even though I do not feel the cold, the snow makes it even harder to walk. Might as well stay here and do this.

My reason for putting pen to paper is that nowhere have I seen a single shred of evidence that suggests a zombie had anything to do but maim and kill. I can’t believe every one of those I saw in film did nothing but hunt down the living and eat them. I mean, come on! They can’t all be starving, can they? Think about it: in every movie, comic, TV show the living run screaming away from the zombie hoard, dashing helter-skelter here and there as my ilk come stumbling after them at the breakneck speed of about a hundred yards an hour, yet zombies seem to catch every one of those stupid assholes and bite them. Really?

Then there are the movies that make zombies out to be these really fast creatures, again intent on nothing less than the total destruction of the living. Well, from where I sit, I have no desire to chase anyone around and give them a permanent hickey on their neck! And as for being fast, well as far as I can see, that ain’t happening.

So what do I feel? Nothing. Not a damn thing. I am not bored, I am not driven; I just am.

January 8

Still here; nothing to report. I don’t see any others around so I guess they have dispersed to some other area, shuffling along in search of something. I look at myself in the mirror to see if I am deteriorating, and what I see ain’t too pretty. The bites and torn skin from the attack are not healing (as if I thought they would anyway) and are all different colors; yellow and blue and black and red. I look like a friggin’ painter’s pallet! At least they’re not bleeding but they are oozing a nasty combination of some pus-like substance.

I guess one good thing is that I don’t have to go to the bathroom so I don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore. Hooray for small favors!


Mr Archer (author) from Missouri on February 03, 2021:

No, just admitted I would never finish them and decided to put out here what I have done, then let anyone who desires to take them and run, finish them, whatever. Some of them have been "in the works" for 8 years.

Shauna L Bowling from Central Florida on February 03, 2021:

You too, Mike! I'm getting around to reading your other stories. I see you've recently posted six. On a roll, huh?

Mr Archer (author) from Missouri on February 03, 2021:

Thank you Cheyenne. Take care, okay?

Shauna L Bowling from Central Florida on February 03, 2021:

Mike, you have a great story-telling ability. I'd love to see more stories from you. I'm not a fan of zombies, but this tale had me sitting on the edge of my seat. You had me deep in the set with your descriptions. I saw and felt everything your protagonist encountered.

Well done, my friend!

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