I don’t know why I keep staring at that TV. Shitty little black and white number. Even in prison, you’d think they’d have a color TV to buy in the canteen, but no. Not in this shithole, not in a thousand years.
Ha! That’s funny. ‘Cause how things turned out, I don’t think there’ll be a new color TV coming off the line for a damn long time. What good would it do, anyway? Nothing to watch now, not even that brain-drilling emergency tone, and the power’s been off for five days so I can’t even watch the snow. I miss the snow. Miss a lot of things. Cigarettes. Those are gone. Pissed the last of my pruno between the bars of my cell late last week, and drank the last of the water in the toilet tank yesterday. Yeah, I miss a working toilet, too.
I’m so hungry, I thought about going after one of those things as it shambled past my cell, but I’m so weak now it would probably get me instead. That’s not what bugs me. What bugs me is how the world’s problem got into this goddamn place at all. If the guards could guard for shit, it would all still be on the outside. We might still be fucked in the long run, but I bet we could outlast these bastards.
They’re dead, and dead people don’t hold together real well in the summer sun. Just a look out in the yard tells you as much. And if we could have held it together until winter, all those walkers would’ve frozen solid.
But those guards can’t guard for shit. It got in here. And once its in, it’s like a AIDS or herpes. It doesn’t die. It takes on a life of its own.
Maybe it wasn’t their fault. TV said it was some kind of biological or chemical weapon. A weapon of mass destruction that feeds on itself. A terrorist’s wet dream. People die but get back up and attack more people. Biting. Scratching. I never saw a news anchor look so scared.
When that reporter wound up as lunch with the camera on its side, filming everything, I knew it was all up for life as we know it. When they finally cut back to the anchor, he was throwing up behind his desk. I really wish I had a color TV to see that.
Shh! Hear that? That poor bastard could be me. One of the live ones left, locked in his cell, gone completely buggy watching what’s happened, and knowing what’s gonna happen. He’s going to starve to death, just like me. But its better than being ripped to shreds and coming back. Hell, what do I know? Maybe we all come back no matter how we die. Will it matter by then?
I’m lucky, because my cell is on the second floor, and there’s a lot less of them up here. The stairs tend to trip them up. But some to make it up here. Mac, that’s our trusty, he’s been up and down this hallway a dozen times this morning. Would have been more, but he forgets to turn around sometimes and just leans into the wall with his feet moving all the time. I’ve got a spot in the corner I can hide in when I hear him coming, and thank Christ these things make a lot of noise when they walk so they don’t catch me in here. I don’t think I could handle them crowding in front of my cell, because I know they’d never leave – at least until I died.
I can barely recognize Mac anymore. He looks like a balloon. Fact, I can see his skin starting to split. And something peeled his head like an orange. All that’s left are his ears and a few flaps of scalp that didn’t get picked off. Stinks gawdawful, too, but I’m not going to tell him. Even if those eyes can’t see – and I don’t know if they can – I don’t want them turning on me. It’s enough to turn your blood into ice, even in this heat.
Why they didn’t lock this place down when it started, I’ll never know. Maybe it started at the top, but I hope the warden got at least a taste of this before he went down – that ball buster. I never saw a guard I didn’t hate, but I almost want to thank them for leaving me locked in here. I’ll say it again: I’d rather starve to death than be eaten by those things. Saw a lot of guards go out that way right out there in the yard. See it out there?
They’re all laying down now, like nice deadies, but you should’ve seen them a few days ago, pushing at the gates, pushing at the doors, pushing at each other. Then, they started to wind down like kids’ toys. Flopped like fish for a while, and then it was still as a graveyard. Get it? Laughter is the best medicine, don’t I know it?
Mac’s starting to wind down. First day or so, you wouldn’t have known anything was wrong with him, except to look at where his face used to be. He was even running up and down the hall like a kid again. Looked fun.
But he’s gotten worse and worse, and today he looks sloshed, staggering around and bumping into walls and stuff. I bet he’s done by tomorrow. Will I last that long? Dunno.
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©2010 Christian A. Larsen
Christian A. Larsen is a high school English teacher and former Chicago radio personality. He has been published in Golden Visions Magazine, Static Movement, Lightning Flash Magazine and House of Horror. He lives in Chicagoland with his wife and sons, who love watching Twilight Zone and Night Gallery as much as he does.
Tags: Christian A. Larsen
October 19th, 2010 at 10:59 pm
So well told, Christian - chilling and scary … because of the inevitable. Great story.
October 21st, 2010 at 10:26 pm
Thank you, Sean! I appreciate hearing that from anyone, especially a person who knows his craft!