Zombies were nearly extinct. The undead outbreak had been brought under control before it reached a point of no return. But a few re-lifers, as they’d been nicknamed, still stumbled around rural areas looking for flesh.
Autumn’s cool veil covered the land. Daniel was outside chopping small logs he needed for the wood burner in his living room. Thwock. The first log split at the same time as something bit into his shoulder. In pain and shock he pushed back on his assailant, turned around, and swung the hatchet at it. The blade pierced its neck, blood fountained out. Daniel managed to shove it onto the ground, then hacked its neck until the re-lifer’s head detached.
“Why me?! Why couldn’t you be satisfied with animal flesh?” Daniel screamed at the thing lying at his feet. Realising his fate, he sobbed.
In an hour he’d be a monstrosity. He resigned himself to what had to be done. Leaving the logs and the corpse he returned to the house. He closed the windows, locked the doors, and threw the keys out of the letterbox. Hands shaking, he picked up the cordless phone and dialled.
“Hello. The re-lifer hotline, Christine speaking.”
“I want to report a re-lifer,” Daniel’s voice quivered in response.
“Okay. Stay calm and tell me where it is,” Christine replied.
“It’ll be here in an hour. That’s the incubation period, right?”
“What do you mean, are you telling me you’ve been bitten?”
“Yes. But don’t send them yet. Please, I want someone to talk to in my last hour,” Daniel pleaded. “I’ve locked myself in and thrown out the keys so I’m not going anywhere, and the re-lifer who bit me isn’t going anywhere either.”
“Where’s the one that bit you?”
“Outside. Don’t worry, I chopped its head off.”
“What’s your name?” Christine asked.
“Daniel Woodmancote.”
“I’m sorry, Daniel. You must know that we have to deal with any re-lifers immediately to prevent another outbreak. Our people are sharpshooters, you won’t feel anything,” Christine said calmly.
“I know. Please, I’m not going anywhere. There’s no reason for me to lie about that. I don’t want to end my days knowing I’m being shot like a rabid dog.”
“Okay, Daniel. I’ll talk to you until you can no longer talk. We may learn something about the transition so I’m recording this call.”
“Oh, thank you,” Daniel said in a relieved tone.
After he’d died and transitioned, Daniel wouldn’t appreciate the view of the beautiful countryside from his living room window, or the grace of the occasional deer passing through his fields. The view was the reason for buying this house. He would no longer sit in his favourite armchair enjoying a glass of red wine, nor read one of the many books on his shelves. Cannibalistic hunger, he knew, would be the only urge. The most primitive part of his brain left in control and the humanity dissolved, leaving him less than an animal – they at least had instincts to do more than just eat. He wondered if re-lifers recognised familiar people or sounds, if only as a faint nagging feeling in their flesh obsessed, shrivelled mind.
They talked about Daniel’s life, of how he’d dreamed of moving to the countryside as he slowly burned out with city living. The claustrophobia brought on by throngs of people everywhere made the decision for him. Due to the nature of his work he had the luxury to work from home, and enjoyed the opportunity to take long walks.
Standing by the window trying to enjoy his favourite view for the last time, Daniel said, “Something is happening, Christine. My vision is blurring, and the colour is draining away. I’m looking through the window and it’s like seeing an old sepia photograph.”
As the hour ticked by, a chill spread throughout his body and mind. He put the remaining wood left inside the house into the wood burner, eventually getting a fire started after fumbling with the matches.
“Have you ever had a day without food and felt the hunger pangs, Christine? This is worse, the gnawing inside my guts is almost unbearable. I need meat,” Daniel slurred into the phone.
“You’re not trying to leave the house are you?” Christine asked, worried that she’d been too understanding.
“No. I’m … go to kitchen,” he responded indistinctly, then dropped the phone.
Daniel shuffled into the kitchen. Dizziness clouded his thoughts; his limbs didn’t work smoothly anymore – it was as though his bodily coordination had been knocked off kilter by drinking far too much wine. His foot caught on a table leg and he fell, almost stopping himself by reaching out for the table top.
Back on his feet, Daniel reached the fridge and flung its door open. A pack of minced beef caught his carnivorous attention, but the plastic wrapping prolonged his hunger. Grey hands ripped at the packaging until it shredded. He pushed the meat into his mouth awkwardly, like a toddler left alone with a gooey cake.
“Daniel, are you still there?” Christine asked on hearing the commotion.
No response came. She heard footfall in the background, the sound of things breaking, and the primal grunting of a re-lifer.
“Don’t worry, Daniel. A squad’s on its way now. You won’t suffer for much longer,” she said before hanging up the call.
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© 2012 Dene Bebbington
Dene Bebbington works in IT and is a writer in his spare time. He lives in Wiltshire, England, and has had three zombie stories published in the anthology Unquiet Earth.
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