Pulse

I wipe my pale jaw with my red jacket sleeve as I sit up from feasting upon someone who used to be living. Their blood is soaking into my sleeve, while some of the delectable crimson liquid has been smeared across my face. His body is torn apart from my own pale hands. His intestines are sprawled out from his molested abdomen. Or at least, the parts of them that I didn't eat. His organs are mostly in my own, twisted digestive system. If I were living, I could probably smell his reeking body and metallic scent of spilt blood.

But I can't.

Because I'm dead.

I look down upon the mangled body that I just tore apart to feed myself. He left his nametag on his airport security jacket. I tear it off, staining it with blood.

It would be nice if I had a nametag. All I remember about my name is that it started with an 'R'. So that's what I go by.

His name started with a 'P'.

When I removed my thumb, leaving the other three letters on the nametag, I could read 'Phil'.

Phil.

I wonder what his life was like, before I pushed him to the ground, pressed him down against the concrete runway of the airport, hearing his screams until I ripped out his voice box to eat. Because I prefer my meals in peace and quiet. His body struggling and flopping frantically, trying to defend himself against me. I didn't watch the life drain out of his eyes because I was much too busy eating him while he was still fresh.

In hindsight, that must be pretty disgusting.

And I'd be lying to say I wasn't ashamed of it.

I picked a vocal cord from between my teeth, and ate it as I sat up on my knees. Phil wasn't really Phil anymore. His insides were on his outsides.

I decided to spare Phil from ending up like me, so I dug my fingers into his skull past his dark locks, pressing until I heard the succulent crack of his cranium cage. I dug in, pulling out the crinkled matter of his brain.

The brain was the best part.

Now, you may not know this, but if you don't eat the brain, they'll come back as a corpse. Shout out to the idiot who decided to spare mine and cast me into this limbo state. Being the walking dead isn't all that great, seeing that your diet is constructed upon cannibalism and consisting of human body parts.

It's a common courtesy to eat the brains and go on your merry way. Plus, the brains taste the best. And, they're full of memories. They make us feel human when we eat them.

I shove some of Phil's brains into my mouth, chewing on the gush and feeling the same hallucinating sensation you get when eating other brains. It's like dreaming for zombies…because zombies don't dream. Or sleep.

Phil had a decent life. He had a lot of friends, had a nice job, got along well with everyone. He even had a girlfriend-no- a wife. I stop chewing, and look over to his left hand; the one that I didn't eat the fingers off.

There it is, right on his ring finger, a shiny gold band with some blood around it.

Shit.

I continue chewing, as Phil's memory flashes through my mind.

He sent his wife to run with the others while he saw some of the zombies saunter hungrily after them. He spotted me, in the red jacket. His wife takes off in a black jeep with some other humans, while he and some others are trying desperately to run away without the help of a vehicle transport. They're too slow. He looks over, and sees his buddy get hounded by a corpse like me. To his other side, another friend is attacked and slowly ripped apart. He turns around, and doesn't even get the chance to avoid my merciless pounce upon him-

I spit out the rest of the brains, because I can't take it anymore. Zombies aren't supposed to feel emotions. Zombies aren't supposed to feel anything.

But I feel tremendous guilt.

But it's what I have to do, eating people, in order to keep living this half-life.

Is it possible for us to feel, to be someone? To have a conscience?

I stuff the rest of Phil's brains and his nametag in my jacket pocket. I'm saving them for later, in case I get hungry. I get up, and trudge to the airport, hunched over. I have terrible posture.

I moan, as I get closer to the building and walk inside. The place is desolate, dilapidated and deserted. The future is destroyed by the race of the walking dead.

I step onto the escalator, riding up the miraculously functioning staircase. The airport is the only place that really shows any civilization. Others like me lazily walk around.

I collect a lot of things. Like totally miscellaneous junk. That's why my pockets are so full of stuff like nametags and brains. Earlier today, I found something interesting. It was this CD player. It's kind of vintage, but not as nice as my record player. It's kind of a gross yellow color. But hey, it could prove to be of some use. Like the hundreds of snow globes, ukuleles, trinkets, and other shit I have stowed away in my airplane in the runway.

I like collecting things.

I bend down slowly, to pick up an empty coffee cup. It's crumbled, but at least it can carry stuff in it. Behind the customer service counter, I take a pen and a paperclip and drop them into the cup. They have an eerie clink that fills the airport terminal. It's the only noise besides the dragging of my old, worn out sneakers on the smooth floor and the occasional intercom system delivering monotone instructions to no one in particular.

There's a bookstore nearby. I shove the cup into my jacket, squashed against Phil's brains. I pick up some of the books, one by one, getting blood all over the national best seller.

I guess it's more than just fifty shades of gray now.

I drop it carelessly, and open some more, splattering scarlet fingerprint markings all over the pages. I wish I could read again. It was already hard enough to comprehend Phil's nametag.

I've forgotten so much.

How to read. How to live, how to breath.

I bet it must have been nice to be Phil.

To have a heartbeat.

To have a rhythm that you could live your life around.

A pulse.

I create a trail of stained novels behind me, and get to the music section. I thumb through CD's. They're a lot smaller than records, and if you hold them up, the shiny part has a rainbow on it if you have it at a certain angle. They have lots of colors. More colors than blood, more colors than the overcast sky, more colors than me. More colors than fifty shades of gray, at that.

I take of the CD out of its case and put my finger through the hole. I spin it slowly, watching the spectrum on the back dance in the dim light.

It's one of the nice things left in the airport.

When I turn over the CD, I see that it's got a guy on the front with the band called Ge…Gene…

Genesis.

And this guy is also named Phil.

Was Phil a musician and an airport security guard?

I check the album cover, and there isn't much resemblance to my lunch.

His last name starts with a 'C'.

C…Co…Coll…

Who's idea was it to make the alphabet so fucking complicated?

Being dead is hard enough.

Co…Coll…

After quite some time, I finally press myself through the difficult phonetics of the last name on the CD.

Collins.

Phil Collins.

I jumble around in my pocket, looking for the CD player. I open it, and wonder, if I stick the CD in, if it'll play. It should work like my record player, right?

I sit down on the floor, and place the CD player in my lap.

I snap the lid on the player, and watch the CD rotate really, really fast. Music blares through the speakers of the trashy yellow speakers of the CD player.

I can't help myself but stare at it, listening to the sound fill the airport.

You'll be in my heart.

I can't help but feel happy.

Yes you'll be in my heart.

I'm fascinated. I can't take my eyes off it.

From this day on, now and forever more.

I pull out the coffee cup from my pocket, pull the pen out, and tap along to the music, probably really off-beat.

You'll be in my heart.

But I could care less.

No matter what they say.

Because now Phil has a heartbeat again.

I'll be there for you.

And for now I have a rhythm.

Always.

I have a pulse.