I'm dead. It's not so bad, though, since everyone else is too.
I should probably expand on that. When I say 'dead,' I really mean 'undead.' I vaguely remember the term 'zombie'- it's not anything concrete, just snippets of pop culture that seemed to have stuck in some recess of my brain. See, unless you get a crowbar to the cranium, when you die, you stay still for a few moments and then you rise again—a clean slate, memory-free, like a wiped computer. I guess that I could say we are 'zombies,' but we're a little different than the sci-fi horror movies of yesterday; instead of useless groaning, rabid hunger, and a lack of sense of community, we are a knit group of scavengers whose communication skills are… well, not that great. The most important thing is that we think. I know I'm not the only one. Original thought, like to go out into the city to find food or to be industrious and build community centers (which has happened before), isn't extremely common, but it does happen. When it does, our numbers usually grow and the Living's usually shrink.
That's another thing: food. I hate this the most about being dead: in order to live, I have to take life. I must eat human flesh to survive, and it must be fresh. Unfortunately, "people food" doesn't do us much good. We have no metabolism, so to speak, so we can only absorb energy. We know it's wrong, we hate it, I see it in all our eyes, but we kill. We tear limbs, we rip organs, and we eat brains. Being dead, the things we did in our past lives and what we do in this one are impossible to remember or distinguish, especially due to the fact that our lives now are pretty boring. I do remember one thing, though: my first hunt. I was hungry, I knew that much. I went into a home, a small family unit cowering from us inside. Before I knew what I was doing, I had a girl by the throat. I remember the overwhelming urge to bite, so I did. Kneeling there after my meal, hot blood running down my arms and chin, I wanted so badly to cry. I had hurt. I had killed. I didn't want to, but I had no control. I don't go on hunting trips anymore. I know I'll never be truly satisfied without killing my prey, but I get by on scraps that the true hunters bring back. Sometimes there's a lot of energy left. Sometimes there's hardly any. I get by.
I've tried to figure out how this all happened. Was it something as cheesy as a radioactive spider? Nuclear fallout? Or maybe the Mayan calendar countdown was right all along? I may never know. Walking around this city, crumbling ruins of a great civilization, I feel compelled to ask my questions, though, and wish I had an answer.
I guess this "plague" caught me in the very early stages of decomposition. I mean, yeah, my skin is a little pale and my veins show up as almost blue-black, but nothing's peeling away yet. My hair is black and messy and I have eyes that were once green but now have a silver sheen over them like the rest of the Dead. Another way I can tell I was still warm when I woke up is that I'm pretty agile. The other Dead mumble and kind of shuffle around, but I could pass as Living if I didn't have to speak and the room was dark.
I also remember my name. Just my first name, and I'm surprise that stuck. Usually, people don't say their own names as much as they do their loved ones. I forgot the names of my mother, my father, my friends, even the city I'm in, but my name is as clear as day. Percy. That's all I have left, along with an overwhelming hunger that never quite goes away. Sometimes, I think it would be nice if I could remember more than that, but sometimes it just reminds me how far I've fallen from being alive. Things fade away, I guess. I vaguely remember the phrase "Time heals all wounds." I wish that were true of the world now. It would be great if one day all of the Living woke up and the plague was gone—the Bonies nothing but dust and everything could go back to normal.
Oh yeah, the Bonies. A little nickname for our worst of the worst. The Dead that have completely given into this half-life and forsaken everything that makes us human eventually rot to nothing but skeletons wrapped in the jerky that their muscles have become. They're truly terrifying, even to us, but they hold every political office, every religious position. They control us, and we are their sheep. Sad, but true.
I should explain the religious part. Really, there's no First Assembly of Zombies or anything extremely organized like that, but we got to church. Well, some of us. I don't. I actually believe in God—I have vague memories of going to church with a brother, a friend?—and I remember the Lord's Prayer. Not sure how my mind stuck to that, but whatever. The creep-tastic fake they have in place of real church is actually kind of scary. There are sacrifices (A.K.A: kidnapped Living) and voodoo and all sorts of Medieval crap. The place itself is a renovated ball park with all sorts of gory memorabilia hanging around. I'm another level of social outcast because I don't come.
I live in the hospital I woke up in. Call me crazy, but even with my supreme lack of skill in building, I've been trying to maintenance the back-up generators and keep them running for a year now. Well, I think it's been a year. Time passes differently now; there's no Black Friday sales to let you know that Christmas is coming, and there aren't any drunks to signify New Years. The Fourth of July is firework-less and August passes without students returning to school. I guess the only way I could tell is that there was snow on the ground when I started and now there's snow on the ground again. Anyway, I'm pretty much invisible to the zombies outside of the hospital. The Dead have a tendency to avoid anything that runs (in a machine sense), so the fact that the generators work most of the time seems to irk them enough to stay away. I think somewhere in our basic instincts, the generators remind us of our natural competitors, the Living, and the real death that awaits if we lurk too close. That, and I guess I'm not living enough to be appetizing—or dead enough to be cool.
It's weird being the only one in a hospital. I realize that this observation is a little obvious, but it's true. I mean, my friend Nico visits from time to time, but I'm basically alone. As a Living, I hated hospitals because they were steeped in sickness and death. Now, though, it reminds me of life. It's the only deserted building in the area that still has an element of life left in it. Generators still work, there's still all sorts of things in the basement (like expensive lab equipment that was in various stages of being packed up) that show the Living intend on coming back to it, and there are no zombies (except me). I guess whatever evil circumstances that led to the zombie apocalypse outside gave the hospital enough time to life-flight all its patients out. Everyone, it seemed, except me. Somehow, though, that gives me hope. Maybe the entire human race isn't like us. Maybe we're just a sectioned-off part of the globe, and the rest of society is going on without us. Nico doesn't really share my opinion, but I usually just snarl at him to shut up. It's not much, but it keeps me going.
Nico, as I've said, is my closest thing to a friend. He's dead, like me, but he's a little different. He's hardly decomposed, though his skin has paled from the tan it used to be and his eyes are grey instead of black. His hair is curly black that sticks out in all directions. Judging from his name, I'd bet he was Italian. We know his name because it was stitched into Nico's bomber jacket. Not that any of us could read, but Nico stared at it for a minute and just remembered what it said. He's the one that goes hunting for me. Either he has no conscience or a good reason to justify his actions, but killing never seemed to bother him. It makes me wonder what he was in life. We play that game every once in a while; Nico and I will stare out from the second floor balcony at the Dead below and figure out what they used to be. I secretly think that Nico used to be a super spy, but then again… he's really clumsy and probably about fourteen.
I died pretty young too, like Nico. I was probably in my late teens or early twenties. I was wearing a hospital gown when I woke up. I guess that's why I'm in such good shape; I hadn't been down there long. I don't remember much about waking up. I know I felt weird in the hospital gown so I scoured the hospital until I found some abandoned clothes: a pair of jeans, loafers, a blue-green v-neck with a few dime-sized holes in it, and a bright blue hoodie with the same curious holes. They were in a bag. Something was printed on it, but I guess it belonged to a patient. Since the clothes fit, I wonder if they were mine.
Most days pass in this order: I finally decide to stop sitting in a dark room (which I say is sleeping, but really isn't), I go to the balcony on the second floor to see what is going on below, I go back inside and take the elevator to the basement and check on the generators, I fiddle with those for a few hours, I sit in a dark room some more, I spend a few more hours wandering around the hospital, and then the cycle repeats itself. The only exception to this is when I need parts. On those days, I step out into the post-apocalyptic cityscape and try not to get shot or eaten by mistake.
I realize that trying to maintain a thousands-of-square-feet building by myself is a little crazy. I know I'm really weird. I realize that holding onto any shred of humanity I can seems like a lost cause, but to me… it's all I really have. So I venture out and get supplies. It's not like I get noticed anyway.
It's funny to admit in hindsight, but all I wanted was a couple of nails and a fluorescent light bulb when my entire existence got flipped around.
That night, it was pretty dark. While the weak moonlight was reflecting off the piles of snow, it was still pretty hard to get around. It had been a sudden cold snap that caused the snow, because it was just rain a few days before. There was a thick layer of ice underneath the powder, so a lot of the disadvantaged zombies were sliding around like they were part of a comedy routine. Poor guys can't catch a break. I have to admit, I was having trouble too. The hardware store I liked to use was about six blocks away from the hospital, in an abandoned strip mall.
I had to dodge abandoned cars and frozen bodies and even climb over an entire tank before I reached the parking lot. I shuffled through the snow, missing my old life more than usual. The three stumbling Dead I'd past already were pretty much lost and seemed too preoccupied in trying to walk to notice me. However, when I reached the mostly-abandoned parking lot, there was a horde camped out in front of—just my luck—the hardware store. There were only about twenty, but it would make getting to the store difficult. I was stuck with two options: leave and try again another day or sneak in the back.
It wasn't as if I didn't have all the time in the world; I could have just gone back. But something was pulling me toward that hardware store, so I decided to follow it. Besides, I was getting hungry. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed some food. If there was a hungry horde sniffing through the parking lot, chances were that some Living had strayed from their giant concrete box and come into our territory. Maybe I'd manage to get an arm or leg.
From past raids, I remembered that the back of the stores were loading bays. While the steep stairs and locked doors would prove to be tricky for most Dead, I could manage. The only problem was that I'd have to go through the adjacent pharmacy first.
For some reason, the garage door to the pharmacy was dented in, leaving a human-sized gap between the concrete and steel. The door to the hardware store, on the other hand, was in perfect condition. I would end up shattering the bones in my shoulder if I tried to break in—not that I would feel any pain, but it would be weird. With a lot of difficulty, I managed to squeeze underneath the pharmacy door.
While the outside walls of the hardware store were all over a foot of concrete and brick, the wall between the two stores, however, was about four inches thick with a door between them that had long since been kicked off its hinges. I didn't go this way often, but I didn't have a lot of trouble getting through the racks and racks of medicine to the store front. It helped that the flickering fluorescents above me still held enough light to see about where I was headed.
Once inside the store front, my senses went into hyper-mode. It happens whenever we smell the Living. The scent of ozone and flowers filled my nose, the scent of life. Whoever was in the pharmacy, they were making no move to cover up the fact that they weren't dead. Just from the level of intensity, I figured that there had to be at least two. Maybe three.
The dim light from the parking lights outside were obscured by the tinted glass of the store front windows, making it extremely hard to see. I heard movement from the aisle to my right, so I quietly ducked around.
Shuffling in the aisle, hastily wrapping her arm in the gauze she stole from aisle 5 was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. I realize this is a little biased as I've only had dead girls to compare her to, but she was seriously pretty. In the dim light, she looked about 20 years old with blond curls tumbling down her back in a loose ponytail that came right out of a magazine. She wore a dark red hoodie that was frayed in places and jeans that were grey from wear and tear. I couldn't see her whole face from the door, but she had high cheeks and full lips.
There was the sound of cracking glass and the girl whipped her head around to the front of the store. She got up from her cross-legged position to kneeling. A delicate hand slipped down to the 12-gauge shotgun by her side. Without a sound, she checked her pockets and the gun for ammo. There was none.
From the front pocket of her hoodie, she pulled out a combat knife. She was shaking. It made the scent rolling off her even stronger. Part of me (admittedly, a very large part) wanted to eat. I was hungry—there was no denying that fact. However, something about her, about the set line of her jaw, the steadiness left in her hands, kept my hunger at bay. She was a fighter. She was an underdog. Before I knew it, a feeling that was completely unfamiliar bubbled up from that empty cavern that used to be my chest.
What I did next was incredibly stupid, even by my standards. I took that last step that separated her from me and grabbed her. One hand went over her mouth and the other pinned her arms to her side.
She froze and then proceeded to try to scream. Without a choice, I clamped my index finger and thumb over her nose. Her scream became a muffled whimper. She tried to struggle out of my grasp, but I was still living-like enough to be too strong for her to break. Through the struggle, I tried to shush her as quietly as I could manage.
"Don't… scream," I managed to breathe out. I realized a little late that was a pretty rape-y thing to say. Way to go, Perce. "Keep… you safe," I rasped. My voice still sounded like something out of a slasher movie, but c'est la vie. A little less creepy, but I had to take into account that my vocabulary was limited. Even the most eloquent zombie is forced to use shrugs and hand motions. I could sort of speak, but I rarely got the practice. Guess that's what I get for being an anti-social zombie.
Slowly, making sure not to freak her out any more than I already had, I removed my hands. Just as I thought, she spun around, knife in hand, ready to take my face off. I caught her wrist and the knife clattered on the linoleum. Her eyes—a startling grey—caught me by surprise. At first, she looked at me with the determination I knew was there, but it quickly changed to surprise and then defeat when she realized she didn't kill me after all. Now, exhausted tears were beginning to streak her beautiful face.
I wanted to say something about how I was a good zombie and was potty-trained and didn't bite the neighbors, but I was interrupted by a loud crash from the front. A stronger light poured into the store now that the tinted glass was gone. The first few zombies started to slowly trudge through the broken glass, hell-bent (or as close as they could manage to hell-bent) on finding this girl. Their shadows danced across the aisles.
"Come… with me," I croaked.
Her eyes pleaded with me. Her scent was intoxicating. I got clumsily to my feet again, but trying to get her up was difficult. She seemed like she just wanted to sit there. I understood the face she made—she was giving up. I had to admit, until a few moments ago I wanted nothing more than to hide away in my hoodie until there was something to look forward to in life. However, now I had someone to help, I wasn't going to let that someone die.
"S-stand… up."
She slowly rose. She was more than a few inches shorter than me. I started to herd her towards the back. I grabbed her hand—the uninjured one—and pulled her behind me, going as fast as my balance would let me. We shuffled through the storage area, and as I looked behind me when we passed one of the racks filled with medicine, the girl ran her hand along it, dumping its contents all over the laminate. That would slow down the first few at least. Finally, we made it to the garage door. I stopped suddenly, but she kept going and crashed into me. We both fell to the floor.
"Damn it!" she hissed as she clutched her injured arm.
"Slide… under," I hissed.
"What?"
"Slide under." I shoved her down between her shoulder blades and pushed her under the gap. Behind me, I heard a zombie take a tumble on pill bottles. As soon as she was through, I worked my way under the crumpled steel. I just rolled out of reach when a zombie arm lunged from under the steel. He missed my jacket by an inch. As I backed away, my hand found a piece of a car fender. I hit the steel at the bottom with all I had. The fender splintered, but the dent I made would keep anyone from crawling out of the gap again.
There was a lot of moaning a snarling from the other side of the garage door, but I stood and dusted myself off, proud of my escape plan. At least, I was… until I saw her. She was backed up against the concrete edge of the ramp and the loading platform. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees. She was crying in full now, eyes red and puffy, even in the pathetic light from the reflective patches of snow.
I bent down on my knees in front of her, but she just backed as far into the corner as she could. I looked briefly back at the garage door. The zombies inside were trying to break it down. They were making progress. I reached out, but she smacked my hand away.
"Please…" she whispered, hoarse from crying, "just let me go… Please."
She was so scared. I wasn't positive, but I was pretty sure that this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Didn't girls usually fall into the arms of their rescuers? Had she never seen Disney movies? Well, needless to say I had nothing. However, if we stayed any longer, I couldn't protect her.
I found some pieces of broken glass a few feet to the left that were dusty and gross—and sharp. I crushed a piece in my hand, feeling the flesh tear but no pain accompanied the sensation. Dead blood oozed from my hand. I brushed it across the girl's face and down her clothes. The ozone and flowers went away. She didn't smell alive anymore.
She shook as my hand still hovered near her face. I wasn't sure what to say. In fact, I didn't even know if I could say anything. Instead of words, I grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. She shirked away from me, but I put my bleeding hand on her shoulder and started to walk her towards the hospital…
It had started to snow again by the time we made it to the revolving door and bright lights of the hospital. The girl had the zombie walk down now—she was shivering from the cold and stumbling out of fear. At least none of the other zombies had tried to stop me. They turned their dead eyes towards her, sniffed, and then continued about their business.
Once we were in the hospital, the girl looked around in wonder for a moment, forgetting that I was there. I let her. When I turned around, she was only a few feet away by the main desk, looking at all the papers. She seemed to be frantically looking for something. It was when she grabbed the scissors that I knew why.
"Stay back!" she warned, her voice trembling. This was not going well.
I should have thought it through a little more. I kept thinking about how this must be the reason that I'm an outcast. What other self-respecting zombie would take a Living back to their place? I mean, sure, we converted people all the time (note that this is usually by sheer accident), but this… this was stupid. I had no idea what I was going to do with her. Keep her here against her will? Yeah, that would probably end with a pair of safety scissors sticking out of my eye.
"I-it's… o…k-kay." My rusted voice echoed in the lobby. She didn't seem to believe me.
I couldn't help thinking that this would be a lot easier with chloroform and duct tape. I didn't want to hurt her, but she was going to hurt herself if she didn't calm down.
I took a few more steps towards her. At least she'd backed herself into a corner again; I really didn't feel like chasing her around the entire hospital. "It's… okay."
She slowly lowered the scissors. The dark circles under her eyes were as noticeable as my own. She was exhausted, that much was obvious. "Please leave me alone," she pleaded again. I reached out and grabbed her shoulder. She whimpered, but slumped and trudged along as I led her to the elevator.
The doors opened as soon as I pressed the button. I guided her inside and punched the second button over. I knew there was a number on it, but numbers and letters had been just a fraction of the things you give up as a zombie. They were as meaningless as Egyptian hieroglyphs.
The doors rattled open onto the second floor. There was a nurse's station in front of us, still tidy from when the hospital was occupied by the Living. I steered her toward the room I usually used as my own. The white board had a name in faded pink expo marker, but I couldn't read it. Opening the door, I flipped on the light to my room.
It was what you would expect from a hospital. The walls were bare except for a reproduction oil painting of lily pads across from a bed that was set at half-reclined. There was a very uncomfortable-looking chair in the corner, and the window ledge provided a good view of the parking lot behind the hospital. It also looked toward the Living city and their giant concrete wall that separated them from us. In the moonlight, I could just make out the top of the wall, as great a monument in my eyes as the Pyramids of Giza.
The girl walked tentatively into my room. I couldn't blame her. In addition to the normal hospital stuff, there were all sorts of things around; the most notable being an iPod (charger still connected) that was plugged into the wall. She beelined toward the bed, though, after a quick 360 around the room. She curled onto the cushion and assumed the fetal position.
Wiping her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie, she asked, "What are you going to do with me?"
Her voice was soft, yet firm. There was power in her voice, even with the raw edge it held from crying, just like there was authority and intelligence dancing in those curious silver eyes. As resigned as she was, I knew there was a tendril of hope that she was still clinging to. She was fascinating, and I spent a little too long staring at her, trying figure out what it was that had me so amazed.
Yeah, it was getting a little awkward in there.
"Keep… safe," I mumbled in addition to shrugging. After all, I really didn't have a plan. I remembered that Living people needed sleep, so I pointed her at a bedroom. Now, though, I was pretty sure that she wouldn't sleep if I was in here with her.
I pantomimed the command for stay and walked out of the room, shutting (and locking) the door behind me…
*A/N – So this is a bit of a trial. I'm not sure if I actually want to continue this, but I'm hoping some people out there would like a story like this. Keep in mind, I have the second chapter done already, but I don't know if I want to post it. This fic is loosely (key word) based off Isaac Marion's bookWarm Bodies. It will ride close to the original plot at the beginning, but instead of the Romeo and Juliet undertones, it follows a little more align with Meyer's The Host in all honesty. :/ That hurts a little to admit. Oh well, c'est la vie. Let me know what you think! And be honest!
I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Warm Bodies, The Host, or any of the characters therein.
~Tardis*