The Better Half (ljidol entry)
A continuation of my zombie tales...
I was never the smartest man. Nor the fastest. The best I could have ever hoped for was slightly above average. When the virus hit me, it seemed to be an equalizer.
We were all zombies. All of us the same. Loose teeth, pale flesh, and penchant for brains.
As the days have passed, though, I have begun to realize that we are all not the same. I look at my wife, who came willingly to this state, and she is almost human. But for her slurring speech, she could probably walk into one of the human camps unharmed. If they didn't look too closely.
She also keeps a journal. I see her write in it furiously, day after day. It is her way of keeping track, of making sure something survives us. I wish I could. I've lost three fingers in my writing hand already, and I'm not sure I could form the words properly.
That is another thing both of us have noticed. Slowly, whatever we had before the change is deteriorating. It is like that one story we read in high school English class, except we never got to be geniuses. Funny that I remember that but I cant seem to spell the word foot.
I have a feeling one day, it may come down to Allie taking care of me, too early by normal means. I would have been thirty-five this year. She shouldn't have to take care of me. Or anyone. Yet somehow she has taken it upon herself to take care of all of us. She has an instinct about these things. Where it came from, I do not know. She was a school teacher before. Now she is a diplomat, a historian, and caretaker.
We aren't supposed to feel. That's what the movies always told us. But every time I look at her, I feel warm again, and I can remember more, and it seems that the world hasn't changed so much.
She tells me that everything will be fine. That we will end our days in dignity. I know she will.
I can only hope I find myself with my head bashed open and my comrades eating my flesh before I forget any more.
If I forget her face, I wouldn't want to be here anyway.
I was never the smartest man. Nor the fastest. The best I could have ever hoped for was slightly above average. When the virus hit me, it seemed to be an equalizer.
We were all zombies. All of us the same. Loose teeth, pale flesh, and penchant for brains.
As the days have passed, though, I have begun to realize that we are all not the same. I look at my wife, who came willingly to this state, and she is almost human. But for her slurring speech, she could probably walk into one of the human camps unharmed. If they didn't look too closely.
She also keeps a journal. I see her write in it furiously, day after day. It is her way of keeping track, of making sure something survives us. I wish I could. I've lost three fingers in my writing hand already, and I'm not sure I could form the words properly.
That is another thing both of us have noticed. Slowly, whatever we had before the change is deteriorating. It is like that one story we read in high school English class, except we never got to be geniuses. Funny that I remember that but I cant seem to spell the word foot.
I have a feeling one day, it may come down to Allie taking care of me, too early by normal means. I would have been thirty-five this year. She shouldn't have to take care of me. Or anyone. Yet somehow she has taken it upon herself to take care of all of us. She has an instinct about these things. Where it came from, I do not know. She was a school teacher before. Now she is a diplomat, a historian, and caretaker.
We aren't supposed to feel. That's what the movies always told us. But every time I look at her, I feel warm again, and I can remember more, and it seems that the world hasn't changed so much.
She tells me that everything will be fine. That we will end our days in dignity. I know she will.
I can only hope I find myself with my head bashed open and my comrades eating my flesh before I forget any more.
If I forget her face, I wouldn't want to be here anyway.