A Drunken Zombie

  Alcohol, alcohol everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Why didn’t I just die when the virus hit? Why did it turn me into this thing that needs to eat people and wants to drink all the time? I want to drink, but for the love of God, I can't figure out how to open a bottle. Cans are even worse. I spent hours at first walking up and down the aisles of shops, longingly looking at the bottles and cans that had been left behind. They called to me, metaphorically, and all I could do was knock them to the floor—knock them down and watch them smash and spray everywhere. I dropped to my hands and knees, trying to drink some of the precious liquid, lapping at it like a depraved dog. Glass sliced my tongue, and all I could taste was blood. Then the alcohol hit my stomach, and I vomited like a character from The Exorcist.

  Take me back to the good old days—begging for change on the street, the only stress being where I would keep warm, dry, and alive that night. At least I could have a drink. That sweet amber nectar, rotting my teeth and guts while aging my skin. Beautiful.

  There was this time I was on the hunt for booze and came across a guy with the last bottle of vodka in his hand. All I wanted was the booze. But would my body cooperate, just once? Nooo, it had to be all snarls and growls, ripping and biting. This poor motherfucker tried to fight back, but he was a wet fart. A schoolgirl could’ve ripped him a new one. Anyway, he died and went down with me on top of him like some kind of possessed demon. The bottle in his hand went on a short flight—and my dreams shattered. If I could have cried, I would have. Instead of getting a drink, I got a meal.

  In the early days, I don’t know if this shopkeeper knew about zombies or not, but I was on the hunt for a drink. I shambled into his shop, started attempting to pick up drinks, dropping them, watching them smash or explode on the floor. Then the shopkeeper started shouting at me. A fresh human always distracted me from the drink. It just couldn’t be helped.

  “Hey, mister, stop fucking my shop!”

  That’s all he said. It took me three laps of the shop before I got my hands on the bastard and ripped out his jugular. Maybe it was the sound or the smell of blood. I still haven’t worked out how we all know there’s been a fresh kill—but we do. When we know, we swarm like a plague of locusts, and we don’t stop. If I wasn’t like I am now, I imagine I’d be horrified by my actions—and those of others.

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  When I start to think about my old self, I try to find him in here somewhere. He’s still here. But I have zero control over myself now. I guess some things never change. I didn’t have control of the drink before and still don’t—but now there’s an added bloodlust that’s even stronger. It would be nice to have a working body, at least. When I was pissed, at least there was a good reason for falling over.

  I went for a shamble down the street. A low mist covered the streets and buildings. The world looked as sombre as my mood. My mouth was dry, and I wanted to catch up with my old friend, Bloody Mary. Yeah, I hear you judging me. A Bloody Mary is a ninety-year-old woman’s drink, but fuck you—it gets me one of my five a day. I wonder what the all-meat diet is doing to my insides. Will that affect my death expectancy? Pfft, like I give a shit about how long I’m dead before proper death now.

  Some bastard keeps fucking shooting at me. All I want to do is have a simple, mindless walk in search of a beer—and some cunt takes potshots at me. Well, if I find him, I’m eating him. Or her—it’s equal rights and all that shit. Either way, they’d better kill me or get eaten. It’s times like this I wish I could actually do something other than run really badly or walk even worse. Another piece of tarmac chipped up at the side of me. I knew some twat was trying to kill me, and I was helpless to stop them. Strangely, I didn’t actually feel scared. I’m going to say I was indifferent.

  Up ahead, I could smell the fresh blood of a kill. That’s where I was going. I would get my pound of flesh. As I headed in that direction, I saw something that tickled me. A zombie—yeah, I know, nothing new there—but this one was a little person. The first one I’d seen. I hadn’t given them a thought. I guess, before, I would’ve said they were too small to get attacked. How had he survived this long? Granted, it hasn’t been that long. Well, I don’t think it has. But still, how does he eat?

  Hang on—does he have a hard-on? The dirty little perv. Got to give him credit, though—not all of him is small. So what managed to put life in him, then? Ah yes—the woman. We were all going to eat her. Her top was open, and there was one boob that hadn’t been chewed yet. He was in a desperate state to be getting excited by that.

  What am I thinking? I should be getting excited by a fresh boob—and not just at the thought of the flesh. I looked down at my own groin, hoping for some signs of action. But alas, no. Not a sausage.

  By the time I got to the girl, I couldn’t see her for all the zombies on her. I pulled living and dead corpses off her so I could get my fill. I was face-deep in her abdomen when something went through my shoulder.