lay there for hours, drifting in and out of sleep the way he’d drifted in and out of different rooms.
Eventually, the need to go to the toilet summoned him to the bathroom. As he stood urinating he stared at his reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. His skin was unshaven, pallid and sun-starved, and the zombie’s backhand had made his upper lip swell just enough to give his face an odd, distorted look. But what struck him most was the look of his eyes. The shrunken, hole-like pupils were surrounded by irises that looked to be darker shades of green than normal, almost as if they’d been stained by something corrosive. Beyond them, the whites were badly bloodshot. If the eyes were windows to the soul then his had the blinds firmly shut and the curtains drawn.
My God! His eyes looked just like theirs. The colours were different, but the overall impression was exactly the same. The epiphany rolled over him, as ominous as distant thunder.
He was just as big a zombie as they were .
He didn’t want to admit it, but it was true. He was like them: dead already. He wandered around devoid of spirit or joy or purpose, as did they; he’d lost everything that had meant anything to him, as they had; his existence was completely without worth, as was theirs. The parallels went on and on when he really thought about it. All this time he’d been labouring under the apprehension that his technology-free body had saved him from the calamity, but it wasn’t true. He was merely going through the motions, waiting for disease or a zombie pick him off, treading water on the edge of a giant whirlpool that was sure to swallow him whole, its pull irresistible. He pictured a zombie tearing the flesh from his bones, feeding on it as nonchalantly as the zombie had fed on the severed foot the day before, the barbarous act meaning as little to it as the flesh did to the universe itself.
In fact, he was an even bigger zombie than they were; they didn’t have any choice in the matter.
He went into the living room, and it was no accident that the first thing his eyes fell upon was the handgun lying on the coffee table.
Just do it, a voice that seemed entirely separate to his own said. They’ve already won: you’re one of them. You’re a zombie by your own volition. What’s the point of prolonging the inevitable? Do it your way. Don’t let them eat the flesh from your bones.
He picked the gun up and stroked its smooth, cool exterior. This device would make it so easy – the solution to all his ills with just the pulling of a trigger. Yesterday it had released a dead man’s body from the indignity of a pointless existence, a state of unrest forced upon it by a heartless virus; today it could do the same for his soul. His barren soul, so wasted it was an insult to the ranks of the virus-slain dead, every one of whom would gladly, gratefully, be standing in his place if only they could. An insult to the memory of mankind itself.
Without releasing the safeties, he pointed the muzzle at himself, trying out the different ways it could be done. Which would be best? The temple? Under the chin? The pseudo-sexual in the mouth?
Don’t do it! another voice implored him, as separate to himself as the other had been. You’re stronger than that. You might be embattled and lonely, feeling useless and miserable, but you’re a survivor. A survivor! A lingering representative of humanity. A lone, struggling pall-bearer for the whole human race. The same race that was capable of scientific learning, great works of art and unconditional love. The mere fact of your existence is like spit in the Devil’s eye!
He placed the gun back down on the table, peering at it sideways as if it had been trying to seduce him into wrongdoing.
The second voice had prevailed. For now, at least.
CHAPTER 13
D + 199
The next morning he woke to what had become a welcome sight in this topsy-turvy world: heavy rain. In his fragile state of mind, it provided the
Eventually, the need to go to the toilet summoned him to the bathroom. As he stood urinating he stared at his reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. His skin was unshaven, pallid and sun-starved, and the zombie’s backhand had made his upper lip swell just enough to give his face an odd, distorted look. But what struck him most was the look of his eyes. The shrunken, hole-like pupils were surrounded by irises that looked to be darker shades of green than normal, almost as if they’d been stained by something corrosive. Beyond them, the whites were badly bloodshot. If the eyes were windows to the soul then his had the blinds firmly shut and the curtains drawn.
My God! His eyes looked just like theirs. The colours were different, but the overall impression was exactly the same. The epiphany rolled over him, as ominous as distant thunder.
He was just as big a zombie as they were .
He didn’t want to admit it, but it was true. He was like them: dead already. He wandered around devoid of spirit or joy or purpose, as did they; he’d lost everything that had meant anything to him, as they had; his existence was completely without worth, as was theirs. The parallels went on and on when he really thought about it. All this time he’d been labouring under the apprehension that his technology-free body had saved him from the calamity, but it wasn’t true. He was merely going through the motions, waiting for disease or a zombie pick him off, treading water on the edge of a giant whirlpool that was sure to swallow him whole, its pull irresistible. He pictured a zombie tearing the flesh from his bones, feeding on it as nonchalantly as the zombie had fed on the severed foot the day before, the barbarous act meaning as little to it as the flesh did to the universe itself.
In fact, he was an even bigger zombie than they were; they didn’t have any choice in the matter.
He went into the living room, and it was no accident that the first thing his eyes fell upon was the handgun lying on the coffee table.
Just do it, a voice that seemed entirely separate to his own said. They’ve already won: you’re one of them. You’re a zombie by your own volition. What’s the point of prolonging the inevitable? Do it your way. Don’t let them eat the flesh from your bones.
He picked the gun up and stroked its smooth, cool exterior. This device would make it so easy – the solution to all his ills with just the pulling of a trigger. Yesterday it had released a dead man’s body from the indignity of a pointless existence, a state of unrest forced upon it by a heartless virus; today it could do the same for his soul. His barren soul, so wasted it was an insult to the ranks of the virus-slain dead, every one of whom would gladly, gratefully, be standing in his place if only they could. An insult to the memory of mankind itself.
Without releasing the safeties, he pointed the muzzle at himself, trying out the different ways it could be done. Which would be best? The temple? Under the chin? The pseudo-sexual in the mouth?
Don’t do it! another voice implored him, as separate to himself as the other had been. You’re stronger than that. You might be embattled and lonely, feeling useless and miserable, but you’re a survivor. A survivor! A lingering representative of humanity. A lone, struggling pall-bearer for the whole human race. The same race that was capable of scientific learning, great works of art and unconditional love. The mere fact of your existence is like spit in the Devil’s eye!
He placed the gun back down on the table, peering at it sideways as if it had been trying to seduce him into wrongdoing.
The second voice had prevailed. For now, at least.
CHAPTER 13
D + 199
The next morning he woke to what had become a welcome sight in this topsy-turvy world: heavy rain. In his fragile state of mind, it provided the
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