I’d love to take you all back to the beginning, but honestly it would be a waste of time. The beginning lasted, I’d say, all of three hours before the end started to rise rapidly to the occasion. There was no warning that the beginning was ending, of course. I’m sure everybody was doing their everyday thing when it all occurred, which, of course, left us all unprepared for what was going to happen... all but one.
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Gary ManJones, a townsman famous for his paranoid delusions (some say most of what he said was connected to his belief that what happened in the movies would happen in real life), was the only one prepared. It seemed as if ManJones had been preparing himself for this occasion since the day he left the safety of his parent’s shelter. A small shack in the woods, at least it was small before Gary laid his work-scarred hands on it, was the center of Mr. ManJones’ paranoia. Several years and a few thousand dollars after Gary’s inhabitance of the shack, the town would no longer recognize the once abandoned home of a relic of the past, an old hermit whose name has been long forgotten. The once small shack had taken on a new form. Acres of land and trees had been cleared from the empty property, courtesy of Gary himself (in fact, nobody besides Gary ManJones ever laid hands on the construction being done to the shack). A little less than a year into his project, Gary put up a foundation for a rather large home surrounding the tiny shack, which looked as if it were to be a part of the house.
At the end of the construction of the Gary ManJones’ monster, the towns people were shocked to find that standing where that small wooden shack had made home was a two story, windowless structure. It was a home that nobody had ever seen before. Instead of windows, Gary ManJones had decorated the second story of his house with small peeping squares, each just large enough to be able to fit a human hand. The peeping holes were a step up from the structure’s first floor, where absolutely no way outside (window or door) was present. The only entrance and exit to the house was what modern New Yorkers would see as a fire escape; a steel door set above a sliding steel latter. Nobody knew why, but Gary ManJones had built the most incredible waste of time anybody had ever seen. Well, nobody knew at the time why, but that’s all changed now.
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I remember the exact day everything went to shit. I can’t believe it’s been over three months now; the time goes by so slowly when you’re alone and awaiting death to take you. Unfortunately for myself, death has been delayed from taking me for it seems to still be doing damage to the town; my town in a few days, actually. I can’t expect there to be any more survivors for much longer. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t just let Death take me and set me free; maybe it’s because this Death doesn’t seem to set people free. Every time I see someone who has fallen victim to this Death, I can’t help but notice the trapped look in their eyes. The eyes of the dead show a lot; a lot more than anyone seems to notice.
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January 1st; that was the day everything went haywire. I remember opening my eyes to a bright sun, such an unpleasant sight in the morning. The house, the house I left behind, was unusually quiet for a bright and sunny weekend morning. I should have realized at that moment that something was wrong; no sound of breakfast cooking, no rustle of the Sunday paper, absolutely no sounds, besides that of my own breathing, were present. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I made my way downstairs, which is when I realized that I was wrong; the house wasn’t completely silent.
Such a minute sound it was, one that now replays itself deep in the back of my mind louder and louder each time; the soft minute sound of something chewing on an unbreakable object. When I entered the living room, where the sound seemed the strongest, my stomach twisted seven different ways in reaction to what I saw. I’ve seen those videos of people getting mauled by wild animals, but they did all but prepare me for the scene in front of me.
Seeing your younger brother (six years younger than the eighteen that I am now) biting into the maimed body of your once loving and caring mother gives you a whole new perspective on the life you’re living. I must have adjusted my eyesight several times before I realized that I wasn’t just seeing things; my brother, the kid that just this morning hugged me and wished me a happy new year, was indeed eating my mother.
I must have made a sound, one that I was unaware of at the time, for my brother’s head snapped around. His eyes looked red, not just the pupil, the entire eyeball; that look, that trapped look permanently embedded in his stare. He watched me, as if waiting to see me drop down to the floor to be his next victim; but I didn’t. I had the chance to let Death take me, to give me the same punishment (or is it really a punishment) that was given to my family.
Yes, my family. After my brother made it clear that he was busy feasting on my mother and wanting nothing to do with me, I ran; but not out of the house. For some reason, my instinct told me to run downstairs, the only place in the house where there was only one exit. I felt trapped in some stupid horror movie; the ones where all the victims run to the least convenient place they can. But here I was, mimicking the countless number of people that have died in those movies due to poor judgment.
In the basement is where I found my father, doused in blood (his own), his head hanging on to the rest of his body by a thread. Something refused my desire to look away, and I just stood there, staring down at his, oddly enough, still living body. I could see his hands scratching at the floor, as if the transformation process (as I have now come to know it) was overly painful. When my father started to stand, his head still tilted to the side a bit, my body reacted. I backed myself up against the only door that led outside in the basement and fumbled my hand with the lock, my eyes still locked on my father. Out of all the things that could have amazed me at that time, I took extreme notice to the fact that the enormous wound that had been bitten into my father’s neck was no longer bleeding.
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Outside was no better than inside my house. More and more of the, though I hate to say it, zombies were running amuck in my town (it’s funny, when you think nobodies left, it’s all of a sudden yours. No legal matters, no lawsuits; just a quick changeover). The streets were filled with panicked survivors that were running frantic from the living dead. Most of who was left of the living on my street was injured in some fashion; most definitely as a result of a zombies hunger and desire for blood.
I could not tear myself away from the bloody scenes unfolding in front of me, causing my old neighborhood to turn from a once peaceful place to live to a blood-filled terror zone. Even after watching the deaths of so many of my past neighbors, it wasn’t until I watched an undead, one with an arm hanging half out of the socket and a leg that dragged with every step, take down the neighborhoods strongest man, Niles Geggor, that I lost all hope. Watching an undead mess of blood and flesh take down a man that could have dominated professional wrestling broke any hope that I, a kid that was excited when he could bench 150lb, would survive this ordeal.
Snapping myself out of my trance (mainly thanks to the creature that started to approach me from the other side of my house), I ran. I didn’t know where I was going to run, but I flat out ran. Dodging the mass of zombies seemed pretty easy, for if they weren’t already engaged in a meal, they were to slow (physically, that is. Mentally, they seemed to have the same capacity of thought as any living being) to chase after me. I guess when you succumb to this zombifying disease, your body doesn’t quite function the way it once did.
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I continued running through town, hoping to find some sort of rescue party or, really, anyone that wasn’t a part of the growing undead army. I didn’t get it; from what I had seen thus far, I was the only one able to avoid being infected with the disease of the undead. Am I cursed to be the only survivor and end up dying alone; or am I gifted? Am I going to be the one to call in the rescue party and save what is left of the town?
At least, that’s what I thought then, when I was running to save my own ass. I didn’t stop to help anyone; how selfish is that? There I was, running from what could very well have been an inescapable death, and I wouldn’t stop to help anyone. Maybe I did them a favor; why prolong what is bound to happen anyway?
But if this death is inescapable, than how did I escape it? Gary ManJones. That’s how I escaped it. When you find that almost your entire town is being engulfed in an undead virus, you’re going to run to where you believe it to be safe. The forest; the one place I figured would be mostly clear of the hungry dead. The Gary ManJones house hadn’t struck me at the time, at least I didn’t realize it if it did; all I had hoped to do was avoid becoming some flesh hungry beast’s breakfast and make it to the next town without a scratch.
Now that I think of it, I was hoping for the impossible. Who’s to say the next town over, or even the entirety of Long Island was not involved in this undead invasion? I never went far enough to find out; the ManJones’ estate stopped me from going any further. After about a mile run through the thick forest (I’m really just throwing in a number; I’ll be damned if I remember how long of a run it was), I came across the empty clearing that was Gary ManJones’ yard.
When I stepped up to the house, I found Mr. ManJones’ standing atop his roof (which was flat and accessible from the fire-escape latter). Of course, he was hesitant to allow me into his safe-house, but after I showed him that I had not been infected (no scratches, no problem) he allowed me entry.
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It’s amazing how wrong the public was about Gary ManJones. He wasn’t paranoid; he was right. A man who based his life off of predictions that he made at the beginning of every year would definitely seem paranoid; but unfortunately for the general public, Gary ManJones was correct in predicting an invasion of Death.
The house was built in response to this prediction. The several holes lining the second floor were used not only as peep holes, but as windows that Gary could fire out on any oncoming zombies. In preparation for the day the dead would rise, Gary stocked himself with various weaponry; shotguns, handguns, sniper rifles, basically anything he could get his hands on. Gary was indeed prepared for an invasion of the undead.
What he wasn’t prepared for was my arrival.
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The food supply was running low. I told Gary one of us should go find supplies, but he refused to allow me to leave the house. He said he wouldn’t allow me back in if I left. Gary should have listened to me; the supply of food he had to start off with was very minimal. Apparently he wasn’t fully prepared, especially for two people.
It’s all right by me, though. At least it was all right by me. Human flesh can only last so long… Kind of ironic how this all turned out, isn’t it?
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If this invasion of Death is ever stopped, be prepared for it to return… And if you’re ever in the situation I was in, don’t prolong death; accept it with an open artery.
