Forgotten Fears
Authors: Michael Bray
FORGOTTEN FEARS
MICHAEL BRAY
Copyright © 2015 Michael Bray
http://www.michaelbrayauthor.com
The moral right of Michael Bray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ASIN
:
B00WOLEIDI
[I wrote this one for an anthology which for whatever reason didn’t ever get released. A more traditional zombie story than some of my other approaches at tackling the genre, this is a fun little story which I quite liked again on second reading when compiling work for this collection.]
EVERYONE KNEW THE end had come. We saw it on TV, at first, and then we saw the same thing out of our windows in the streets. It didn’t hit home for me until I saw old Mr. Simms who owned the convenience store, on the corner eating that woman.
He was on his knees, arms covered in gore as he scooped the poor girl’s innards into his blood-streaked mouth with a stupid, shit-eating grin on his face. I had known the old man for years, but to look at him through the gap in the curtains from my apartment, ( located in a, frankly, shitty part of town above a Chinese takeaway) I realised that the old man I knew was gone and whatever had been left behind was something else entirely. It reminded me of the time I saw my father’s dead body in his bed after cancer had finished eating him down to the bone. I remember looking at the frail corpse and wondering why everyone around me was crying. My mother asked if I was okay, to which I replied that I was fine because whatever spark that had driven my father in life was gone, and what remained was an empty shell. That, ladies and gentlemen, was my first experience of dealing with death, and I'm sorry to say it wasn’t the last, which, in part, is why I’m writing this all down by candlelight so as not to draw attention to myself. See, it's dangerous out there. Not only with the dead things like Mr. Simms, but the looters, and rapists, and murderers who are using the end of the world as a green light to go crazy. I sometimes wonder if they have the right idea, and I’m the one in the wrong. After all, it might be better to go out doing something you love rather than hiding away hunched over a notepad by candlelight. Then again, maybe not. At least, I’m in control of my own destiny, which brings me to the reason for my scribblings this bleak Tuesday evening. Let me set the scene. It’s a little after seven p.m., and it’s raining outside, although that isn’t stopping the biters or the crazies from going out and looting the same stores for the hundredth time. There isn’t much left out there, but I think they do it just for the hell of it. I have been lucky, in that the takeaway which I live above had nothing of value to steal, so other than a few broken windows I’ve been pretty much left alone. Even so, I’ve barricaded the door leading from there to here just to be sure, and I have a ready-made escape route via the fire escape if I should need it.
If I were to lean out of the window now, I would be able to smell smoke, rot, and blood, and all would be accompanied by the sounds of screaming, the crackle of fire, and breaking glass, so I pretty much keep to myself. My inventory, for those who are interested, is as follows.
The trusty old Toshiba laptop on which I’m writing this. (70% battery power left)
6 cases of 24 bottles of Evian water
50 cans of beans (Heinz)
26 cans of tuna (unbranded)
40 jars of Kenco coffee (who doesn’t love a morning brew with the apocalypse)
Assorted medical supplies (looted from the chemist)
Three boxes of peanut butter snickers, one of which I am enjoying right now.
Oh, I also have a syringe full of infected blood taken from the biter I killed a half hour ago, and whose stinking corpse is festering in my kitchen.
See, I’m a realist, and as much as I thought I wanted to survive, at first, I realised that I was only going through the motions because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Call it stupidity, or maybe there’s just an inherent flaw in human nature which makes us strive to do what our fellow man says we should do. But then I started to think about it, and asked myself, what kind of life would it be? Cowering in the dark, scrounging around for food. Sure enough, I have plenty of it for now, but what about when it runs out? What about when I have to venture outside to find more, or if one of the looters decides to burn down Mr. Woo’s takeaway above which I live? I thought about that, and then I thought about old Mr. Simms and that goofy, happy look on his face as he scooped out that poor girl’s innards, and shoved them into his mouth. He didn’t have any of those same burdens. He didn’t have to worry about those same things. He was happy. Content. Maim. Kill. Eat. Repeat. Simple.
When you think about it, what’s here for the rest of us is no life, and certainly not one that I want to live. It was then that I decided to take action, and determine my own fate, and maybe, just maybe help those in the world who are tasked with trying to stop this thing.
Good luck with that.
So, my friends here is the plan. I will inject myself with the needle full of infected biter blood and log, for as long as I can, the process of change. A real-life human experiment which may or may not help, depending on if anyone happens to find these notes.
If I’m honest (and since I’m here alone, I don’t see why I can’t be), I’m afraid. Terrified, actually. But I’m not as afraid of turning as I am of trying to survive, knowing that I could starve to death, be murdered by looters or eaten by one of the infected. None of those scenarios appeal to me, and so I have chosen to go out under my own terms. Before I begin, I would just like to say that, however, you may view my actions, they’re not born from selfishness or disrespect. I love life. I loved living, but I also know that the world as it is now isn’t one where I want to be. In closing, wish me luck with this, and I hope that the notes which follow will one day help someone.
Best,
Gerrard.
5:17pm
I have injected myself in the right leg with the needle full of infected blood. I had expected to maybe go into spasms or convulsions, but other than the rush of adrenaline and fear, which I could almost taste, there was no discernible immediate reaction. Is it odd that I was a little disappointed with this? One other thing to note is that although I drew the needle full of blood from the biter almost an hour before I injected it into myself, it was still warm when I picked up the syringe, and it hadn’t clotted. Either way, it’s inside me now and my entire world has become the clock on the wall. I wonder if it will hurt when my body dies? Or maybe I’ll be like the plot of some Hollywood blockbuster, and find that I’m immune, although it’s unlikely. Lucky shit like that never happens to people like me. I’ll report back as soon as symptoms start to show.
5:22
I think I just felt the first symptoms. I have started to sweat, and my heart is beating way faster than it probably should – although that could just be the excitement/nerves about what I’m doing. I actually closed my eyes and tried to just listen to my body, to see if it was doing anything out of the ordinary, but other than my bad left knee and the sweats, it’s telling me nothing new. I am starting to feel a little jumpy, though, and my stomach feels greasy and tight, but again, that could just be nerves.
5:27
Something is definitely happening. I’m drenched in sweat, and my body is starting to twitch. Why is my heart beating so fast? If I wasn’t going to die anyway, I would be worried about cardiac arrest! Ha! Does killing a biter make me a bad person or doesn’t it count because it’s already dead? I keep getting stomach cramps, and I’m pretty sure the blood I injected into me is working its magic. I wonder how long I can last. I’m aiming for an hour, or as close to 6:17 as possible. We will have to wait and see. All I know is that right now I don’t feel too good.
5:39
Passed out, I think.
One second I was clinging to the edge of the desk and trying to ride another wave of stomach cramps, and the next I was on the floor, curled up and clutching my belly. I thought I had been drooling, but when I looked at the carpet, I saw blood there. It looked almost black in the gloom, and I’m starting to think I have made a terrible mistake. The cramps in my belly are getting worse, and I’m starting to think they are hunger pains, although if they are, then canned tuna and beans probably won’t cut it! HEHEHE!
God, I need to calm down. My nerves are on fire, and my head feels as if it’s underwater somehow. Maybe a bite to eat could help these cramps a little? God knows it’s worth a try.
5:44
No go on the eating. With some effort, I managed to open a can of tuna, but as soon as that fishy smell reached my nostrils, I projectile vomited all over the side. That, in itself, was bad enough, but there was blood mingled in with the bile. It seems that whatever is inside me is trying to rearrange my innards, somehow. My entire body aches now, and I have had to take off my t-shirt, as it was clinging to me. For as wet as my skin is, my throat is dry, yet when I tried to have a drink of water, it was like someone jamming their fingers down my throat, and I brought it straight back up, this time with a few fleshy lumps of my stomach. I’m not sure what part of me it was. It was a reddish-pink lump about two inches long, but I presume it’s not vital to my ability to function, as I’m still here. Either way, the missing body part is here on the desk in front of me just in case I need it later. Good God, this pain is unbearable. I’m seriously considering abandoning this little experiment and chugging down the painkillers I have stashed away in the bedroom, although I suspect they won’t work even if I did.
One positive note, though, is that I’m nearing my one-hour goal. It’s exactly 5:45, which means I only have to last another thirty-two minutes to reach my target.
6:01
Somebody, please make it stop. Why did I do this?
6:04
My wife is alive.
My wife is dead.
My wife is alive.
My wife is dead.
My wife is alive.
My wife is dead.
My wife is alive.
My wife is dead.
My wife is alive.
My wife is dead.
I’m not even married. But I sure am hungry.
6:06
Please, just let me die already.
6:09
Swallowed all the painkillers. My body tried to make me spit them back up, but I refused to let it, counting backward from ten until they stayed in my stomach. I hope they take effect soon, and I fall asleep. My nerves are on fire, and I’m starting to see things. My father is here, and he’s been dead for ten years now.
