THE LONELY WALK-A Zombie Notebook Read online

  When I thought of chewing, of swallowing, of satisfying that burning need that glowed like a large red ember in my belly, I wrenched my thoughts back to the girl's soothing singsong voice, remembering, with her tales, what it was like to be a man. To hear a woman talk to me in that tone of voice reminded me when I would reach out and take the globe of Carrie's breast into my palm, suck her lips separately between my lips, feel her strength beneath me in her heat, rising to meet me, clutching me as she peaked, riding down the escalator into the abyss of surrender... This girl reminded me of life and love and the fickle fate that had severed me from both.

  After the girl left, no one came to the plains again. I have spent days and nights rolling across the sand, holding myself, the hunger so deep it's a scream locked inside me, a claw scraping through my innards. I am afraid now. I know it's gone too far. I would eat now, if given opportunity. If the girl comes back, I will tear her limb from limb and feast. There's no help for it. I'm driven by such tremendous need that when I think of Carrie now, I think of consuming her. When I think of Margaret, I think of what a small, pure, tasty feeding she would be. I would murder and eat that which I had left to protect, that which brought me to this place and in this condition.

  I am now truly as obscene and inhuman as any other of the dead.

  It has come down to this.

  As I hunger, so am I hungered for. Now it's the coyotes who want me at night. Wolves. They come down from the hills and howl at me where I've climbed a tree. Flies have laid eggs in my crevices and I crawl with little white blind...I can't say it, I can't write it, I can't think it... I've always hated even the thought of wiggling, squirming, segmented things.

  There are zombies here as there were in Cuba. I saw them, but the girl told me so, too. There are millions of them. More than live humans. The towns are dead. Stinking. People are on the move everywhere. People kill to get what boats are left. Rafts set sail with dozens on them. All the planes have disappeared from the country. Children are orphaned and have joined into gangs. They are worse than the military in the States, worse than the wolves even. They don't care if you're alive or dead, they shoot to kill, and then they dismantle you as if you were a Tinker toy.

  I've made up my mind. I'm going to let them.

  Shoot me. Why not?

  I don't commit suicide because that's for the living. I commit deathicide. I'll simply walk out into the open and let them explode, with impunity, this long dead body.

  There aren't any zombies like me. But I am becoming one of them. I either die to this world or I turn on men and I eat. I'm the only one who ever knew what this is like and I'm coming to pieces before my own eyes.

  I have no ears. My hair fell out. My eyes are going. I can hardly see to write this. My dwindling muscles have contracted and my bones been broken a thousand times over. I stumble when I try to walk. It's only my brain that knows anything and what it knows it's tired of knowing. There's no pleasure, no curiosity, no hope, no reason to keep going.

  The best I can do is go into that forever darkness where I won't worry about being alone again. I'm placing this notebook in an envelope and I'll hold it to my chest as the gangs shoot my head into tiny bits with their telescopic rifles.

  What becomes of my testament is not of my concern after tonight. I could have sent it to the president in Washington, D.C.--if he's even still there. He's a good man trying to keep a nation together, though I could tell him it's no use. He would never reveal it to people, he couldn't, I understand that, and it doesn't matter that much to me anymore. I thought I could find a way to go on, find a reason why this happened to me. I thought my survival might help in stopping the plague, or that at the very least I could provide an enlightenment about life after death, but I don't think so now. It appears it was futile to ever begin this long trek across miles and oceans.

  I don't mean to sound like suffering Jesus or the tortured Job. I thought I could still find a shred of happiness or some meaning, even a tiny pleasure left to me, but I should have known better. I can do one thing. I can tell you to stand and fight. The armies will fall eventually. You'll be on your own. Order will give way even more and there will be nothing but chaos, enemies, and insanity. If you don't fight to the end, are you worthy to be called human? Look in the mirror. Could you call yourself human?

  There has never been a plague like this one and there never will be one again because this is the last. You know they don't understand how the virus mutates and defies all efforts to contain it. As soon as something is tried, the virus changes, finds a way to survive, grows ever stronger and impenetrable. The promised vaccine might work and it might not. None of the "cures" worked, did they? Those early promises of a cure were ridiculous and we know it now. As expensive as they were to make and no matter how much pollyanna-hopeful-bullshit scientific hype you heard about them, they did not work, did they?

  You should be ready if the vaccine doesn't work either.

  The world we have known might really return to the pristine beginning of time when it was nothing more than a revolving ball of watery silence spinning in space.

  If you fight and if you survive it unscathed then there might be a slim possibility there really is a God. I hope there is. I pray there is. For all our sakes.

  Unfortunately, my earnest opinion--and please feel free to disregard it because I don't want to leave you without all hope, that was never my intention--but it just seems to me, in this hour before my real true death, that Nietzsche was probably right.

  The son of a bitch.

  ###

  If you enjoyed this story, please leave a review. Read on for the first chapters of BANISHED from Billie Sue Mosiman's latest novel.

  BANISHED

  By

  Billie Sue Mosiman

  Copyright 2011 by Billie Sue Mosiman, All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Neil Jackson, Copyright 2011

  "The Magician rearranges the Universe to make himself the center, the Mystic rearranges himself to find the center."

  CHAPTER 1

  THE LITTLE DEATH

  She could barely breathe she was so hot. She could hear the night birds call and the rustle of her mother’s palm grass skirt as she moved about the small hut. She could see just the light from the flames of the fire in the center of the floor, but she could not make out anything beyond.

  She closed her eyes to blessed darkness and wondered when she would die. She knew she would never be well again, never stand and walk, never kiss her mother’s cheek, or feel the comfort of her mother’s loving embrace. She had not lived long, a handful of years, so there was not much to miss. Yet she knew she must fight against death. She must not willingly let it take her.

  A blanket of coolness slipped over her bare skin and it was not from the water her mother had been sponging onto her. She tried to reopen her eyes to discover the cause, but her lids were too heavy. She was so hot! The coolness that temporarily enveloped her was not helping. She wished they would carry her to the sea and float her in the waves.

  Dark grew darker. Grew to pitch black. Grew to encompass a vast void. She struggled to take a breath. It would not come; her lungs would not obey. She thought, Death has me. Death has slipped his arms around me and holds me so tightly I cannot breathe.

  Faintly she heard her mother’s wails, but she couldn’t lift a hand for her to come near, nor could she whisper the compassion she felt for the loved one she was leaving behind. She couldn’t even say goodbye.

  Take me to the sea, she begged of Death. Take me from this heat and pain and let me float in the cool frothy waves. I always loved…I always loved the sea.

  The heat grew like a malevolent cloud in the darkness until it filled the void. She couldn’t feel her body. She knew she was but a pinpoint of matter, a tiny bit of consciousness floating in the emptiness. It seemed time had stopped or it was moving so slowly it would last forever and nothing for her would ever change.

  I’m not ready, the child complained. I’m to
o young.

  And then she was swept off into the dark beyond where there was no more thought or heat or life.

  She was done with this world.

  CHAPTER 2

  A NEW TRUE BEGINNING

  “Life. A wriggling mass of cells blindly replicating, always in motion, endlessly in search of food. Is that life? They say it is.”

  The girl lay dying. Her week-long fever had put her into a coma and though her mother kept bathing her with cool water, her skin felt like hot coals. Though fevered, her light coffee-colored skin shone smooth and beautiful as a river stone in the flickering firelight.

  In the little one-room shack made from date palm leaves the heat was stifling. Not one stray breeze made its way through the open doorway. Flies were so thick they congealed the air and had to be batted away constantly from the comatose child.

  The mother, frantic about losing her only child, knowing in her heart death stood close with a skeletal arm extended, ran from the hut crying to the night heavens. She sped along the lone path through the jungle to the witch doctor’s hovel and stood outside wailing loud enough to wake the dead.

  In her native tongue she told the witch doctor about the dying child and begged for him to save her.

  It seemed to take him forever to gather his special feathers, shells, rocks, and sticks tied in bundles with strings of dried pig skin. As the mother raced back along the path to her baby, the witch doctor stayed at her side, pacing her, a pale sickle moon at their backs.

  Bursting into the hut where a small fire in the center of the floor burned, grotesque shadows swathed the little girl who lay against the back wall. Both mother and witch doctor knew it was over and done with.

  The child’s arm lay limp off to one side, her head was turned toward them, her eyes open, glazed, and forever stilled.

  The mother turned to the witch doctor and in her grief made the ultimate request. She knew of the rumors.

  “They say you have raised the dead. Raise her up!”

  “I have only raised a few animals,” he said. “Never a human being.”

  “Raise her!”

  It was true he was renowned across the island as the most powerful witch doctor ever to have lived, but what the woman was asking he thought was surely beyond his powers. He had brought a dead chicken back to life. A dead dog. And once, even a dead panther, just to see if he could. But a human being? He had not dared try. He was not even sure that the gods would allow him that kind of power.

  “I will give you anything,” the mother cried. She beat her chest and rolled her eyes. “Anything! Anything!” She was close to madness.

  The witch doctor’s countenance darkened, his eyes took on a glow. His gaze left the mother and settled on the child. He stepped closer, two steps. Three. He went to his haunches and studied the girl. She was undeniably the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her skin was lighter than most islanders, as if it were lit from within by soft white flame. Her nose and lips and eyes and brow were perfection, and the face was shaped like a heart. Her long dark hair was smooth, shiny with whale oil, and it fell in curls like coiled snakes from her scalp. He reached out and trailed his fingers along her cheek. It was cold, so cold. It was a shame she was dead. It seemed to Mujai that the gods were intentionally cruel when children died.

  Suddenly, and without knowing how it happened, the witch doctor fell in love with the dead child. If he hadn’t known better, he might have suspected he was under a spell not of his own making. His face softened, his lips parted, and he let out a little sigh. He swiveled on his haunches to face the mother at the hut’s door opening.

  She was silhouetted in the firelight, a gaunt figure with clenched hands held before her breasts. He could feel her grief as if it were an extra person in the hut. It loomed over her, a dark, heavy figure bearing down on her thin shoulders.

  “You will give anything if I raise her up? Anything? You will even give up your child to me?” He must make sure she meant it.

  A look of dawning understanding and then dismay filled the mother’s eyes. She hung her head. Her tears kept falling, drenching her sweaty naked breasts. She had to decide. Bury her child in the cold ground or see her rise up and walk again, alive and well, but belonging to someone else. Belonging to…

  “Yes,” she said, jutting out her chin in defiance. “Yes, I told you, yes. Anything. If you must take her, then take her, as long as she is alive again.”

  The witch doctor stood and came to the child’s mother. “When I raise her, she will be mine. You understand? Forever mine. I will take her from here and she will live with me. One day, when she is old enough to wed, she will be my bride. Tell me you understand.”

  Since the mother made no protest beyond the horror of what she was doing to her only child reflecting from her eyes, the pact was sealed.

  “If you break your promise, I will kill you,” he said. “I will come in the night like a shadow and kill you.”

  She turned aside, unable to look him in the face.

  He left through the low door and stood a moment staring up at the starry sky from whence he derived part of his power. The sky, the earth, the sea, they all gave him just a particle of their powers, but it was enough. Enough to raise a human being he did not know yet, but enough to hope to raise one.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep away the family, let no one see her, allow no ceremony for her spirit. Tell no one, ever, of what happens here, good or bad, you understand? And while I'm gone keep the flies away too,” he added. “She must be kept clean and free of vermin.”

  He hurried off into the night, loping like a gazelle. His talismans were left behind, discarded on the floor near the dead girl. For this he would not need them, and in fact, they would play no part. He required special plants that grew deep in the interior of the jungle, and water from the sea, and earth from the foot of the great sacred rock where all former witch doctors had been buried. Three times he had raised the dead with the secret potion, but if he was successful this fourth time it would be such a great accomplishment he might think himself a king rather than a witch doctor.

  And the little girl would be his queen.

  #

  The island the witch doctor searched in the dark for his magic ingredients had no name for the people. Later in history it would be called Hispaniola. It was home to a few hundred aborigines who did not remember how any of them had come to be on the island and none of whom had ever tried to leave it. The land was merely home, the place where they lived out their lives. Centuries later the island would be conquered and ruled by the Spanish, who changed the name to Santo Domingo. In 1697 a formal division of the island occurred changing the name again into Santo Domingo and Saint-Domingue. Finally, it was changed to Haiti, what an ancient people used to call it. From that period the island was ruled over by despots and dictators.

  But in this time before time was kept, it was nothing more than a jungle-encrusted plot of land in the Atlantic, neglected and ignored, its people savage and superstitious and alone, so very alone.

  There were other witch doctors, and other small tribes, on various parts of the island, but Mujai knew he was the greatest of all. He had learned well everything his father and his grandfather had taught him about the witch arts, until he surpassed them and discovered, really by chance, the potion that brought the dead back to life again.

  His reputation had spread and, after it was known he raised up a panther, some even feared him so much they let themselves die of fevers and infections rather than call for him. Others, however, knowing his value, came to his door and kept him rich with food and weapons for his prized wisdom. Perhaps, he thought, they were afraid, too, so they left him bribes. They gave him feathers of the rare ni-ni bird that had tail feathers of royal purple and emerald green. They brought beautiful shells taken by skilled divers from the sea floor, shells radiant with rainbow colors. And every fruit and every fish and every varmint that walked the island had at one time or another been deposited bef
ore his door as a gift.

  He had never really wanted for anything or worked to feed himself. Yet there was one gift he had never been granted. Mujai had never had a woman. He was too feared. He was not good marriage material, never even considered as a mate for a father’s daughters. A man who could raise the dead was a fearful being indeed. He expected to live a solitary existence and die old and alone. Until tonight, with the little sleeping-dead girl who he knew, some way, some how, he would be able to raise up. She held a promise of the one thing he wanted and missed the most.

  It was true the chicken did not cluck after it was raised. And the dog did not bark. But the panther, yes, it had been almost as before, roaring, leaping, hunting prey. But it had seemed to Mujai, following the dead-before-now-alive panther’s trail for several weeks out of curiosity, it had seemed the big cat had turned into quite a voracious beast. Keeping well-hidden and down wind, Mujai watched it many times take it’s prey apart nearly on the very moment of impact, at the instant of its death from the panther’s vicious long teeth. Flesh went flying skyward, to the right and to the left, and still the beast attacked, ripping and tearing in such a frenzy that its entire face and chest was slathered with blood from its victim. It did not feed so much as battle and destroy.

  Mujai loped harder and tapped on his chest for protection, thinking of the beast he had raised and how dark the night still was, dawn some hours yet in the distance. Where was that hungry beast now? And was it on the prowl anywhere nearby for the fearful master who had raised it from the dead?