My arms are thrashing around me—side to side and in
circles—like a helicopter. For a brief moment, I’m back at the house where I grew up
–I’m spinning madly around the lawn my face pointed to the sky, the sun
blinding my eyes. My foot catches what I assume to be a rock and I tumble
forward into the darkness. My chin slams to the hard, cold ground and my teeth
puncture my lower lip. The heat of my blood stings my cold chin as if a
thousand tiny, hot needles are piercing my chin.
It’s dark and I can’t see more than a few feet in front of
me. I give myself a moment to regain my footing and just when I feel calm for a
moment, I can feel their hands at my back—broken fingers, bones jutting out,
scraping my torn jacket, desperately seeking flesh.
A frantic shriek makes its way from my throat, and I’m
running again, unsure of where to go. I feel like I’m becoming one of
them—maddening thoughts, complete chaos, sure of nothing. All I can do is run,
seeking something, anything to stifle my desire to remain one of the living.
Maybe I’m it. Maybe I should stop running. I watched the
others have their necks clawed at and jaws snapped and eyeballs plucked like
ripe grapes from the vine. Those images keep me running. They invade my memory
like the pictures from my childhood books. These images keep me running,
fumbling over my own feet, which feel like they are not my own.
I reach side to side, up and down, in front on my face—I
just keep running. I’m forced to stop as one steps directly in my path. I bump
into it and for a moment, it seems we’re doing that awkward dance of two
strangers who meet face-to-face and don’t know which way to step. I feel a
smirk come over my face, assigning it a humanness it does not deserve.
Its head it permanently cocked to the right—yellow eyes glazed
over with a milky white, unable to see, yet able to focus on my heart pumping
and veins pulsing. This is the closest I’ve seen one face to face and I’m sure
it cannot “see” me.
I freeze and glance in the other directions, not sure where
I will end up if I try to run away. I think I may be able to quietly pass it,
but then my plan is derailed when it cocks its head to the other side and up to
the starless sky, taking in my scent with its skeletal nose.
Its body shudders with pleasure and I’m so disgusted, my
arms instinctively jut into its chest, and I’m jumping over its body in a
desperate attempt to keep moving. It manages to clutch at my left shoe, which
falls off and sends me tumbling again. The air is forced from my lungs and
before I can catch my breath, it’s on my back, gnawing on my hair and grabbing
at my ears with its putrid fingertips.
I hear its jaw pop open and feel the wetness from its mouth
drip onto the back of my neck—and just as it’s about to bite my neck, my
husband wakes me up and tells me to come to bed. My hands are clutching the
post-apocalyptic novel I’ve just finished reading. I’m curled in the fetal position
on the couch. If there were ever a real zombie war, I know I’d never survive.
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