Chapter 4- The First Encounter

CHAPTER 4—MICHAEL CLARK 

Friday

If I didn’t already have a significant list of things that bothered me about Greg, his snoring would definitely be at the top of my list. The sweet sounds of deforestation wake me up a whole half hour before my alarm is set to go off. When I turn over, he greets with the sight of him lying there in his boxers, having tossed his blankets on the floor in the middle of the night, as usual. He looks so peaceful, lying there with his mouth hanging open; makes me want to strangle him. 

Instead, it seems like a better idea to just get breakfast and an early start on the day. Maybe even go to the gym. Yeah, right. 

Breakfast on campus is served all-you-can-eat in the Bartholomew Lewiston Cafeteria (we call it “Bart’s,” for short). Without fail, there’s a tour group inside the lobby. 

“Bart’s is a state-of-the-art dining facility,” the guide says. The eyes of the prospective students fill with wonder. Enjoy it while it lasts. 

With finals around the corner, the dining areas are pretty packed. People who normally wouldn’t be up before noon are getting in an entire semester’s worth of studying done in a single morning. That said, despite being pretty crowded, the whole place is eerily quiet. I spend a five whole minutes attempting to find a table in the main eating area. If there’s someone here that I know, it’s impossible to tell since no one is making eye contact with anything but their textbooks—or the insides of their eyelids for what I assume is pre-exam meditation. While looking for a table, I nearly trip over a large gym bag that’s protruding precariously into the aisle. There’s no point in trying to stare down the guy who owns it, a rather large black guy, since he too seems to be engaged in some serious breakfast-study-time. 

As a philosophy major, the secrets to passing my exams lie not in textbooks, but instead in the ethereal dimensions of the universe, where juicy secrets await discovery by a bright, eager mind such as mine. At least, that’s what I tell people when they ask if I want to go study. Sure, I could always write a paper or something, but it seems so much more philosophical to muse on paper topics as much as possible, even up to the hour before they’re due. Studying with people is also fairly off-putting, especially on the rare occasion I need to get something done. I can just barely hear the brains inside the skulls nearby; some are buzzing productively, some whirring and sputtering hopelessly, and others just seem to be rattling around in their skulls like a maraca that’s missing a few beans. It’s distracting. 

I pull out a small blue case, flip open the “F” capsule, and dump a few pills of various sizes and colors into my mouth, washing them down will cold coffee.  Halfway through the cold, chewy eggs, my appetite is lost and as usual breakfast consists of mostly carbs and not much protein. That’s college for you. I doubt anyone actually eats the way they should here. Except that guy, maybe. My eyes wander across the room to the guy with the gym bag, shoveling down forkfuls of eggs and bacon while his eyes furiously scan his texts. He eats well.

I do like this view, though, I admit to myself. The sun comes in this room head-on as it rises over campus, silhouetting the buildings in a postcard kind of way. In fact, the view is on most of the postcards you can buy on campus. Go figure. 

Looking out into the distance, the people around me seem to fade away. My body gets left behind as the Spring breeze seems to flow through the room, through me, and carries me away. As I float along over the buildings and into the sunrise, I become vulnerable to my own thoughts. I wonder about life and what it’s all about. Is this as good as it gets? Maybe. If it is, why bother? Why keep fighting? Why struggle? Why do any of this? What’s the point?  Darkness surrounds my unguarded mind and I manage to catch myself before it’s too late. My psychiatrist tells me that it’s not rational thinking, or something. 

The hardened mass of egg substitute stares up haplessly from my plate and my stomach turns a little. Time to go. I leave in a daze, hardly noticing the brunette that bounces by on my way out. I almost want to turn around and look as most guys might, but I find myself to not be in much of a sight-seeing mood. 

The fresh air and distance from the din of the studying masses help to brighten my mood somewhat, though I can’t help but feel somewhat caught in a cycle, a feeling that reminds me somewhat of the feeling of being watched. Goosebumps creep down my arms and I fumble for the earbuds jammed in my pocket, hoping the feeling can be forgotten as quickly as it came over me. Each strand of wire seems to disappear impossibly into the next as they loop endlessly around each other in a way that seems to defy the very laws of nature. I couldn’t recreate this knot if I tried. As soon as the thought registers, I become aware of a presence approaching quickly. There’s barely enough time to look up and register danger much less move out of the way of the asshole that’s sprinting down the sidewalk. He charges, his eyes glazed and wide with terror. His shoulder makes contact with mine and he stumbles for just a step before finding his stride and disappearing down the sidewalk. I’m knocked nearly off balance but manage to keep my footing. My mouth opens as if to shout something at him, but sound doesn’t come out. The eyes of bystanders shift from me, to the sidewalk, and back to me. A girl in a hoodie smirks at me and the guy walking with her shrugs sympathetically. They both watch for a moment while I rub the ache out of my shoulder. My face becomes red as I catch a few more pairs of eyes and my fingers resume the earbud puzzle as a distraction, though the event replays several more times in my head. What the hell was that guy’s problem? How could anybody be so incon-fucking-siderate? Seriously. I mean, what the hell was he doing anyway? Forgot his homework or something? Jesus. 

I only think about the whole thing for another full second, maybe. The next, I don’t even remember it. Chaos erupts in the plaza only a few paces down the sidewalk from me. In the center, the crowd swells and sways all at once as if pushed by some invisible wave. What once was the backs of innumerable heads becomes a sea of terrified faces. Like the way thunder follows lightning, the sound of high-pitched screaming seems to reach me after a long delay of tense silence, like a slow-motion sequence going into overdrive. It’s at this point do I realize that myself and those around me have been frozen in place, unable to think or breathe, much less move. 

Move, Mike, says a voice in my head, very clearly and calmly. 

How? replies a tiny voice somewhere else. 

The screaming grows louder and closer, a contagious reaction throughout the crowd. 

Mass hysteria. 

Somehow the image of hundreds of people sprinting in all directions, jumping and climbing over each other, trampling any in their way, reminds me of a stampede of gazelles. In my head, a giant, ferocious lion escaped the circus and has found his way to campus. The lion’s eyes glow red like coals, the sight and smells of campus reigniting its wild instincts. All it sees is prey. The chase is on.

Through the gaps in the frightened people, there’s no lion. Those who aren’t running are straining to see over the people, to try and figure out exactly what’s going on. As the plaza’s frightened throng thins out, the only thing that looks out of place is just another person—a portly gentleman—sprinting at top speed. His skin is beat red, his too-small t-shirt has large, dark sweat rings around his armpits and neck, his pained wheezing nearly audible over the rest of the commotion. 

What’s so scary about him?

Move, Mike! the voice says again, an urgency growing. My heart’s pounding but I don’t know why. I can’t take my eyes off the fat man. That’s when it happens.

The fat man risks a glance over his shoulder. In that instant, he falls. It’s hard to tell if he trips or if the person—no, people—chasing him actually manages to run him down. A million thoughts whiz through my head as I try to put an explanation on the event, but it all goes out the window as soon as one of his attackers starts tearing meaty, red chunks out of the his torso. A second person leans down to rip a long strip of muscle from his arm, blood splatters him. In another second, the fat man can no longer be seen, only heard. His screams of agony drown out all others and soon, the entire crowd has stopped moving and is watching him being torn apart. 

“What the fuck,” someone says next to me. 

MOVE, MIKE! 

One of the attackers on the fringes, one who can’t quite get a good spot on the meal, snaps back up to his feet. He looks around quickly and his eyes fall on a girl only a few feet away. He opens his mouth and an unholy sort of shout comes out, causing the girl to faint. He pounces on her and begins his work, her blood beginning to run down the sidewalk. 

It takes ten of them only a minute to nearly devour the fat man to little more than skin and bones. The terrified shouts of those around me sound muted and distant as I stand there with my mouth open, frozen, witnessing the cannibalistic madness. What do you do when you see something like that? Yell? Scream? “Hey stop eating that guy!” one might say. My thoughts are not with my body. The attackers spring back to action, sprinting towards the crowd, blood dripping from their outstretched hands. I make eye contact with one of them and for several long seconds I can almost feel him next to me. Icy fingers crawl over my skin and down my spine. I feel, for the first time in my life, real fear. 

RUN! 

I rush back into my body and am aware of how heavy I am but have forgotten how to move. I look helplessly at my feet which remain planted to the ground, and back to the wave of people rushing away from the danger. Someone runs into me and I find myself moving along with them. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the girl who fainted is up and moving, her clothes torn and soaked with blood; she’s sprinting after someone else now.

Finding my way in the middle of the terrified mob feels like being carried out to sea in a riptide. All around, people are shouting, pushing, punching, and tripping over people. It’s impossible to tell if we’re running on solid ground or stampeding over people. I don’t look down for fear of losing my own balance if I’m not watching where I’m going. The only way to keep panic at bay is to formulate a plan. Safety. It’s the only word I can find in my busy consciousness. Making my way towards the edge is frustrating to the point of anger and next thing I know, I’m shoving people out of the way. A smaller man gets a face full of my palm and loses his balance. He disappears into the crowd. For a moment, as pangs of guilt start to supersede the anger and fear, I try to spot him. It occurs to me in that instant, though, that while I can’t find the man I accidentally pushed, I can’t even find the people we’re running from, which scares the guilt away. Remembering my word and the reason that I was running, I take off again, pushing my way back through the crowd. When I make it out, I find myself a stone’s throw from my dorm, as if my focus on safety carried me there. I don’t think of the man or anyone else in that crowd after that.

I barge in, sweating and out of breath, but uneaten. There are a few people in the common area studying, completely oblivious, and looking at me funny. 

“I… I…” Trying to put the words together for my dorm-mates, it dawns on me that I haven’t had time to put the words together for myself. Turning around, I notice that almost none of the event can be seen from here, leading me to start to believe it didn’t actually happen.

My door is locked. Greg’s not here. Fumbling for the keys, trying to aim for the keyhole, I realize how much my hands are shaking. I throw open the door, slam it shut, and collapse on the floor. I take a moment to replay it all in my head. How did it start? A flash of a guy running into me. Another of a fat man running after a crowd. Another of him being… attacked. In these seconds, I’m able to force my brain to rationalize the entire situation. It couldn’t have been what it looked like. The only reasonable explanation is a prank that went too far. It’ll be on YouTube in a couple of hours and in a few days we’ll forget it ever happened. It’s a calming thought until I peer through the blinds and see a girl being chased by a mostly-naked  man with one arm. After considering various scenarios, there was only one that made sense.

Crack-cocaine. It’s gone viral and everyone is super high and homicidal. Yup. That has to be it.

Sweet Jesus and two more voices

I actually didn't realize that the last post had been SEPTEMBER. Maybe had I noticed, I might have got my ass in gear a little faster. Anyway, I'm back at it and I've got chapters 2 and 3 ready for you. Seems like a lot, right? No, actually, it's not. Two of the secondary players in our little story get chapters at this point because it seemed like a good idea [at the time] to set the precedent of this style earlier on than I had before. I think it works. Let me know. Chapter 4 is about ready as well. I'm still holding out for not having to actually do much more than hardcore rewriting, hoping that an editor will actually do the editing for me. That's literally how lazy and delusional I am. Go figure. Anyway, here it goes.

CHAPTER 2—JAMES WALLACE

That same Thursday

It’s just him and me, staring each other down across the field. His eyes burrow into me, trying to figure me out. Ain’t gonna work.

He winds up. Pitches. The ball comes fast. Muscle memory kicks in.

Crack. It’s the rush of energy traveling up my arms as the leather and wood connect that really gets me going, gives me the energy for the sprint to first.

I’d watch the ball fly away, but the sun gets in my eyes.

“We’re sure going to miss you next year, Jimmy,” Coach says after the game.

“Me too, Coach” I say. Just not the “Jimmy” part. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told him, he still calls me that. “Whose gonna put your runs on the board next year?”

Coach laughs his big laugh and slaps me on the back. “I pray every night for someone to send me a prodigal freshman as your replacement.”

“Aw Coach,” I say. “You know that’ll never happen.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  He smiles. “See you at practice on Monday. Rest up.”

Coach does this thing where he stands around for a minute after a conversation ends. Maybe he’s waiting for a hug or something. He’s a strange guy like that. The end of this conversation leaves Coach just standing there, smiling at me. 

“Hey, James! Your phone!” calls David, our pitcher.

Thank God.

 “Hey Sam.”

“Hey you. Cough. How was the game?” Sam says. She’s been sleeping all day—I almost didn’t expect to hear from her.

“You sound terrible,” I say.

“Thanks. I took some stuff and wanted to call you before I got too loopy.”

“You’re the sweetest. The game went well. We won.”

“Of course you did, baby,” she says.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better. Cough.”

“Sam…”

“Don’t worry about me. It’s nothing, really.”

In the three years that Sam and I have been dating, she’s never been the type to admit defeat. 

“If you’re sure,” I say after a short silence. “Should I still come see you this weekend?”

“I’ll kick your ass if you don’t!” she says.

 “I’d love to see you try. I’ll see you Saturday then.”

“Great! Cough. I love you!”

“I love you too, Sam.”

CHAPTER 3—ERICA MEYERS

Friday

I’m sure my subconscious registers that Ally says my name.

‘Virus Continues to Baffle UN Scientists’… reads the top headline of my newsfeed. ‘The international science community…’

Blah blah blah…

‘Unknown origins…’

Blah blah blah…

‘…not a threat’

“ERICA!” Ally shouts.

“WHAT?!”

“Sorry. I said your name like, a hundred times,” she says.

“Oh. I was… reading.”

“Nerd. Jk. What do you think?”

“Of what?” I ask, still turning the article over in my head.

“Helloooo…” she says, motioning downwards. “New jeans?” She spins.

“Of course! They definitely don’t look like your others.”

“Oh shut up. You should have come shopping with us.”

“You know I have this big paper to do…” I start.

“I know, I know. That’s why your grades are so good and you’re going to med school, I know. Thanks, Mom.” She laughs. “Off to class! See you, babe.”

Ally takes another look in the floor-length mirror by the front door and adjusts her bra underneath her pink sweatshirt, adorned with sparkly Greek letters.

“See ya,” I call after her.”

Her head pops back in as the door closes. “Dinner tonight?”

“You betcha!” I say. She leaves.

Shit, look at the time. I bookmark the article, making a mental note to ask my nursing professor about it if I see him later.

This girl, Sarah, who was in my psych class last semester, ambushes me just as I get to the class building.

“Erica! Hey!”

“Oh, hey, Sarah, I’ve got to get to…”

“Yeah, me too. How have you been?” she asks, standing a little close to me.

“Great.” Pause. She doesn’t seem like she’s about to leave. “How have you been? How was your grade in Behavioral?”

“Oh my god,” she starts. “I got a B! Which I totally didn’t expect what with how hard that final was.”

“Yeah, seriously…”

“Are you graduating this month?” she asks.

“No, I…”

“Oh right! You had that semester abroad in France which set you back. Sorry, I remember now.” Chills crawl up my back, either from the wind or Sarah remember these details about my life.

“Yeah…”

“Alright well I’ve got class but it was so good to see you. We should get coffee sometime before the semester ends.”

“Yeah, of course!” I say.

“Good! Text me! Bye!” she says and gives me an awkward one-armed hug.

“See ya.”

The lecture hall is pretty empty. Of course. It’s the last class before the final. Why should anyone be here? No one being here makes it all the more obvious that my lab partner, James is missing. Damn you, James. Now I’ve get to sit through this alone.

ERICA: Where are you, best friend?

JAMES: What?

ERICA: IM IN CLASS WHERE ARE YOU

JAMES: my b im eating

ERICA: kay see you after

JAMES: great.

ERICA: PRETEND YOU HATE IT

Whether James realizes it or not, he desperately wants me to be his best friend. Either that or he puts up with me because I do his lab homework.

CHAPTER 1 v3.0.2

So I'm not 100% sure if I said any of this but I'd like to start fresh (sort of). To begin, some background.

I started this work as part of an assignment for my fiction writing class in the Spring semester of my sophomore year of college. I forget what the assignment was (probably short fiction), but somewhere in my inevitable procrastination, I decided it was a good idea to write some zombie fiction. The original piece, about 3 pages long, consisted of much of what you see in the first post. It was originally meant to be a satirical short story, more humorous than anything. My professor and classmates really enjoyed it (I have the emails to prove it) and my professor encouraged me to expand it. The second entry was a few more pages but I soon moved on to other endeavors. I picked the piece back up and begin expanding it, adding up to a quarter of the narrative by the following January. At some point I realized that I was writing the novel in present tense when most of it had already been written in past tense. Oops. And it's kind of hard to to a CRTL+F for past tense verbs so I did a pretty terrible job doing some patch-work editing and moved on.

Fast forward to January 2013 when I finally finish the manuscript (that's about 3 years later) and it has unarguably taken a different tone and direction than it had originally. Call it the brilliance of the story telling itself (I'm merely a vessel or whatever). Anyways, the first few chapters are pretty rough as far as the writing goes and I understand that. Below is the re-written prologue and chapter based on revised version (still mostly different from the original) in the first and second post. This version, however, is different in nearly every conceivable way. I actually like it a lot more.

The point is, there's a long way to go but I appreciate the work that everyone has done for me thus far. Hopefully you guys will enjoy these rewritten chapters a lot more (I know I do) and hopefully we can get the ball rolling even faster.

For those who would like to give input, I appreciate it. Content notes are more useful than grammar notes but if you must, you must. I can live with a few typos or misused words, because that's what an editor is for and I don't want to get bogged down with niceties unless it severely hinders the experience. With that...

Survivor: The Novel

Prologue. Last Wednesday.

The sound of the calamity reaches me from nearly across campus. The shouting floats on a cool breeze, past the red-brick class buildings and through the pink flowers of blooming trees, all the way down the sidewalk, until it reaches me as nearly a whisper. A crowd has formed in the main plaza in the heart of the university. Usually a serene place for studying, napping, or the occasional bros playing Frisbee, the plaza from time to time becomes more of a wrestling ring when the differing opinions of students clash.

My stomach growls angrily as I take a moment to hang on the outskirts of the crowed that’s gathered for today’s spectacle. Standing on the tips of my toes, I can just see the blue milk crate underneath the lanky legs of the man in the eye of it all. Another growl from the depths of me serves as a reminder of why I bothered to leave the quiet sanctuary of my dorm. Got to say though, watching these guys when they come to campus gives me a sick sort of pleasure.

The man clicks on his megaphone with a screech and thrusts his free arm in the air. Clutched in his hands is a black book, its gilded edges glistening in the sun.

He pauses a moment before addressing the crowd. “The good Lord has this day, given me the strength to attend to you supposed scholars and deliver his message.” The implied insult to the intelligence of his audience causes many to throw a few Fuck You’s back at him, though he seems not to notice.

“The End of Days is upon us. Yea, even now, unto this very moment, the Lord’s plan for salvation is in motion,” he says, his voice drowning out the shouting. How far off can it be heard? “The plan is a machine greater than any you could hope to understand.” This time, there are no replies, only silence. Are they waiting for ammunition, or are they genuinely curious?

“I stand amongst sinners. Atheists. Practitioners of false religion. Whores. Homosexuals.” The crowd resumes their shouts. A few students step out, launching into distressed tirades, stepping up to the milk crate to address the preacher directly. Trying to use their college logic on a man of faith. Good luck. He ignores them. You’re giving him an audience! I clench my fists and keep my mouth shut.

“There are those of you who would harm your bodies, God’s perfect creations, with substances and piercings, ink, and sex out of wedlock.” He flicks his tongue against his lips as if to rid them of the taste of the words. Some girl points a tattooed arm at the preacher and shouts at the crowd, her speech a little screwed up from the big, glistening stud in her tongue.

“You will all find yourselves on a long, painful road to hell, unless you heed my words carefully.”

The preacher pauses as a few gay couples gather around him and begin kissing each other. I look away. It’s not that I’m offended, I would just rather not look at two dudes kissing. The preacher only shakes his head, smiling, and continues.

“Your actions do not fill me with rage, sinners; only strength. Only the strength to find those among you worth saving. For I feel God’s love, and am guided by the Spirit to pure souls. Few as there may be,” he added. “Who among you desires salvation?”

The megaphone hangs by his side as he thrusts his book towards the audience. His face becomes expressionless as he studies each face in the audience in turn, ignoring the taunts, curses, and retorts being thrown his way. It’s hard to tell at my distance from him, but I could swear that the preacher and I make eye contact for a brief moment. A wave of discomfort rushes through me. His eyes turn elsewhere and I begin to walk away, rubbing the goosebumps off my arms. Guess I failed the test.

A student pushes his way towards the preacher, and falls to his knees in front of him.

“You! Have you come to me to be saved?” he says, beaming like a proud father. With a groan, the student rises on uneasy feet and trips into the preacher, grabbing him tightly around the waist. The preacher screams as the protester sinks his teeth deep into his forearm and repeatedly whacks the student on the head with his book in order to break free. Two more people get bitten by the student before a campus cop tackles him. Despite the cop’s particular robustness, the student struggles against him, his head twisted around in an attempt to bite. It takes two more cops to haul the student away. Some of the crowd turns their anger towards the cops, shouting about police brutality or some crap, briefly ignoring the preacher. Holy shit, I get to witness a real live college riot. Is that bad that I’m excited?

Despite my excitement, I briefly consider the consequences of being a bystander and continue on my way.

Screech.

At the sound of the megaphone coming back to life, I steal a glance back at the crowd.

The preacher’s white button-up is turning red and his once-expressionless face is twisted in pain, yet he manages to get back up on his crate for a few final words.

“The end… is here!” he says.

Well, that was easily the most fun I’ll have all day. Now, what am I hungry for?

CHAPTER 1- MICHAEL CLARK. Thursday, the next week.

I register the groaning somewhere deep in my subconscious. It’s full of pain and sorrow, of emptiness and despair. My body goes into panic mode as I struggle to find the source.

ho could be in that much pain?

Wait…

“God dammit! Turn it off, Greg!”

My roommate writhes about in his sheets and punches his pillows, groaning like a dying man.

“No, no, no, no…” he says. “I don’t wanna…”

“Just please turn the fucking alarm off,” I say.

Greg flings a limp arm towards his wailing alarm clock and misses, knocking papers and garbage off his bedside table. With another pained groan, he musters all his humanly strength and flings himself out of bed, flicking the alarm as his feet touch the ground. He stretches loudly, his toes curling into the dirty rug on his side of the room. Yawning and scratching himself, he seems not to notice the papers now strewn about the space, many of them now on my side.

“What’s your problem, man?” I ask “It’s nine in the morning.”

“You know I have an early class,” Greg says, adjusting himself in his briefs. Who wears briefs anymore?

“Yeah, but you could be a lot more quiet when I’m trying to sleep.”

Greg ignores that. “I’m just so tired.”

“You were up all night playing video games.”

“Homework,” he says.

“You’re a video game major.”

“Video game design major. So video games are my homework. Man, I love my life,” he says with another stretch as he grabs his towel from his open closet door. As it comes down, the stink of it wafts over to me. I hide under the comforter, preferring to smell my own odors rather than Greg’s.

“Except when it’s nine in the fucking morning.”

“Actually,” he says, “I’m feeling pretty awake now.” He flings the bedroom door open and struts into the hallway towards the communal showers. He closes it behind him with a thunderous slam.

I lie there for a moment with my eyes squeezed shut. Please sleep. Sleep. More sleep. Nope. Greg’s going to be done with that shower in 20 minutes and he’ll just wake me up again.

My relationship with Greg was an unfortunate accident. I tried freshman year to have a roommate but I found that I absolutely cannot live in such close proximity to someone. It drives me insane. I was supposed to have a room to myself this year, but when I got to campus and saw bright-faced Greg unpacking his stuff in my room that was only supposed to have one bed…

The housing director was doing a lot of typing, her long, glittery nails clacking loudly on the keyboard. She studied the screen for a moment. Looked at me. Back to the screen. Back to me.

“Well…” she said, her face twisted in a manner that I think was meant to look sympathetic, “it seems as though we had to over-book this year. We’ll let you know if anything opens up.”

And that was the end of that discussion. She had turned back to her computer and ignored my continued presence for a full minute before I left. When I came back, Greg was fully unpacked and playing his noise loudly.

“It’s Japanese electro-funk,” he explained.

“Right…” After a moment of searching through my unpacked things, I found my noise-cancelling headphones. I loved them before, and my love for them has continued to grow over the past year as they seem to block out most of Greg’s Japanese electro-funk and allowed me to watch my movies in peace. Does Greg know this was supposed to be a single-occupant room? For a moment, I felt kind of bad, thinking that if he knew that, he might feel unwanted. Well he is unwanted. I hope he feels awful.

Greg walks back into the room. I’m at my desk--which I turned towards the wall in the second week of school--though in my laptop’s screen, his naked body is reflected back at me.

“Have you no shame?” I ask. My headphones cancel out his reply. Instead of trying to reclaim the two hours of sleep I lost over Greg’s drama this morning, I decide to watch a low-budget horror that I’ve been saving for a shitty mood. A poorly-animated seagull flies across the screen with rigid wings, swooping low over the movie’s protagonist, who is struggling to look afraid. The seagull dives for an attack, supposedly striking the character, though the actor under-reacts, making the reveal of a life-threatening injury (complete with cheap-looking blood) much less convincing. Are you really dying? You sure aren’t acting like it. A smile creeps onto my face as I watch every element of terrible movie-making unfold before me. It’s a colossal failure but it’s fun to watch. I forget all about Greg and this shitty room.

Before I know it, it’s time for class. General education requirements need to burn in hell. It’s easy to understand that we’re supposed to come out of our college education as “well-rounded” individuals, but I don’t think that spending an hour and a half with a bunch of idiots from every different kind of major is very useful for my “well-roundedness.” Sorry, let me correct myself. Only half of the class are actual idiots. The other half are better described as… well someone once said to me, “Mike, it’s better to shut up and let people think you’re stupid than open your trap and remove all doubt.” My dad told me that. I think it was Lincoln first. Or Mark Twain. Either way, most of my classmates have clearly never heard the phrase.

“Well I can understand how you might think that when you read the text the wrong way…” one begins, cutting off another.

“Actually, if you did more than just read the Wikipedia page…” one says.

“Excuse me, can I finish?” the first one says. “Professor? Professor?!”

“Huh?” The professor hardly stirs. He’s been staring at the desk, twiddling his thumbs for the last 30 minutes, certainly not preparing to step in or moderate the discussion that has quickly escalated from reasonable arguments and irrelevant anecdotes to unintelligible shouting. WHAT IS THIS CONTRIBUTING TO MY EDUCATION? The thoughts nearly turn into words that I can hardly keep to myself.

It doesn’t seem that more than half the class even read the assigned reading (I know I sure didn’t) since there are only five voices going back and forth. I turn in my seat and accidentally catch the gaze of the guy behind me. I mutter an apology but I don’t think he hears me. In fact, when I turn back around I actually keep his gaze for a moment, realizing that he doesn’t even see me. He’s completely spaced out. That’s incredible. I envy his ability to tune out the din of the argument and wonder how no one else can possibly be getting as irritated as I am. Watching the minute hand on the clock spin, which it now seems to be doing at a most tedious pace, doesn’t do much to alleviate the headache that’s beginning to pound underneath my temples. My mind beings to wander. What if my classmates were to suddenly and unfortunately… I realize have to leave.

The fresh air and warm spring sun do help a little to calm my mood. I just need be away from people right now. Well, that’s usually the case. I find a bench in a shady part of the quad. Ahead of me is the swelling throng of students milling about the main plaza, although this week there is no group of protestors or other sights to be seen other than the students going about their business. They are smoking, talking, laughing, walking, running, studying, and overall just enjoying life. Suburban university life—isn’t it just precious?

Before I get a moment to enjoy the birds singing above me, a girl sits down next to me. Her chest bounces as she yells at the poor soul on the other end of her cell phone.

“No way. I can’t even believe that. Shut up. OMG STOP!” As much as I’d love to sit there watching the Greek letters on her pink tank top go up and down, her shrieks of delight as she soaks in the latest gossip almost make me wish I was back in class. At least that conversation was slightly intellectual. Plus, she’s making my headache worse. I rummage through my bag and pull out my trusty noise-cancelling headphones. Remarkably, I can still hear her talking. Awesome. I vacate my choice spot, now only wanting to lie in bed and be left alone.

No one is in the common area of the floor so I’m able to sneak in undetected and, most importantly, without having to talk to anyone. The door is locked so I know Greg isn’t there, another unexpected treat.

There’s a rush of cool air when my head hits the pillow. With my face buried, my lungs fill up with the cold, musky air trapped in the cheap sheets. Thank you, industrial air conditioner, you’re the sweetest thing to come home to.

After maybe an hour, there’s a knock on the door.

“What?” I say into the pillow. There’s a pause. Did they hear me? I hear the door open. I can’t see who it is. “Is Greg here?” the voice says. I think it’s the nerdy girl from down the hall that Greg’s been trying to get with all semester, but I can’t be sure.

“Take a look around,” I say, motioning lazily towards Greg’s side, a mere two feet away. “Do you see him?”

“Uh… no,” she says. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No idea.”

“Okay…” The door closes. I drift off again.

Another knock, louder and more urgent.

“WHAT?” I shout.

“Hey Mike,” Matt says as he opens the door. He’s staring at his black Converse as he walks in. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you…”

“It’s fine, Matt. Don’t worry about it,” I say. Matt is always a little sheepish. Maybe never had many friends in high school. Since move-in he’s been under the impression that we’re best friends because our names start with “M.” Not the case, as I’ve constantly hinted. But I certainly didn’t mean to yell at him and I feel kind of bad. “What’s going on?”

“Oh nothing. I was just wondering if you wanted to get dinner later.”

I pause to look at my phone for a moment, trying to buy time to come up with another excuse. “Oh look at the time,” I say. “I don’t know, I was thinking of staying in tonight. I’m not feeling too great.”

“Finals?” Matt asks.

“Yeah, I’m real stressed out. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah I hear you,” he says.

Awkward pause. “Well…” I begin.

“Oh, I’ll let you get back to sleep. I catch up with you later!”

“Sure thing.”

Even Greg’s Japanese electro-funk wouldn’t be able to wake me from the sleep that follows. Maybe I just needed to recharge my batteries. I try not to be too irritable but some days are harder than others.

Chapter 2!

Sorry for the delay with this chapter. I've been trying to get used to my work schedule and editing during vacation pretty much didn't happen like I thought it would. Anyway, let me know what you think.

Update 8/21 7:00am: I'd like to thank you guys for being patient with the numerous grammatical errors in this draft. I'm terrible at catching them and I suspect there will be many more. The very first draft (before this all started) was written entirely in past tense and I'm terrible at catching a the verbs. So thank you for your kindness and patience.

Update 8/21 8:30am: Thanks to Anonymous, I was able to suss out some of the bad verbs and unclear parts of the story. Hopefully, Anonymous, I've fixed what you pointed out and it's more consistent. To everyone, like I said before, I'm awful at grammar and catching my mistakes so I appreciate everyone who has helped me with that. Once I start editing and posting stuff that was always written in the present tense, there should be a lot less verb confusion (if not equal amounts of terrible grammar).


___________________________________________________




CHAPTER 2—MICHAEL CLARK



There’s a thud to my right. Some guy is frantically pounding on my passenger window. I see the fear in his eyes and I freeze, not knowing how to respond. All I can do is stare at him as he bleeds all over the side of my car from a gaping wound in his neck. He shouts muffled pleas until he gets tackled, taking my side mirror with him. Bastard.

While this first zombie chews on my new friend I take the opportunity to speed away. While backing up, I hit another zombie. Startled, I forget to stop and back straight into another car, pinning Zombie B. It snarls and struggles, reaching out towards me. As I drive away, I watch him hobble over to his friend on broken legs to join the feast, like he doesn’t even notice. Leaving them behind allows me a moment to breathe and for a second, everything seems like it might be okay.

Campus seems all but deserted. I keep checking my rearview mirror, thinking I’ll see the horde running after me. Unfortunately, while checking the mirror, I fail to notice the abandoned cars piled up in the middle of the road and barely manage to stop in time. Great. In front of me is a veritable parking lot of cars crashed up against each other, leading to the main road. I can imagine everyone running to their cars when the madness started, speeding towards the exits, traffic laws going out the windows. One driver fails to yield while turning and smashes into another. Someone going too fast can’t stop and smashes into them. More cars join the pile-up until the entire exit to the main road is blocked. Going to have to look for another way out...

It’s only a short while before a slight movement catches my attention. From the corner of my eye, I see figures on the roof of one of buildings waving their arms. Are they trying to get my attention? It crosses my mind to keep going, to drive straight home without stopping, to not take any chances, but the thought of other survivors makes me painfully curious. Curious enough, it would seem, to stop the car.

I curb the car and drive up the grassy hill towards the building. Admittedly, driving across the campus lawns is pretty exciting, though I guess it’s pretty typical me to only break the rules when I can’t get in trouble for it. I start towards the door of the building when I heard a groan behind me. I turned to see campus security limping towards me. Shit. Seems just my luck to get in trouble anyway. He edges slowly closer, pointing his one remaining finger lifelessly at my car awkwardly parked in the grass.

“Officer, I don’t know how to explain…” I begin, trying not to laugh too loudly. If you can’t laugh, what’s the point of living? The officer might not be able to appreciate the situation, but I wouldn’t deprive myself. “Really, there was no other parking and it’s not like there’s a si--…”

The guard starts running towards me. This time there’s no hesitation or clumsiness in my defense. In a flash, the sword is out and the guard is lying on the blood-stained grass, separated in half.

As his upper half crawls towards me, it hits me how quickly I’ve gone from being unsure if I could kill something to being able to do it without thinking. I figure that the first thing to change when everything hits the fan is people and their ability to change in order to survive. The crawling torso doesn’t frighten me anymore--this much has quickly changed too. It’s hardly a person anymore, I observe as it leaves a trail of innards on the grass in its pursuit of me, it’s just shaped like one.

I enter the lobby of the building officially known on campus as the Sorenson Student Union Building or the SUB (like the sandwich) if you’re in a hurry. The creepy bust of Sorenson, the university’s first president or something, watches me as I enter, forever guarding his namesake. Much like the common room of my dormitory, it looks as though everyone left in a hurry. Personal belongings of all sorts are scattered on the floors and chairs, as if the owners didn’t have time to grab anything at all. The building’s P.A. system crackles as it activates. A disembodied voice.

“Are you infected?”

I spin around, trying to find the source.

“I said, are you infected?”

“Um... No?” I say. “How would I know?”

“Have they bitten you?”

“No, no successful bites,” I tell him. There’s a pause.

“Are you a necrophiliac?”

“Wait, what?”

He laughs. “Just kidding.”

Some guy emerges from behind the information desk, holding a microphone.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” he says. “Sorry I couldn’t help myself.”

“Who are you?”

“Craig,” he says, climbing over the desk and extending a hand. We shake, his grip is weak and he never meets my eyes.

“I’m Mike,” I say.

“Well, Mike, it’s nice to make your acquaintance,” he says, already walking towards a pair of exit doors. “Follow me.”

“Nice sword,” Craig says as we climb the stairs towards the roof.

Craig and his friends on the roof make up the infamous “Medieval swordsmanship club” with some slight overlap with the membership of the campus fencing and D&D clubs. It’s a veritable nerd city. No one seems to notice as Craig walks me around, introducing me to the key players as most of the others are keeping themselves busy, sparring with fake swords and playing Dungeons and Dragons or keeping look out or taking part in a heated discussion on whether Jean Luc Picard or Captain Kirk would make a better zombie.

“This is our hold-out,” Craig explains. “We were having our weekly crisis preparedness meeting when the screaming started. We fought valiantly but had to regroup on the rooftop.”

“Valiantly, I’m sure.”

“You can’t save everyone,” Craig says. “We do what we can to survive.”

“How long have you been up here?”

“About an hour,” he says quickly. “But we are making preparations to move our base of operations to the food court... or Tommy’s mom’s house.”

“Right. So... where are they all now?”

“Who?”

“The Beatles,” I say. Craig stares blankly. “No, the zombies of course.”

“Oh. Uh... we don’t actually know. There was a large group milling about the lawn out front about forty-five minutes ago but they must have smelled something and ran off,” Craig says looking towards the lawn.

“You mean smelled someone.”

“Wait, have you actually killed one of them?” Craig says, his eyes on my clothes.

“Yeah… three.”

“Dude that is so freaking sweet!! Guys, guys come over here!”

“Wow that’s so awesome!” One says, taking my sword and examining it.

“Are we sure it’s even real blood? I’ve made more convincing blood than this,” another says scrutinizing the individual drops on my shirt.

“Yes, it’s real!” I snatch the sword back. “You guys haven’t actually been near one of those have you? I thought you guys fought valiantly before you had to retreat to the rooftops?”

“Well… actually…” Craig begins.

“Don’t even worry about it,” I tell him, looking directly in his eyes. “It’s pretty clear what’s going on up here. And GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME,” I yell at the ones still examining my clothing.

“Look,” Craig starts, “we need to get out of here. We have no food, no water. All we have is 4 real swords, 12 foam swords, and a lot of scared people. Can you help us?”

A general and his troops, green and scared. After all their training and preparation, they still have never faced anything real. Not like this. To be fair, until about an hour ago, I hadn’t really either. But I had only come here for some answers, to see if anyone knew what was going on. Or maybe just to know that someone else was dealing with this situation like I was. Either way, I’m not prepared to help anyone get out of here. Hell, I can barely help myself. Helping them means risking my ass, not to mention finding myself in a large, delicious group of people to any zombies that were hiding on campus.

“No,” I say.

“What? You have to help us!”

“Look, I don’t have to do anything. I’m not going to put myself on the menu just to get you guys to the next place you’ll get eaten at.”

“But…”

“End of discussion.” I turn towards the roof door. “I’m sorry. Good luck guys.” I start back to my car. When I get there, I looked towards the roof and I see Craig standing up there waving a sword. He gives a salute, a grave gesture, as if to say goodbye. But to whom, I wonder. A powerful gust of wind flies across the lawn. Another gust rolls in moments later, this time carrying the shrieks of the undead. They smell fresh meat.

Craig hears it to and jumps down off the edge of the roof and back towards his people, most likely to help barricade the doors. I sit there, my hand on the ignition, again facing the decision of whether or not to stay and help, or run away and save my own skin. The heads of the undead emerge from over the hill and I start to doubt that I could even make it back to Craig and his group if I started running now. I fire up the car and stop on the gas. The wheels spin frantically in the lawn. The horde is coming closer and closer and the sound of their screams and footsteps fill my ears, my heart is pounding and I can hardly concentrate. I try and take a moment to breathe, letting the gas out slowly. As soon as the wheels find themselves in the dirt, I take off. The group drives left, straight into the glass doors of the building, and crash into it like waves on rocks. The glas

s doors shortly give way and the zombies pile in. Through the windows I see them clambering up the stairwell towards the roof. For a moment there is nothing, no movement or noise. In the mirror, a body flies off the roof, sword in hand.

Oh God. The guilt washes over me the way the zombies took Craig and his friends. I told them I wouldn’t help them. What kind of person did that make me? I could have easily sentenced them to death.

No, it’s not my fault. I would have died with them. Does that make it okay though?

I stop thinking about what I’m doing and let my head swim in the “what if’s.” The thoughts of Craig and Jasmine make me realize that there are people—a lot of people—between me and my home. I don’t think I can live with myself if I ignore every cry for help just to save myself. What kind of coward would do that? I feel selfish. Moreover, I feel sick. My insides are twisting themselves in knots again and I can barely focus on the road.

A parked car practically materializes in front of me and I slam into it going God-knows-how-fast.

I float in and out of consciousness; the cry of the horde attracted by the crash is a dull hum somewhere in my head. It’s hard to tell if it’s getting closer or which direction it’s coming from. I can’t know how much time I have left. Then, I distinctly hear was the sound of the driver’s side door being forced open. There’s no screaming, but I feel them there. This is it. This is what my life has finally come to. All the years I put into doing… what? I’m not excited to die a spineless coward. These zombies are going rip me out of my mangled car to pass me around like a Thanksgiving turkey until I’m nothing but bone. Or maybe they won’t stop until there’s nothing left, as if I had never even existed.

Chapter 1 Part 2

Hello all--

I just want to thank most of you for reading the first part of this chapter and giving me some great feedback and proving to me that I'm terrible at grammar. As a friend put very eloquently, I've been staring at this piece so much that I'm probably just blind to the technical errors. For that, I apologize. Oh and I also admit I'm really bad with commas. Sorry for that too. I never paid attention during the grammar parts of high school English so sorry for party rocking or whatever. Anyways, thanks for reading though and for the general positivity that I've received. It's because of that that this little blog project is turning into everything I had hoped it would be: motivation to edit this colossal manuscript of mine and share it. I really appreciate you guys.

So without further ado, here is the part 2 of the second draft of my book.

______________________________________________________________

I dash through the cluster of dormitory buildings wondering if my home away from home is as safe as I hope it is. I barge in, sweating and out of breath, but uneaten. There are a few people in the common area studying, completely oblivious, and looking at me funny. I go for my door. Locked. I fumble for the keys. Only now, trying to aim for the keyhole, do I realize how much my hands are shaking. I throw open the door, slam it shut, and collapse on the floor. I take a moment to replay the events in my head. In the moments after I’m able to force my brain to rationalize the entire situation. It couldn’t have been what it looked like. The only reasonable explanation is a prank that went too far. It’ll be on YouTube in a couple of hours and in a few days we’ll forget it ever happened. It’s a calming thought until I peer through the blinds and see a girl being chased by a mostly-naked man with one arm. After considering various scenarios, there was only one that made sense.

Zombies. Honest to God. Zombies. The walking fucking dead. I can’t believe it. I saw that fat guy get eaten. Definitely not cool.

I can’t react with panic—that’ll get you killed. I have to just… calm down. Easy, right? Wrong. At the notion of zombies, my brain goes into overdrive, trying to condense everything I thought I knew about reality and the sheer scope of the situation. I get dizzy.

What’s a boy to do when things get out of control? Call Mom. I sit there in my room holding my phone. Wait, if something was really wrong, she would have called me first, right? She’ll usually make a daily call just to make sure I’ve had my vegetables. I press the quick-dial button for my house (programmed by her, of course). It rings once. Two more rings. Then two more. Then the answering machine.

“Hello, sorry we can’t come to the phone right now…” says my father. I can nearly hear my mom in the background scolding him for recording the message wrong. He’d never change it though. I almost laugh, but realize that there’s no reason for no one to be home.

“Hey guys… it’s me… I hope everyone is okay. I just want you to know I’m fine,” I say. “I have my phone so please call me when you get the chance… please. I love you guys.”

I hang up. There are any number of reasons why no one would pick up, but it’s impossible to ignore what I just witnessed. Naturally, I think about what could be going on at home… I’m sure they’re fine. They must be. Dad’s a tough guy. I just need to take care of myself for now. They’ll call. Maybe there’s nothing going on over there. Maybe. Maybe I could get to them? That seems like the right thing to do. Whatever I do, I have to get somewhere safe; anywhere but here.

First things first, a weapon. I take a quick look around and remember that my roommate keeps a samurai sword under his bed. He came back from the mall one day, took it out of its sheath, and pointed it at me.

“Why the hell did you buy a sword?” I said.

“I really don’t know,” he said.

And that was the end of that. I decide that circumstances being what they are, I’d have to borrow it and he’d have to forgive me. I think that if he were dead, this is what he would want. Or not. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

The weight of the sword is entirely towards the front of the blade, making it awkwardly heavy at first. I hold it out, straight in front of me, examining it, trying to determine if it’s real or not. No way of knowing for sure. It looks like it could do the job. It has to.

I’ve never killed anything before. But I feel like I could do it if circumstances permitted.

Right?

If I had to?

Maybe.

Okay, so I’m going home. For that, I need my car, which is clear across campus, which is full of zombies. Cool.

With sword in hand and a few essentials in a bag, I take the first measured steps towards home. I turn the knob as slowly as possible and pause to breathe before opening the door. I leap out into the hallway, striking  a ninja pose, ready to strike. The hallway seems lifeless. The common area is now abandoned, word-processor cursors on laptops blinking within half-finished words and books lying open on the tables. I stand there, still in my pose, feeling somewhat stupid, wondering if maybe I’m overreacting.

I move towards the door and wonder what kind of person I’d be if I didn’t offer to help anyone, especially those I lived with; I figure it’s the neighborly thing to do. “Hey I’m going to try and escape the flesh-eating zombies if you’d like to come. Maybe swing by Starbucks or get some pizza if you like.” Room 102, empty. 103, empty. 104, empty. I approach 105, the door ajar. I knock gently once. Twice. I look down the hall and consider moving on but something draws me inside. I can’t possibly imagine what…

I imagine Jasmine, the very attractive occupant of room 105 leaping out at me from the closet in a feral rage, clawing and biting at my succulent flesh. In a moment of hesitation, I would stare into her wild blue eyes, apologize, and then, in total self-defense, chop her head off. I’d pause for a moment before leaving her decapitated corpse and wonder what things would have been like if she had only given me a chance when I asked her to go out last weekend.

 Instead, I see a human-sized lump on her bed, covered by a yellow sheet. I creep towards her, unsure what to say, if anything. As I get closer, I hear a soft sobbing coming from underneath the sheet, so quiet that I can barely hear it over my own heartbeat. I’m frozen, not sure what to do. Girls and tears usually give me anxiety. I move backwards, clearing my throat at the door. No response. After a moment, I noiselessly close the door. “Jasmine Fitzpatrick,” the nameplate reads. Could zombies cry? I don’t know. Even if that was still her, what could I say or offer? I had no answers myself. I’m rationalizing again and before I can regret leaving someone behind, I leave the building, sword pointed forward.

I leave the dorm, heading back the main plaza and the other side of campus. Instead of the usual brick that makes up the main campus walkways, it’s the pools and streams of blood that give them their color now. It trails from the piles of bodies, many missing limbs and huge chunks of flesh. Most of the wounds are so fresh they glisten in the sun. Among these piles of bodies and textbooks, there doesn’t seem to be a living… or moving thing in sight. Among the blood-smeared faces are some familiar ones, people I’ve seen in classes or just in passing on our normal routes, their futures cut tragically short, on a college campus of all places.

I tiptoe around corpses, giving the bodies the widest berth I could manage, difficult as that is with the amount of mangled college students and professors strewn across the grounds. I hear screaming coming from the other end of the quad—the building I was in earlier. Class would have been getting out about now…

It’s a rookie mistake, spacing out in the middle of the carnage. Without warning or a moment to react, something pounces on me. I land flat on my back, the sword goes flying. I brace my hands against the shoulders of my attacker whose weight is completely on me, my heart beating wildly as adrenaline surges through me. He looks much worse than I could have ever imagined; half of the grey flesh on his face is torn away, his hair remaining only in patches on his mostly decayed scalp. His yellowing teeth have bits of flesh in between them; I can probably count the few he has left as gnashes them mere inches from my face. The smell is dreadful. It’s awful. It’s the dead lovechild of dreadful and awful. It invades my senses and stings my nose, my eyes water and now I can barely see him. The only thing keeping me aware is the feel of his body on me, a reminder of the danger. I manage to roll to my right and push him off me. He reorients himself for a second attack, I spot my sword. I clumsily unsheathe it and hold it straight out in front of me; any plan I had for its use now long gone. He charges forward, impaling himself on the sword. I brace him to keep him at length and wheel him around, noting how doesn’t even notice the fucking sword in his gut. I twist the sword out of his body, cutting him mostly in half. What’s left of his intestines spill out on the sidewalk and I take the pause to swing wide at his neck, hoping for the best. As his head rolls away from his body it continues to blink at me. Like a bug, I stomp, crushing it with a sickening crack.

As the adrenaline wears off, my knees shake and I fall to ground. I’m shaking all over again and it’s like my insides turn themselves into knots. I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up. I just fought for my life. I just killed something. The ground sways and surges beneath me.

Somehow, I hear a groan and I’m back to reality. A second zombie stumbles towards me. I swing wildly without technique or strategy. The sword makes contact, leaving a deep gash from chin to hip. He stumbles. I bury the blade in his head. The shock of the second kill isn’t nearly as bad but I quickly realize how tired the whole ordeal has made me. What are these things?

            A crash to my left. From out of the Lambda Omega Zeta Delta Alpha honor fraternity information booth crawls another undead monster. He stands and looks at me—a stare down—for what feels like ages, probably contemplating how he wants to eat me. “Legs first? Fingers?” he must be thinking. His undead muscles tense and before he can take off, I’m running as fast as my rubbery legs can carry me. I gain some ground on him and I hear a snap behind me. The zombie’s leg has broken but he’s still chasing me. As I’m considering running on a broken leg, I neglect to watch where I’m going and trip on a body. As the zombie gets closer, I swing my sword towards him, severing his legs. He continues the chase, crawling on his arms towards me. “It’s just a flesh wound!” I imagine him saying. I allow myself a chuckle and run off towards the parking lot.

I run until I reach the lot. Once more in relative safety, I start to cry. For several minutes, I just sit in my car and cry. I just can’t help it.

Chapter 1 Part 1

Hey all--

Thought I would go ahead and post what I have of the first chapter. It's not much but it's the first few thoughts of our protagonist and the first encounter so I figured it was tasty enough to throw down and prove that I am actually working on this. Slowly, but surely.

______________________________________________________________

Chapter 1- Michael Clark

It all started last Wednesday.

I was on my way to get some lunch and this preacher was standing in the middle of campus on his milk crate, swinging his Bible in the air, telling us the end is nigh and we’re all going to hell. There were people standing all around him yelling their oh-so-clever retorts at him—trying to challenge him, make him admit he’s wrong. They’re dumber than he is. They’re giving him what he wants.

“The end is here!” he cried at the top of his lungs. “The sinners will go to hell!” The crowd howled their retorts. “Like you, blasphemer! And you, harlot!” he shouts, pointing at various members of the crowd.

A student pushes his way towards the preacher.

“You! Have you come to me to be saved?” he said, beaming like a proud father. With a groan, the student stumbled into the preacher grabbing him tightly around the waist. The preacher screamed as the protester sunk his teeth deep into the preacher’s forearm. Preacher whacked the protester with his Bible and shoved him away. The protester got up and bit someone else. He bit a third person before someone finally had the good sense to restrain him until campus security got here. The preacher looked sick as he stumbled back on his box to deliver his final words.

“The end… is here!” he said.

That’s the most fun I’d had all day.

The following week, everything went to hell.

*          *          *

Today started off as a normal Thursday; the same kind of Thursday that has followed Wednesdays for generations. I get up, and I go to class, just as I have all semester. Nothing special. I’m sitting in class, half-listening to my peers discuss the hot topic of the day. I watch the minute-hand of the clock creep slowly by each number and I inevitably get distracted and accidentally tune in to the conversation, catching a few words of someone’s opinion before tuning back out.  

“Well I can understand how you might think that when you read the text the wrong way…” one student begins, cutting off another.

“Actually, if you did more than just read the Wikipedia page…”  

The professor sits at his desk, twiddling his thumbs, certainly not preparing to step in or moderate the discussion that has quickly escalated from reasonable arguments and irrelevant anecdotes to unintelligible shouting. Those who aren’t participating in the ­­shit-flinging competition are staring blankly into space, doing their best corpse impressions. I envy their ability to tune out the din of the argument and wonder how no one else can possibly be getting as irritated as I am. Watching the time pass, which it now seems to be doing at a most tedious pace, doesn’t help to distract from the headache that’s beginning to pound underneath my temples. As my mind wanders to innocent thoughts of What if my classmates were to suddenly and unfortunately… I realize have to leave.

The fresh air and warm spring sun do help a little to calm my mood. I choose a bench in a shady part of the quad. I see ahead of me the swelling throng of students milling about the main plaza, but this week there is no group of protestors or sights to be seen other than the students going about their business. They are smoking, talking, laughing, walking, running, studying, and overall just enjoying life. Suburban university life—isn’t it just precious?

I only get a few minutes of massaging my angry brain and trying to find a song to fit my mood when my day goes from bad to worse.

First, I hear screaming in the distance. There’s no doubt there. Students stop to look towards the sound. Their looks of confusion turn to noticeable fear when the crowd in the plaza begins to run and the screams become contagious. It’s amazing to see a crowd of what seems like hundreds of people all abruptly running in the same direction like frightened gazelles, tripping and trampling over each other with only self-preservation in mind. Behind the runners, I’m expecting to find an escaped lion, a blazing inferno, or a madman brandishing a machine gun—or hell, maybe all three—but instead I see a portly gentleman sprinting at top speed. How curious. I wonder why all these people would be running from a seemingly innocuous fat man.

Then I see them for the first time.

A small group—no more than a dozen—is chasing the fat man. He loses his breath and collapses to his knees, still struggling to get away. The fastest of them catches up with him, leaping high in the air, pouncing on his back like a cheetah. Several of them stop and gather around him. At first it looks like they’re just giving the fat guy the beating of a lifetime, but in the gaps we can see the blood start to flow as they proceed to take huge chunks out of his flesh and devour them on the spot. The terrified shouts of those around me sound muted and distant as I stand there with my mouth open, frozen, witnessing the cannibalistic madness. I mean, what do you do when you see something like that? Yell? Scream? “Hey stop eating that guy!” one might say. I could have stood there all day not knowing what to do, but the instant they were done with the first course, they began to look around for the next one. I’m a deer in the headlights. I make eye contact with one of them and feel thousands of icy fingers crawl over my skin and down my spine. I feel, for the first time in my life, real fear. I run as fast as I can.  

New beginnings and solutions to terminal problems

So as some of you may know, I finished the manuscript of my first novel back in January and I've been dragging my feet on the editing process by a ton. With the help of a few wonderful friends, I've been able to get some great feedback already and I really want to hop back in the editor's chair and get to work.

The novel, now tentatively titled Survivor: The Novel, is a psychological horror which takes place during a zombie apocalypse. The reader will follow the main character through his struggles with and his triumphs over the undead and himself.

Ideally, this blog is the solution to my procrastination and motivation issues.

Every week (I hope) I'll edit and post a new chapter from my book. I'll then send out the link to the vast abyss of the Internet and whoever wants to read it can read it and if they don't, not a problem. This will hopefully be a less intimidating way to get people's eyes on it. Whoever wants can take it a chapter at a time, a week at a time if they want instead of trying to find time to sit down with the whole manuscript; I can't even do that and I'm the one that wrote it.

Anyway, this will also hopefully be a great way to get some exposure, but most importantly, a way to get myself in gear. Keep a look out.


Thanks, Friends.
Dylan