Young Writers Society

pre-text

The problem arose when they infiltrated the fundamental systems of society. Law enforcement, banking, judicial structures and even global conglomerates were compromised by the devious and diligent planning of what we call 'zombies.' Now before your mind jumps to the misconstrued image of a zombie that the media presented as comical and fictitious in the past, allow me to describe the outbreak that is really occurring.

No one is sure how it began - or perhaps it had no beginning - but the spread of the zombie disease was particularly worsened by their hunger for flesh. They would seek flesh actively as if it was their day job – which it wasn’t as the majority of these things worked in finance or high end government structures. They ate people just the same as their predecessors did, although in a much more 'professional,' manner. I'm not speaking in rhetoric or riddle to emphasize how evil their character is, I'm literally telling you that they are the type to indoctrinate our society, steal a child off of the street, and plan an entire evening family dinner around the idea of eating your child's torso as if it were Thanksgiving - just another piece of meat to stuff.

The difference between what we face now and the fictional zombies of the past is that the 'undead' of our society are living thinking creatures that know how to use a fork and knife. Now, it would a mistake to simply label them as simply cannibals because they're still dead, and they’re still diseased. They're dead in the way that they have no consciousness, and no morals or ethics. They don’t have a soul or anything human – aside from their physical anatomy – about them aside from primal urges for food and even sex. Hopefully you understand the severity of such a problem, and the paranoia that comes about as a result. How would you know who was, and wasn’t infected if the diseased look exactly like you down to even a molecular level? The simple answer - and the potentially only answer - is that you don’t. The sickness of such a collective cannot be cured or prevented. Once an infected labels you as a target, they’ll manipulate you, use you, eat you, and birth you in a diseased and reanimated state. So you become one of them, and no one will know what you’ve turned into. An acquaintance – or perhaps not even that - of mine was eighteen when he and I realized that this outbreak even existed. I was seventeen.

Samuel was a challenging piece of shit, but he didn’t deserve being ruthlessly eaten by his own mother. Who proceeded to savagely butcher her forsaken husband in front of their four year old child. The kid didn't even get to escape as Mrs. Greyan - or Ms. Greyan now - fired a twelve gauage into his chest. The poor child bled out at what I presume was a last supper of sorts. This all happened while I was at the dinner table when I realized Ms. Greyan’s meaning of “soup of the day,” was slightly different than us non-infected. I suppose I was saved for desert as I was last on the priority list - Ms. Greyan always had a sweet spot for me in more than a few ways - but unfortunately I managed to escape. I never heard from Ms. Greyan again, which genuinely surprised me as she was a woman who loved her seconds.

In no way am I attempting to intimidate you, I'm merely trying to describe what life and society has devolved into. These infected people - if you can even call them that - are ruining our society and the lives of billions, however with the power they hold in social systems the survival of our now dystopian civilization hinges on their existence. The proverbial double edged sword.

This journal if you will is intended to act as a guide of sorts. A compilation of my experiences in such a god forsaken world. This journal is intended to inform those who follow me – as I presume I won’t be around much longer – of the dangers of the world, that most people aren’t even aware of. God save us.

Part One – Beginning of the End

Samuel pulled up in his distastefully red sedan, and motioned through the open door that I was to enter the car. I was being summoned. The rain pattered against my shoulders despite the sad excuse of an umbrella I held over my head. I stood for a moment staring at him as if I wanted to attract attention, to indicate to people I had no idea who this bum was. Normally I’d disobey such a condescending action just for disobedience sake, and to assert I wasn’t one to be commanded, however His Majesty was my only way home. As well as the fact I had already been avoiding his entire family for the past month or so (on the account of an incident that happened, which I’m almost sure was illegal). I entered.

The inside of Samuel’s car reeked of cigarettes, and a pungent aroma I assume that was alcohol (which he was probably drinking behind the wheel in the moments prior)

I looked over at him, expecting him to look back and submit the power he thought he had in our relationship. He didn’t. His face was covered in an abnormal amount of stubble for an eighteen year old. Being only a year younger than him – physically that is - I probably made him look even older by simply sitting beside him. He was trying to prove a point by growing his facial hair out.

He spoke in a thick Southern accent that would make me think he was an idiot even if I didn’t know him – if I was racist that is, but I’m not.

“Hey fella,” he said to me without even a glance, “whatcha plans for tonight?”

I paused for a moment, puzzled by the mere assumption that I would even have plans.

“Nothing.”

“Spose you wouldn’t wanna come over for dinner tonight then would ya?”

Even more confused than before I began “Samuel, what’s the occasion for such an invitation?”

“Nothin’ really. The Old Lady has been buggin’ at me askin’ why you ain’t been ‘round since last month. She thinkin’ you hate her or summin.”

I blushed, and if it wasn’t for Samuel’s lack of caring for anybody but himself he would’ve looked over at me and noticed. Thank god he didn’t or I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

“What about your Dad, has he said anything about me?”

“Pops? He ain’t much for carin’ bout my friends, so not really. Bu he did said you a wannabe highbrow.”

Black spots started appearing in my peripheral, and soon all I imagined was ripping that hick’s head off with my bare hands.

“Fine, I’ll come.”

The rest of the car ride to Samuel’s was pleasantly quiet. The fact he didn’t feel the need to suffocate the silence with small talk was refreshing, like a heroin addict relapsing. Every time the kid opened his mouth I could consciously feel my intelligence being questioned. As if he thought he was good enough to talk to me. I’ve never been close to Samuel - or anyone for that matter – but I decided I’d get a good meal in me for once and on we went along the dark countryside road that circled his family farm.

It seemed as if the rain fell harder, and harder for every stride the car took towards the farm. Correspondingly the car also seemed to go faster and faster as if it longed for the rest it deserved; like a marathon runner sprinting towards the finish line. The bumpy unfinished road jolted and jerked the car continuously; just as Samuel began to hum what I presume was his rendition of country music. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was too drunk to notice or if he was used to the danger of such an old car’s suspension.

I knew we were close now as I began to see the Greyan family’s cows grazing on the soggy pasture. The silhouette of their crude figures were barely recognizable in the pitch dark of the winter season. If it wasn’t for their recognizable hedonistic positions - their necks craned down to the pasture - I wouldn’t have even noticed them.

They paid no attention to the rain slamming down on them, however. For a second I wondered if it was because they were too stupid to realize what rain was or if they were so happy to exist that a slight inconvenience such as being wet paid them no bother. Regardless of the reason I envied them. Having no care for anything, anyone, or any situation seemed superlative to me. But as a human being you’re naturally condemned not to mortality itself, but instead to the knowledge of mortality. Knowing you’re going to die changes a person. When you informed that terminally ill cancer patient that they’re going to die, you changed them. Maybe the cows did know that they’re going to die, and if so I truly pity them just the same as I do mankind, however I preferred – and needed – to believe that they were blissfully ignorant of the world.

I began to drift off, however like usual my peace was interrupted by Samuel poking me with what I believed to be a lighter.

“Hey!” he literally yelled “wake up Sleepin’ Beauty we’re here!”

I wasn’t surprised that the extent of his referencing ability was restricted to Disney productions.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

I got out of the car with a slight over enthusiasm to ensure Samuel knew I wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t allowed to be right.

My feet sank into the muddy grass, which was mush by this point – reminding me that I was nowhere near civilization. The Greyan Family farm was quite large, but seemed small to the non-mathematical eye as the majority of the area was either desolate or unconstructed and grassy. I’d been to the Farm a couple of times to see Mrs. Greyan, who up until a month ago was probably the person I hated the least in the world.

I knew the layout of the land, and so without any further encouragement from His Majesty I began to make my way to the main house.

“So you hungry?”

Of course I was hungry; I hadn’t accepted this embarrassing invitation to sight-see after all.

“I had a big lavish lunch so not particularly,” I lied.

I hadn’t eaten a full course meal ever since my parents kicked me out on the account of “bad behaviour.”

My stomach was practically in knots now, and I was truly surprised hydrochloric acid hadn’t began to drill itself out of my body yet.

I was reassured that the whole invitation wasn’t a mirage or demonic trick being played on me when I opened the house door, and smelled what seemed to be a meat of some kind. I was greeted by the farm dog who always seemed to be the first patron to see in any new visitors. He whined and wagged his tail as he began to circle around me, surely getting ready to make his move of affection.

Dogs, such insufferable creatures they are. Their only motivation in their pathetic lives is to gain the affection of their masters, and to please them – a prisoner like existence that’s worse than death if you ask me.