Here's a very early draft of my zombie story "Birthday Wish" under the original title "Belated." As you can see, it evolved quite a bit. The version that was published in Soul Survivors: Hometown Tales is my favorite, however, this version does have a special place in my rotting heart.
BELATED
Had I have known
then what I know now, I would’ve taken the barrel of this shotgun,
placed it under my chin, pulled the trigger, and split my head right
down the fucking middle. That was my mistake. Judging by the blast I
heard earlier my neighbor had not made that mistake.
I’m getting
ahead of myself; I should really start at the beginning.
I am crippled. I
have been for about five years now, ever since a car accident claimed
what life resided in my legs, now they just hang there like the
useless pieces of meat that they have became. I still don’t
remember too much of the accident, just brief glances into my memory
of a speeding car racing toward me being driven by some idiot who
wanted to test the muscle of the V8.
I survived the
crash. I guess in some ways you could say that I was lucky. But after
looking out the window over the past few days I’m not too sure that
“lucky” is the right word.
It had all started
on Monday afternoon. At least that’s the best that I can figure. I
know the first time the news mentioned anything about them was on
Monday. The first reports were of attacks at the airport. Some
initially thought it may be some kind of terrorist attack when a 747
crashed on the runway. I, along with the rest of the country, watched
as the plane burned and could hear the screams in the background. The
terrorist angle seemed to make sense in a way. There had been all
sorts of similar reports happening all over the world; along with
riots and murders in the streets. It really seemed to make sense.
That is until the reporter ate her cameraman on live television.
That was two weeks
ago.
Today, things that
would normally cause my stomach to turn and knot are common. I have
seen things that no human being was ever meant to see. A toddler
walked out into the street the other day. He was wearing an old dirty
sleeper suit that was covered with either dirt or blood. He was too
far away to be certain but it was obvious that he was crying. I could
see his shoulders jump with each racking sob and he chewed nervously
on his sleeve. It was not long before one of them heard him. A middle
aged woman stumbled out into sight. She had half of her stomach
dragging along behind her like a dog’s leash, and an eye dangling
from the socket like a goddamned tetherball. She came from the front
of the building next to mine and quickly snatched up the crying boy.
I closed my eyes and forced myself not to watch. Perhaps that was the
scariest part of the whole event, the part when the crying stopped.
To say that I felt
useless was an understatement. Could I have built the courage to run
down the stairs, out into the street and scoop up the child in my
arms like some caped comic book superhero and raced him to safety?
No. If my legs were still functional I would’ve still sat here in
silence with my head buried in my hands and cried along with the boy.
There is no help
anymore. To call out for it is futile and only alerts them to your
location. No. There is no help. There are no heroes. If there ever
were any they are now out there walking the streets in search of
their next meal or cowering behind the walls of an old dilapidated
building hoping to die before the things come.
It’s getting
harder to see the outside. There is an ever-growing haze filling the
street and the sky has become an alternating strobe of black, red,
and gray.
I honestly have no
idea how long I’ve been sitting here in front of the window. I know
that it has been a while since I have moved due to the stains on the
carpet from where urine spilled out from the seat of the chair.
My daughter had
been staying with me over the past couple of months, ever since my
hired lady had gotten sick and had to take some time off. My
daughter’s name is Gina, named after her great-grandmother.
She had
volunteered to come over and help me out while things were getting
straightened out. I had begged her not to go out.
During the first
days of the event, Gina had heard the reports. However there were
none in our area at the time and things still seemed to carry on as
usual. We needed supplies just like everyone else and Gina was ready
to make the trip. I told her that things were looking bad. But she
insisted. She truly was my daughter because she had my stubborn
nature all the way. It was my birthday, she said. And she thought
that some ice cream would do just the trick.
I saw Gina today.
She was shambling around in front of my building wearing the same
dress that she wore when she left. In her left hand hung a slightly
ripped plastic bag, which, no doubt, contained a quart of melted,
mint chocolate chip ice cream, my favorite.
The streets are
growing more and more populated, there is no living in sight, only
the dead. I know that it will not be long before I expire from one
way or another. I am very hungry and thirsty, and the door is only
held by the lock on the doorknob and a small deadbolt.
I can still see
Gina down there. She has barely moved since I first saw her. As if
presenting the belated gift, she raised the arm with the bag into the
air toward my window. A stream of thick green goop oozed from one of
the tears.
I told her thank
you, and I love you.
Within moments,
Gina had disappeared from sight as she moved back toward my building.
The others in the street seemed to follow her.
Heavy banging
sounds are filling the halls and the downstairs lobby. They will be
here soon. My daughter is bringing a gift along with the rest of her
friends, which are enough people for a wonderful party. I wonder if
she is bringing a superhero up as a surprise.
They are knocking
at the door; I can hear the wood splitting.
I’m taking one
last look down at the shotgun resting across my lap.
The door has
popped open. My guests are here.
Make a wish.
It’s time to
blow out the candles.
