It Sucks to be Dead

Just something  I wrote real quick, check it out if you are interested:

            It turns out that it sucks to be dead. Let me give you an example: You know how most people assume that when you stop healing you die? As it turns out, the causality is backwards, and when you die you stop healing. Cut your finger and the cut never closes. Someone shoots you in the chest with a shotgun and you will always have a hole there. Accidently lop off an arm and… actually that is pretty permanent for the living too. And it gets better! Just because a dead person can’t heal doesn’t mean organic processes stop. Dead meat still rots and stinks and attracts maggot-bearing flies, even if they are walking around.

Yeah, being dead is no party, fortunately there is technology. Cut your finger and you can seal it up with superglue. Someone shoots you in the chest and you can pack it up with wadding and patch it over with some bandages. There are preservatives to keep your skin from rotting, and bug repellant helps keep the flies away.

I wish I could remember being alive, remember what it felt like to have a beating heart and really to breathe. I sometimes imagine what it must have been like to sleep all night and then get up to go to work or school. I figure the person I was must have been older than 16 and younger than 40, but after being dead a while it is hard to tell. I have a life now, or at least the best facsimile I can manage. I fixed up a broken car, cleaned out an abandoned home, and periodically scavenge newer, fresher clothes.

This is my routine: Every night I lay down in one of the beds in my house and wait for the sun to come up. Then I walk to a nearby store and scavenge for breakfast and then pack a lunch that I normally throw away before noon. I used to drive my car, but it got too hard to find gas.

Next, I walk around looking for an office building that I like the look of. I go in and mess around at the office for a while, organizing the supplies or reading books and magazines if I can find any that are interesting. Eventually, I call it a day and leave work, looking for something fun to do.

This place I am in must have been a pretty big city once, because I am still finding things to do! Sometimes I hit the library, (one of these days I am going to go scavenge everybody’s overdue books,) sometimes I find a bas with intact supplies, (I can’t get drunk, but most of the alcohol is so spoiled it at least gets me a little high,) sometimes I wander into theatres sit staring at the empty screen. (I pretend to watch movies that I see advertised on the movie posters,) and sometimes I just wander along the river and scream the birds.  Eventually it starts getting dark and I wander back home, say hi to the family, and then pick a bed to lie down in for the night.

I’m pretty lonely, but not because I am alone! I don’t know how many zombies there are wandering around the city, but there are a lot. Most of them I don’t know obviously, but there is my family, who are the zombies that pretty much stay in the area of my house. I don’t know if we were related when we were alive, but we all seemed to have died about the same time in the same place, so I consider us a family.

There aren’t very many zombies around like me, in fact there are none. I’m not saying that to convey the idea that we are all special and beautiful and individual in our own right, I mean that there are no other zombies who miss being alive, who care about how they look/smell, who try to live a semblance of a normal life, or even who are able to think or do anything but shuffle around aimlessly and moan softly to themselves. A pretty dreary lot on the whole, I would say. Still, as I always say: Someone to talk to is someone to talk to, and family is family, even if their brain rotted a long time ago and is leaking out their ears.

Actually I read something like that and sort of adapted it to my current situation. Catchy, huh?

I know that Zombies are so popular as to be cliché and maybe passé by now, but I think they are a fascinating avenue for fiction. Combine that with a love for post-apocolyptic tales, and this is what you get: A letter from the last person on Earth, except they are not a person. The last survivor who didn’t survive! Something like that…


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