The Zombie Wilson Diaries Part 12

I gagged for the hundredth time this week and staggered as the soft sand turned my weak legs against me. I fell down, and the breath was driven from my body. I got to all fours, yelling a warning.

"Stay away from her! She's a zombie!"

"Are you f.u.c.king stupid?" the woman yelled back.

Um.

I got to my feet and moved toward them again. I bet I looked like a zombie myself. The woman turned and walked backwards until she hit a rock and fell on her b.u.t.t. Her hands flew back to stop the fall, but she still must have come down pretty hard, because I heard an "Umph."

The man-the dead man-had stopped twitching, and my girl was dragging herself across the sand toward him. She had her eye set on the b.l.o.o.d.y gash that used to be his throat.

I felt weak as a newborn, but I had to make sure she didn't get too much of him. I would have to drag her away.

Then I realized that wasn't such a big problem. It was, in fact, among the least of my worries.

I think I said the F word about twenty times as I grabbed a rock-a big sucker-and lifted it over my head. In the surf, just ahead of me, dead Mooney was struggling to sit up, and he didn't look happy. He looked f.u.c.king dead.

I came up behind the zombified airplane pilot and threw the rock like a basketball player aiming for a teammate.

From a foot away, I missed.

He turned and fixed his eyes on me, then reached for my feet. I tried to step back, but he hit my ankle pretty hard. Now it was my turn to fall down. He slithered over the sand and, in my weak condition, it was all I could do to push him away. I backtracked, moving like a crab with my b.u.t.t on the sand until I was a few feet away. He came to his hands and knees and tried to stand. I heard the stewardess scream behind me.

I got up and kicked him in the head, which was like kicking a tree. It hurt! The man fell to his side and then started to get up again. Christ, there was about to be a whole island of zombies, and wouldn't that be a shame?

I kicked him again, right in the noggin, a big old soccer kick like you see the guys do in the World Cup. His head popped up, and then he went down flat, but his hands were moving again. I was too weak to wrestle a gag on him. He was a big fresh zombie, and even if I'd had the strength I possessed a few weeks ago, I doubt I could've managed to tie him to anything.

This time, I didn't mess around. I grabbed the rock and swung it into the back of his head. He slumped to the sand, so I lifted it high and used gravity to help propel his forehead deep into the surf. The noise was horrendous. Instead of turning to throw up, I lifted the b.l.o.o.d.y rock again and smashed his pulped head one more time.

I was gasping for breath. Out of my mind. I had spent three or four days on the ocean, lost, hungry, thirsty and confused, only to end up in this new version of the tropical vacation from h.e.l.l. The stewardess yelled one more time but waved my hand in the air in the universal "I got this" gesture.

Leaning forward, I took in big deep breaths. I wanted to sleep for about a week, wake up and sleep some more.

After a moment, I got up but wondered where my girlfriend was. It would be just like her to go back to the fresh dead body and chow down, but that wasn't the case. I turned to look for her and nearly choked on my own gasp. She had her face buried in the neck of the stewardess and was slurping like a baby. I screamed for her to stop and ran to the women even though I could tell it was too late. I dragged her off and back a few feet, but she slithered toward the body again. It was only when the woman started moving that my girl backed off and set her eyes on me. I didn't have the energy left today, so I pointed her at the pilot, slapped her a.s.s and pushed her away.

The stewardess was missing most of her throat, just like the pilot. Blood was everywhere. Her eyes were staring at the sky, but they both swiveled like marbles in Jell-O to meet mine.

This was just great. I have always wanted a menage a trois, but this is f.u.c.king ridiculous.

Now I had two zombies.

I wondered if there was a cliff on this stupid island I could jump off.

It was too much to deal with, so I dragged the stewardess to the pilot and left the girls to eat their fill.

I walked along the beach and contemplated my next move. Should I just kill myself? Kill the girls? Kill the girls and then kill myself? I'm not really the killing type. Never have been, even though I have killed two zombies in the last month-which doesn't count. If they haul me in front of a court, I can always argue that they weren't alive in the first place.

Zombie Slayer. When I get back to civilization, I will get a t-shirt made up and wear it with pride.

I spent the rest of the day pilfering the survivors' supplies. They had dried jerky and water. I drank and ate until I felt like I was going to explode.

Later I sat on a tree branch and watched the girls as they ate the pilot. They nuzzled the meat, tore off chunks and feasted like there was no tomorrow.

They ignored me when I went to the raft and undid some of the rope. I had my next course of action, but the sun was setting. I knew I would run out of time, so tomorrow would work out just fine. I picked up the ropes and items I had used to float my girl behind the raft and took them to camp.

I went for her first. It was just like old times. I looped a gag over her mouth and dragged her by her ankle to a tree. The rope was waiting, so I secured her and then hooked a log over her lap so she wouldn't get away.

Eileen wasn't as easy. She was a fresh zombie and rather spry. I went to throw the cloth over her head, but she backed up into me. Her head whipped around, and she snapped her blood-covered teeth less than an inch from my hand. I jerked it back and pushed her. She fell on her side, and I dropped on her. The gag took a few tries to get over her mouth, and I had to be really careful not to let those cracking snappers take a piece of me.

I dragged her to the tree as well and tied her up. She was livid, eyes glaring at me like she was genuinely mad. Stupid zombie girl. Girls.

I laid rope next to each one, right under a nice long tree branch. Tomorrow, they were going over it. I tossed the rest of the items near them. Good thing I remembered to pack the Vaseline. The enema bag and hose went into the pile as well.

I hope when someone finds us, they don't find three zombies. I'll probably get used to having them around, and one day I'll slip up. Then it'll all be over. We will be a happy family of undead lovers.

At least they have simmered down and look sort of sleepy from their meal. They managed to face each other and have been in a staring contest ever since.

Well, Diary, I have run out of room in this stupid book. My hand is sore, and every inch of my body hurts. I hope to get a fire going behind some cover so they don't freak out. In the morning, I will get them all cleaned up and then figure out how in the world I will survive with my two Zombie-Wilsons.

Day Whatever.

A new beginning?

Good Morning, Diary.

f.u.c.k you six ways from Sunday.

My one last link to my old life, and all I can think about is how much I want to burn you. Burning you in the six pits of h.e.l.l might be appropriate. How do you like the sound of that, ol' Diary? Wanna meet a fiery end? I could roast a crab over your pages and then p.i.s.s on the ashes. Then I could grind them into the sand like a ...

But I can't do such a thing. You are worth so much more to me. So much in fact that I am going to keep writing in you. But I'm going to write in you upside down, the ultimate play on words. It sort of gives "read between the lines" a new meaning.

Now that I have told you off, I would like to offer a special letter to my dearly dead companion.

Dear ... whatever the h.e.l.l your name is, Sometimes I hate you. Sometimes I want to pick up a rock and bash in your head. Back when we first started this mad adventure together, you were young and hot. You were spry and nubile. You could rock a coconut bra like no one else's business.

Now you are dead and rotting. You smell, baby, there is no other way to put it.

Back on our first island, our lovers' paradise, where I took care of you, let you eat part of your dead husband, let you run around without a care in the world, we had something special. Now don't get me wrong. I know nothing could ever happen between us. Let's be honest here, baby: You're about as lively as a rock. I have seen stuffed animals with more life than you.

But sometimes I do care about you. That should be clear by now. I saved you from that stupid zombie shark after it ate your foot. Do you remember that? I saved you from drowning a few times. Like that third or fourth day we were on the island. I was trying to fish, and you were trying to mermaid you self over to me like I was a fresh can of spam. I had to pull you out of the water. Now the jury is still out on whether or not you can even drown to death, er, undeath, I mean double death, or whatever form of afterlife you seem destined for.

Remember how I figured out a way to clean out your disgusting rotted meat stomach with seawater and a little leverage? Those were the days. You were still sort of fresh and looked pretty good in the coconut bra and gra.s.s skirt. Now your clothing is hanging in strips. You look like h.e.l.l, baby. I wish you would take better care of yourself.

Remember when I was going to leave you on the island and sail off? Plans changed, sure. I let you bob along like a little top. And when we got to our new island paradise, I had to beat yet another guy to death to protect you. Why, if someone ever gets the real story here, they may just start asking questions. For instance: Why do I always kill the men around here? But it's not like that, baby. It's not like that at all.

And now our happy family includes Eileen. She isn't too happy about being a zombie. I can see that in her eyes. I would hazard a guess that she hates it. She is always staring at me with that same look-the one that says, "Hey, look at the walking Happy Meal."

So here we are, the three of us on our island paradise. Our lovely home in the sun. Just you, me, another dead chick, and the ocean.

After I burn the diary, I think I should burn you. But that would look bad, eh, my lovely lady? Burning you and scattering the ashes. What will I tell the nice men in white coats who want to talk to me about my feelings when I am at the mental inst.i.tution, as surely I must end up? Will I tell them I kept a dead girl as a zombie companion? They will ask questions, and they will wonder just how lonely I got.

Not THAT lonely.

So someday, long from now, when we are back in civilization and you are restored to life, I hope you read this letter and understand that I did my best to take care of you. Really.

Sorry about the enema tube down your gut.

With love and desperation.

Me.

I'm glad I got that out of my system. I may be on a new island with a new zombie girl, but something about all this is familiar. Maybe because I just spent a month in the same situation? At any rate, it is really good to be back on dry land after spending days and days on the water with my zombie top floating along behind me.

She didn't even get prune skin. Some little critters did pick at her leg, though, the one missing the foot. I had to bandage it up with some cloth and then jam it back into the metal strut. There is also something rea.s.suring about her pad-and-clomp zombie walk.

It's late, and I found some coconuts. Wow, shocker. f.u.c.king coconuts. I thought about tossing them in the ocean, but in the end I cracked one open and ate my fill. I can't wait to get up in the middle of the night with the runs-again.

G.o.d, I hate coconuts.

G.o.d, I hate zombies.

G.o.d, I HATE THIS f.u.c.kING DIARY.

About the Author.

Timothy W. Long has been writing tales and stories since he could hold a crayon and has also read enough books to choke a landfill. He has a fascination with all things zombies, a predilection for hula-girl dolls, and a deep-seated need to jot words on paper and thrust them at people.

Tim is the author of the horror novel Among the Living. He has also been published in AlienSkin and Fantastic Horror. He has sold stories to almost a dozen horror anthologies.

He also co-wrote the post apocalyptic masterpiece Wacktards of the Apocalypse which was recently named the preferred version of the end of the world by a consortium of rapture survivors.

Tim swears that if he is ever stuck with a zombie, no matter how attractive, he will bash in her brains.

Really!

Drop Tim a line at and let him know what you think of this book.

For more Zombie-Wilson, swing by:.

http://www.timothywlong.com.