The Zombie Wilson Diaries Part 3

I dug out some oysters later and even tried to spear a fish. This ended in failure about fifty times. I took one last throw at a large fish and managed to spear a little tiny red one right next to it. I felt like I had just made the winning toss in the Olympics!

I nearly ran back to camp to show her what I had caught. I hooted and hollered, but she just rocked back and forth on her hands. After watching her for a few minutes, I slipped my hands under her waist and pulled her up to her feet. She steadied herself and turned her head ever so slowly to look at me with that one blue eye. I sc.r.a.ped a couple of maggots off her other eye, and I must say, it was a downright romantic moment.

Until she snarled at me and bit against the gag like she was going to rip my nose off. I backed away, sat on a rock, and watched her walk to the end of the rope, then strain against it. She was no more than three feet from me. Her eye crinkled up in rage-well, the good one did-and she reached for me with those hands that were now covered in sand, dried blood and chunks of her husband's skin.

This is ridiculous. I should just kill her.

"Should I kill you, babe?"

Snarl.

"Should I take you out and leave you in the water, point you away from the island and then swim away?"

Snarl.

"Maybe hang you from a tree and set you on fire? Do you think a boat or plane would see that?"

Snarl.

These one-sided conversations were getting on my nerves. But she is my Wilson, so it is my obligation to chat with her. Tell her my problems. Tell her how I feel about stuff. Show her a good time on the island. Walk her from one end to the other. All the stuff a couple should do.

I cooked the fish and tossed her the raw fins. She stared at them from her tree, where she had managed to wrap herself up again. She howled against the gag and reached for me with one arm. I got a stick and pushed one of the fins toward her. She watched me, not the stick, not the fin. She kept her eye on me, and a gross pink fluid bubbled out of her mouth. I stopped in mid-chew and fought to keep my stomach calm. I wanted to turn and throw up. I knew that if I did that, I would have to re-eat the stuff, because I am so low on food. Managed to keep it down after a few breaths. Phew.

What the h.e.l.l was that c.r.a.p coming out of her mouth? If I didn't know any better, I would have said it was foaming Alka-Seltzer in red Kool-Aid. I wonder if her guts are backed up from all the stuff she ate. I can't take much more of this.

Tomorrow, I plan to explore the island. With any luck, I will find a better place to live.

Day 10.

My Girlfriend Hates to be Left Alone.

I spent the day exploring the island. It was a nice change of pace to get away from her. I wandered and tried to keep a map, but my drawing skills aren't really up to snuff. I pa.s.sed the stream, followed it to a tree-covered hill, and attempted to climb it. Quickly realized I am not cut out for being more than a few feet off the ground. All I could think about was falling and breaking a leg. That would be the end game for me.

The trees grew closer together here, and I had trouble getting through them. The stream ran cleaner but not cooler. I drank until I was full and then moved around the hill.

I came across some more fruit and attempted to eat them. I'm not sure what they were, but they tasted bitter, and they were very stringy. I choked down the flesh of one and pocketed a few others for later.

I found a new place to fish and dug out some more oysters. Ignoring their taste, I ate them raw. Funny how just a week ago, I would have turned my nose up at the thought of sh.e.l.lfish. Now I dream about that s.h.i.t like it is filet mignon with crab and a bearnie ... bernnie ... ber-ah f.u.c.k it. Whatever you call that green sauce on top.

The day was coming to an end, so I walked back to camp. At least what I thought was camp. With my terrible sense of direction, I went the wrong way. Ended up down the beach from my makeshift home.

The night rolled in, and I was soon walking by the light of the moon. This sucked. If I didn't find my camp soon, I would have to find somewhere else to sleep, because I was getting really tired.

Then I heard a splashing noise.

"Anyone there?" I called out, knowing that there was probably just the body of her husband. Maybe he came loose and washed up on sh.o.r.e. Maybe he was lying within reach, just waiting to grab me with his one hand as I strolled by.

I shuddered, turned away and made my way in the opposite direction.

I came across camp a few minutes later and plopped down behind my little homemade tent and stared up at the stars. Bugs attacked me immediately, going for every inch of exposed skin. I slapped at them as fast as I could, but I knew how this little battle would end. Me, zip. Bugs, about a billion.

I heard a noise in the distance and wondered if a bird was nearby. I gathered up a couple of rocks and listened. Then I realized there was one sound I was not hearing, and that was the sound of her.

I jumped to my feet and walked to the tree, hands held out before me in the dark. I felt around the base and only found a strand of broken rope.

Oh s.h.i.t.

I heard a sound and leaped back, hit the little fence and went down hard. I was back on my feet in a second. I was sure I would be in pain from that spill in the morning.

If I lived that long.

I crept back to my shelter and stood outside it for a while, just staring into the darkness. I looked from corner to corner, shape to shape, and tree to tree. The moon was a sliver, so it was hard to make anything out. Every splash of water, every rustle of a leaf scared the c.r.a.p out of me.

She would fall on me at any moment, and I would be too shocked to react, I just knew it. I was exhausted from my walk around the island, but my adrenaline was up, and I had no chance of falling asleep.

After standing in place for about half an hour, I decided to light a fire and catch her when she shambled into camp. Not much of a trap, I know, but I had to do something other than standing in place all night, freaked out that I might be turned into zombie kitty chow.

I sparked up the fire with a precious strip of paper and one of the remaining matches. It caught quickly, and I fed it wood until I had a cozy blaze going. I stood off to the side and waited for about an hour, but she didn't shamble into camp.

I still heard rustling near the trees, but I hoped it was crabs or just a bunch of leaves rubbing together. I thought I should investigate. If my breakfast was walking around, I needed to gather them up. I started to make a torch a half-dozen times but always found a reason in the back of my head not to. What if she was waiting there? What if she had developed sudden smarts and planned a trap that starred me as the poor sap getting eaten instead of her dead husband.

An hour pa.s.sed, and my fear grew. She should have come back by now and tried to attack me. She had been drawn to fire every time I lit one, even though she hates them. What was different now?

Went to the fire after another half-hour and took out a long stick that was burning on the end. I took a few breaths and started walking around the camp area. Then I expanded my circuit to encompa.s.s what I thought of as the perimeter. Like I was Rambo, like I knew where the bad guys were. I don't have a bad-guy-o-meter in my head like they do in the movies. Instead, I have a freak-me-the-f.u.c.k-out-meter. If I stood out there much longer, I was probably going to die of fright. Any minute, I expected her to jump out and attack me, latch her disgusting teeth onto my neck and tear it out, just like in the movies.

I walked back and forth, flinching at every shadow, flicker, or breeze. She still didn't lurch out at me.

I decided to investigate the area the noises had come from, hoping to score a crab or two. With the fire nice and hot, they would cook up moist and juicy in a few seconds. I started drooling at the thought.

I moved into the little copse and got close to the ground in hopes of spotting one of the little guys. That's when the hand touched my ankle.

I'm pretty sure I screamed like a six-year-old girl as I fell down again. My breath came fast and furious as I scrambled backwards. She had laid a trap for me. b.i.t.c.h! After all I had done for her.

"What's wrong with you? What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you? I take care of you! I clean you! Why would you do that?"

Then I came across her body, and my words died in my throat. She was lying on her back with the rope wrapped around her body, one arm secured against her chest. The other reached for me. One of her legs was hooked over a branch; the other was bent at the knee and tucked under her thigh. Her skirt was around her waist, and it was the first thing I fixed. Then I unbent her leg and took the other off the branch and stretched them out, rubbing the sand off.

She still had the gag around her mouth, and her good eye was fixed on mine while she snapped behind the cloth. I did my best to straighten her clothes while she did her best to eat my arm. I helped her up and noticed she was starting to smell again. I would take her to the stream first thing in the morning and wash her off.

"I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have left you like that. That wasn't cool."

I felt terrible. Zombie or not, I should take better care of her. I wouldn't treat an enemy the way I was treating her. I took her back to the fire and sat her down. I tried to fix her hair, but it was ratted and lank, not greasy like I expect mine is tonight. I bet she doesn't have oil at all from her head, being dead and all. Or because hot (even formerly hot) chicks don't seem to have problems like that.

"I'll do better, baby. I will take care of you better than this. I know it's hard, you know, being dead and all, but you deserve some common human decency."

I felt bad about leaving her arms tied up, but I put out the fire, laid her gently on her back and then tugged a small log over her feet. With her childlike reflexes and lack of motor skills, she wouldn't go far. I felt sleepy for the first time that night. I lay there for a few minutes, listening to her snarl behind the gag, and then sang a soft song I remembered from one of my favorite bands. She quieted down, and I did it again.

After that, I closed my eyes and slept like a baby.

Day 11.

My Girlfriend Likes to Play House.

I was walking along the sh.o.r.e near the spot where I deposited her dead husband when I saw a shape moving in the water. It had a hump, and for a second, I thought it was his head bobbing around. Then there was a flap as the thing moved a fin, and I realized it was a turtle.

Ah. How cute! I had a turtle once, when I was a kid. Mom made me keep it in a big gla.s.s aquarium. Maybe I could keep this one as a pet and get rid of the zombie girl. Sure. I could name him and set up an area for him to live in. I bet I could learn a lot from the old fellow, like how to catch fish. Did turtles eat fish? Thinking back to my old turtle, Zeus, I was pretty sure he ate leaves and c.r.a.p like that.

Wait. Turtle. Meat ... MEAT!

I splashed into the surf in a rush and managed to grab one back flipper before he could pull it into his sh.e.l.l. He turned to snap at m,e and I thought of her, the way she tries to bite me all the time like I'm a steak. I'm pretty d.a.m.n hungry, but I don't understand how another person can look that tasty.

Its body was about a foot and a half at its longest part. I hauled it in and grabbed the sh.e.l.l while it tried to retract everything. I raced to the sh.o.r.e and studied it as it tried to get away. It had its fins out again, and I touched them. The texture of the skin was strange, like old wet leather.

Now all I had to do was get the thing open.

I like animals, and I would normally never hurt one, but I was starving. I hadn't had a decent meal in almost two weeks, and every day was a struggle just to get up and hunt for anything edible. The rumble in my stomach drove me on. It was a deep gnawing in my gut that went on at all times of the day and night. Even drinking a lot of water didn't help. When I did that, I just had a hollow gurgly feeling, like I needed to throw up. Running with a gut full of water sounds like carrying a bucket of water. It's all slosh slosh burp burp. I miss c.o.ke and Mountain Dew. I miss beer, and as much as I hate the sour taste of wine, I wish I had a bottle of red and Ally by my side.

I had managed to make a sort of hand ax with some black rock I found. The stuff looked like gla.s.s, and if I chipped at it enough with another rock, it was as sharp as a knife. I am like some d.a.m.n caveman making weapons out of rock. I miss my cooking knives, too, while I am b.i.t.c.hing about things I miss. I also miss Twinkies, Ho-Hos and chocolate chip cookies. I miss coffee and my four-dollar mochas. In fact, if I had a cup of coffee right now, I would probably blow a blood vessel in my head.

I wondered if I should kill the thing first or just start cutting. I wasn't looking forward to discovering what sound a turtle makes when it's cut open.

I lugged it back to camp, laid it on its back and let one hand rest on its belly so it didn't try to roll over and get away. She was sitting up where I left her, secured to a rock. Her legs were tied together so she couldn't stand up. She stared at me with that blank look, her one eye fixed on me and then on the animal. She made biting motions, which I am getting used to.

I studied the turtle, and so did she. She seemed strangely fascinated with the thing. I went and took her gag off so she could maybe have a taste when I cut it up. I guessed that I would have to put the meat on the ground in front of her so she could lean over and eat it.

I held the knife above the turtle's green neck. Its eyes stared at me with something like fear. Did it know I intended to cut its head off? I touched the neck, and it recoiled immediately. Then I had to wait again for it to stick its head out.

Meanwhile, she was trying to crawl toward the animal. The turtle sensed this and backed away. I let one of her arms free, because I wanted to see how she would interact with it. Would she think it was a pet? Would she try to attack it?

The turtle backed into me. I pushed it forward, but it stuck its legs and head back in its sh.e.l.l. That gave me a good idea for a shelter. If she wanted to be near me all the time, I would build a rock room and stay in it while she was out by the fire. It would be just like we had a home. Well, a home with a corpse in it.

The turtle got brave and lurched into motion. I was going to wait until it stretched its neck all the way out and then-whack!-that sucker would be ready to cook. a.s.suming I figured out how to get the meat out of its sh.e.l.l. G.o.d ... Meat, how long had it been? Turtle soup-isn't that a delicacy somewhere? It was about to be a delicacy in my stomach.

I was drooling, mesmerized by my meal walking away when she snapped her head forward and latched onto the turtle's neck. That's when I learned that turtles can make noise. They hiss like a really p.i.s.sed-off cat. She ripped the head back and tore it half off. Blood gushed out and stained the sand a deep red. I wondered if I should be drinking it or something. Had to be a lot of minerals and protein.

Oh s.h.i.t! The zombie stuff she had. If I got any of it in my mouth, would it change me too?

I reeled back while she lay tied on her side and ripped at the head. She used her free hand to hold it to her lips and ate every sc.r.a.p of flesh hanging off the neck. The turtle kept trying to back away, but his legs moved slower and slower. After a while, there was just a little twitching and the only sound was her enjoying her meal. But she didn't really look content. She didn't look happy or sad. She just looked like a mindless eating machine.

I picked up the rest of the turtle and used my knife to cut off a leg. It was tough, and I had to tear a lot of muscle and sinew to get it loose. By the time it came off, it was covered in sand, so I walked to the water and washed it off.

I set it on a rock next to the fire, just a few inches away, and within moments, the smell of roasted meat hit my nose.

I looked up at the sun and almost said a thank you to whatever G.o.d may be looking out for me. I used a stick to turn the leg after a few minutes, when the leg looked blackened, and then waited for what seemed like hours.

She didn't move, just ate, and I wondered again where the meat went. I studied the line of her body, the way her shirt hung loose over her midsection, and realized her stomach had grown much larger. Jeez, how much did she eat? She looked like she was pregnant.

No! Not pregnant. She had eaten at least one arm from her dead husband a few nights ago. The meat was probably sitting in there, rotting and bloating.

I had no energy for worrying about it tonight, so I took the turtle leg off the fire and set it on another rock to cool. I couldn't wait long, so I tore a tiny piece of white meat off. I stared at it, wondering if it would turn me into her new zombie boyfriend. How much would that suck? The rescuers would find us, and my diary would never get made into a movie.

I gulped and then threw the meat onto the fire. I couldn't take the chance. I didn't want to die. I cried when I put the stupid turtle meat on the fire and watched it crackle and burn. I used the rock knife to cut out every sc.r.a.p of meat and added those to the flame. The smell almost drove me insane.

I wanted to lean over and bash her head in with the same rock I used to slice open the turtle. Bash her head in so that whatever zombie brains she had were a big pile of mush on the ground. I wanted to jump up and down on them, stomp them into the ground.

I was so mad that I went back to the water and splashed into it. I stomped around until I came across one of those big floppy things that hang out of sh.e.l.ls and look like a cow's p.e.n.i.s. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of the water, took it back to camp and put it on the fire. A few minutes later, I had a filling meal that tasted like c.r.a.p. Really and truly tasted like some s.h.i.t I wouldn't eat in a million years. Yet there I was, munching away like it was a chili dog. At least it filled the hollow pit of my stomach.

How can I forgive her? She is ruining what happiness I might have had, but she can't help it. She is acting on pure instinct. She has no mind. She can't figure out that when she does something like that, it is bad for me.

She was chewing away at the last of the turtle when I leaned over and moved some hair out of her face. My beautiful turtle-chomping zombie girlfriend. Well, sort of beautiful; her skin is so gray now it looks like a weird mottled, overripe piece of eggplant. And she is so cold. I let her sleep by me all night, but in the morning, she was still like ice.

I left her to play with the head while I went off and collected more items for our little house. I gathered fallen branches and large leaves and started building up a collection of rocks. The food might have been terrible, but it made me feel a h.e.l.l of a lot better.

It will take a while, but I'm pretty sure I can build some kind of hut or house, something we can live in. I'll make a little pen for her, so I don't have to worry about her eating me in the middle of the night. I bet she will like that. A place out of the rain and cold and heat of day.

No rest for the wicked, back to work.

Day 12.

My Girlfriend Goes on a Diet.

Found a couple of bags today. One was a waterlogged overnight-style case filled with clothes and a couple of romance novels. I set those out to dry, thinking that maybe she would like to hear a story. There was also a sewing kit and a portable fishing reel with no pole. Oh holy h.e.l.l, happy day. All I needed was some bait. I'm sure I could scrounge up some little critters to stick on the end of a fishing line. Then a stick, of course, and a way to secure the reel to the stick. The more I looked at the thing, the more I realized it might not be that great. Sort of like a car with no keys. I set it down and looked in the other luggage.

The second bag was a heavy plastic case that must have floated, because some of the clothes inside were mostly dry, though salt encrusted. There were a couple of p.o.r.n mags inside, but they featured men engaged in s.e.x, and I was not the least bit interested.

Still, I set them aside. Waste not, want not. They would make good kindling. Or maybe I could show them to her, see if that got her worked up.

I found an enema kit still in the box. Who the h.e.l.l brings one of those on vacation? I nearly threw it away before I got an idea.

The rest of the contents included a little sewing kit and a hat. Just a baseball cap with some Jamaican team st.i.tched on it, but it would keep the sun off my forehead. There was some lubricant, which I carefully set aside. I didn't want to know who had used that stuff and for what. It said it was petroleum based, and I have to admit that it would probably work well on my lips, since they are cracked and dry as a bone.

I took the stuff back to the camp and then hauled her to her feet. She belched as I picked her up, and the smell of meat left to rot in her gut made me gag. The little bit of food in my stomach felt heavy and wanted a way out. I took a clean breath of air, closed my eyes and thought of a fresh bouquet of flowers.

Well, no sense in waiting any longer. Went to the beach and filled the enema bag with salt water and then rinsed the thing you jam up your a.s.s-really well. I have never used one on myself, but there was this one time when Ally ... uh, never mind. I scrubbed my hands in sand and salt water until they were raw.

Took the full bag back to the camp and set it aside so the top was pointed up. Then I put her against a tree and tied her there with some of the rope I had fashioned. The stuff was getting a little worn, but she didn't seem to be that strong, not like the zombies I had seen in movies. Maybe it was a lack of food or blood. She wasn't getting any of mine. That's for sure.