This Won't Be Pretty

I can't honestly tell you how it happened. It started out as any other virus. Flu-like. Raging fever, red eyes, vomiting, aches and pains, everything. But then, it got worse. It spread so fast that nothing could contain it.

Eventually, it got to the point that those infected died, but they didn't stay dead. They came back and they came back hungry.

The quarantine squads that were sent out by the government ‘put down’ as many as they could. But of course, it doesn’t matter how many they kill, there will always be more. On average, each zombie would bite and infect two people a day. With the undead count practically tripling every twenty-four hours, it didn’t take long to get to the point it is now.

These zombies, the things, used to be just like us. They took their children to school. They drove to work. They did their taxes. But not anymore. Now they slowly stagger down the street, drawn to any sound that pierces the silence that now envelopes the country, maybe even the rest of the world. It’s hard to tell when the only communication with the outside world is a CB radio.

They’re attracted to light too. My dad hung heavy curtains over the windows for when we light candles after nightfall. We learned that lesson the hard way. We had thought they wouldn’t be able to see very well. That they would rely on their hearing and sense of smell because of the condition of their eyes. To me, the eyes are the most terrifying aspect. They resemble the eyes of a blind man with a thick gray, almost blue, film over them. I can handle the rotting flesh and the smell and even the groans, but not the eyes.

I’ve only ever seen them up close twice. Both times they made me want to curl up in a ball beside my mother as she told me everything would be fine. They made me wish that she hadn’t gotten bitten. That we hadn’t of had to put her down.