Diary of Sarah McClure

Zombie Chronicles

A zombie short story

Here’s a short story I started a while back and just now remembered to finish up.  Enjoy!

Hunger

May 14th, 1890

Her family was gone, her neighbors were gone too, and for all she knew the whole world was gone except for her. All of them were dead. Well, dead wasn’t exactly the word. They were still up and about, but their hearts had stopped beating long ago. She and her family had boarded themselves up inside the house when it became apparent that the dead were walking, but what they hadn’t realized was that one of them had been bitten. And even if they had known, at that time they didn’t understand that one little bite could seal their doom. So one by one her family had been taken out, and now she was the only one left. And now it looked as if she had survived only to starve to death, or die from dehydration. She eased herself down onto the bed. What was she going to do?? She needed to come up with some course of action but she couldn’t think properly. How long can a person survive without food? Water? As bad as the food situation was, the water problem was even more dangerous. It had run out yesterday. It was best not to think about it. It only made matters worse. And it was so cold. The fire had gone out and the confusion in her brain wouldn’t allow her to remember how to start another one. Once placing the wood in the fireplace, she had stood there desperately trying to remember the next step. Cursing, she’d finally given up. But it was best not to think of that either. She shifted her position on the bed and closed her eyes to get some sleep.
The dream was brutal. In it she was walking around the house, desperate in her need for food. She yanked the cushions from the sofa, hoping to find a few crumbs hidden there, or anything really. The hunger was unbearable. She walked to the pantry and pulled the shelves over, cursing the lack of food. Then she heard the sound of singing. A sweet, child-like voice drifted to her from down the hall. She walked in the direction of the singing, into the hallway until she came to her daughter’s room and then opened the door. Sally sat on the floor, playing with the doll she had made for her birthday. The pain in her stomach howled. She crept forward and pulled her daughter to her mouth, ripping away her throat with her teeth. Warm blood trickled down her throat, quenching her thirst and making her stomach growl in anticipation of a feast. The little girl struggled against her for a few seconds and then as her body went limp she began to eat. Looking over she became aware of Mary sleeping on the bed by the window. She dropped the younger girls body and went to Mary, biting and chewing until there was not much left except ripped clothing and bones. Then the dream moved on and she was walking through the kitchen and into the sitting room. She stopped to look at her reflection in a full-length mirror. Vacant eyes stared back at her. The side of her face was gone, revealing muscle and bone. Strips of flesh hung from the wound. Her foot was broken and turned sideways, which meant she had been walking on a bloody stub. In her hand she held the forearm of her daughter. Suddenly there was movement in the shadows behind her, in the mirror. Her daughter stepped into the light. Sally’s rosy complexion had gone white, her eyes were full of malice and evil. Her left arm was missing, as well as her throat. Sally’s eyes met her mother’s and she managed to hiss out, “Mama”. The woman opened her mouth and attempted to respond but nothing came out, for her own throat was missing as well. Then from somewhere down the hallway she could hear her husband screaming, “NO!” upon discovering what was left of his oldest child.
Jolted awake, she opened her eyes and the hunger hit her. A deep, gut wrenching pain that made her hiss through clenched teeth. She slowly stumbled to her feet and walked into the kitchen, looking at the pantry. No food. In a fit of anger she spun around and cleared the counter of its contents, shoving everything onto the floor. A clawing sound came from the hallway and she knew that her husband had woken up from the noise. He was trying to get out, and she knew it was only a matter of time. A deep moan of desperation left her lips. Outside she could hear the moans of the undead, matching her own. They wanted food, and she wanted food. A common goal of sorts. A fresh set of hunger pangs hit her and she howled in pain. Through pain clouded vision she aimlessly walked into the living room, then to the bedrooms and through the sitting room. A gunshot rang out somewhere in the yard. Someone was alive! Maybe she would be saved after all. Her stomach growled at the prospect of food. Pounding against the window she attempted to yell at the man carrying the gun. He was on horseback, along with two other men. But when she opened her mouth to yell all her dehydrated vocal chords could produce was a whispering sort of hiss. She pounded the window in frustration as the men rode away. Her husband began clawing at the door again, making inhuman noises as he tried to break free. If she had any tears left in her she would have cried. But her tears, as well as her voice, had dried up long ago. She slumped down against the wall with a sigh. Dead hands shoved and clawed at the front door. They remembered she was here. She understood how they felt. The craving for food had become an animal inside of her that was trying to claw its way out. Maybe she should just open the door and let them in so she could put an end to everyone’s pain. Anything to stop the cold and hunger. Shivering, she tried to rise to a standing position and fell back down. The word fever echoed in her head, but the word sounded so foreign and the voice distant, that it lost all meaning to her. Then like a scene from a play, a memory came forward….
“Your husband has a fever Mrs. Jennings, the bite is infected.” The doctor closed his black bag, “That dog that bit him might have been rabid.”
“Is there anything I can do?” She had asked.
“Just try and keep his fever down and hope for the best.” He replied.
“Will it kill him?” Her voice shook.
“If it’s rabies, possibly. Some make it, most don’t.” And upon seeing the look on her face, “Pray Mrs. Jennings, that I KNOW will help.”
But it didn’t help. Her husband had went mad and she had been forced to lock him inside the back bedroom, and had told the girls to shut their bedroom door and stay inside. Then the others had come. One or two at first and then by the dozens. They were all rabid, foam and blood trickled out of their mouths. Who’s blood, she did not know, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t their own.
And then she heard gunshots once again and as she desperately tried to pull herself back up to the window, her fingernails broke off and her fingertips began to bleed. Whimpering, animal noises came from her throat as she struggled and eventually made it to her feet. Her head swam with excitement as she saw the latch on the door begin to lift. The door creaked open slowly.
The man didn’t have a chance. She was on him the instant he stepped through the door. Her teeth ripped through his throat as he screamed, then gurgled in surprise. And for a little while, her hunger was gone.

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July 2, 2006 Posted by | Hunger (short zombie story) | 2 Comments