Zombies Are Jerks!

I used to write all the time when I was really young, and then just stopped when I started playing guitar. I still dabble in ideas and world-building, but I haven’t written anything since I was 13. I just read a short-story collection by Richard Matheson, and I’ve been reading H.P. Lovecraft’s short stories and it just clicked something inside me. This is what came out. It’s a first draft, and I’m always afraid that things aren’t as clever as I thought when I came up with them. Feel free to tell me how much I suck or how awesome I am using my ask box, and you might want to read it twice.

Also, it might trigger some people!

I was living in New York City during the summer of 1977 and my favorite thing in the world was gong to punk rock shows in the Bowery. There was such an excitement and energy to those crowds.  The smell of sweat and beer and blood set my body on fire. And the boys! Boys who were transients and drug addicts with no inhibitions to speak of. The girls in the scene would let these punk-rock Holden Caufields live with them in exchange for bad poetry or songs written about them. These lost boys never lasted more than one night with me before they were put out with the rest of the garbage.

Of course at the time people warned youthful women against wandering around the city by themselves, and of course I wandered around the city by myself, usually wearing knee-high combat boots, short animal-print skirts, and a leather jacket that once belonged to one of my lost boys. My hair was bleached blonde and cut short with a razor blade. Looking the way I did was like yelling to all of New Yorks rapists and murderers “Hey! Look at me! I’m a runaway! I have no family or connections to speak of! I will not be missed!”

I couldn’t tell you what band was playing on this particular night. They were boring enough to not even remember and none of the boys in the club excited me, so I left early to walk home.

After three blocks I noticed him following me. His clothes were all black and in a plain style. Clearly, this guy did not want to be noticed. He was dirty, but not filthy, so he wasn’t homeless or a drug addict. This guy was a psychopath. As he got closer, I could smell the bloodlust on him.

I ducked down a side street. No street-lights and a number of alleyways. I could hear the footsteps getting closer, his pace quickening. When he noticed me going into a trot, he started sprinting.

He caught up easily and pounced. His weight on my back felt like a sack of potatoes with an agenda, and I went down easily, putting fresh holes in my already swiss-cheesed stockings. A pair of large hands grabbed me by the wrists and dragged me into the alley and behind a dumpster. Grabbing me by the hair, he ran my head into a wall, but not too hard. I realized that he wanted me woozy and compliant, but he always wanted me conscience so I could experience everything that was about to happen.

From his coat, he pulled out a kitchen knife. I could tell from his slow and deliberate movements that he meant to torture me. I watched the knife come mere inches from my face before I had enough.

In an instant, I was upright and behind him. I see his confusion in the way his muscles tensed. My third favorite part of all this. I grabbed the arm that held his knife and with a flick of my wrist it was broken. He screamed in agony. Confusion mixed with pain. My second favorite. I spun him around and bared my fangs. Pain, confusion, terror, disbelief, and the realization of what was happening flooded his mind. To me it felt like an orgasm. Better than sex. Better than heroin. My teeth tore through his throat and drank. I didn’t even bother cleaning up after I was done. Tomorrow he would be just another murder in NYC.

It was a basic hunt. Clean. Simple. But it added a bit of excitement to an otherwise boring night. Times have changed since then. Security cameras, smart phones, and increased police presence making hunting more difficult, but I welcome the challenge. But no matter what happens, the satisfaction of making the hunted feel like the hunter is always the perfect rush.