Changes of the Flesh

Zombies Stories | Jul 10, 2013 | 8 min read
1 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Zombies Stories

Changes of the Flesh

He bit me. He bit me and I shot him. I shot him, my brother. I shot my own brother.
A warm ache spreads through my leg to the rhythm of my pulse, but I shake to a different beat. I can feel tears forming in my eyes before dripping slowly down my cheeks. I vomit.
Blood streams down from the hole in his head, over his jaundiced, papery skin. Blood—my blood—lines his mouth, and denim from my jeans sticks between his teeth. My brother tried to eat me, and I shot him. I shot my brother—no, not my brother. He's not my brother anymore. I had no choice. I had to survive. It was him or me, and I have to survive. I have to survive. My leg—what the hell am I going to do about my leg? I can't turn. I won't turn. There has to be a way.
I can feel it spreading through my leg. I need to act fast.
I pull off my shirt and tear a strip off of the bottom, then make a tourniquet just above my knee. I tighten it as much as I can, but I'm still not convinced it's tight enough. I look around the room, quick but careful. It seems even after my brother turned he was neat; no dirty dishes or food left out on the counter, everything organized behind his glass cabinet doors. Apart from me and his corpse laying on the floor his whole kitchen is spic and span.
My eyes rest on the knife block—I could amputate it. A wave of nausea sweeps through me, but it doesn't carry away the idea. Better to lose a leg than turn. I can cauterize it so I won't bleed out. I can make it. I grab the counter and pull myself to my feet, then hobble towards the knives. I wince every time my bitten leg touches the ground, but I suppose that won't be a lasting problem. I wrap my fingers around the handle of a big butcher knife and pull it slowly out of the block. The blade shines with malevolence, but the poison in my leg is the greater of two evils. I lower the blade to my leg, just below the tourniquet, and close my eyes. I try to clear my mind, but a thought keeps coming to me: How can I stay alive with only one leg? How many strong, athletic men have I seen get torn apart and eaten? And I am going to survive with one leg? A cripple?
There has to be a better way. I look around the room again, my gaze stopping this time on the glasses. I'm not sure if it will work, but what choice do I have? I put down the knife and limp forward—the pain's worse already—and pull the cabinet open and take out a glass and collapse on the floor. I place the rim of the glass around the bite, pull my lighter from my pocket and heat the glass's bottom and wait. And wait.
It's not working. It's not working and I'm going to turn and it's over. All this time and all this struggle and it's just over and there's nothing I can—I look back at the knife. Not much of a hope, but maybe it's my only one. I lift the glass off my leg and notice something spilling out—blood. Blood! It's drawing blood out of the bite; it's working! I put the glass back over the bite and let it work, the poisoned blood oozing out of my body.
...
It's dark by the time I decide to head back. Not that I feel better; my leg still throbs, but the stink of my brother's corpse is just too much for me. Plus, the house isn't secure, and it's only a matter of time until they come. I take an umbrella as a makeshift cane and move at a decent pace with it. Using the umbrella means having to carry my pistol in my left hand, but in the dark I won't be able to see well enough to shoot until they're close up anyway. The loss in accuracy won't make much difference.
My car is just out by the street, maybe forty feet from the front door. But they're sneaky and fast. They could be hidden behind some bushes or inside a neighbor's house, waiting for their chance. The street was deserted when I came, but if there were any in the area I'm sure they heard my car. The diesel engine is loud, but it's reliable and I need the fuel to last between fill-ups; even before everything went to hell, driving from town to town in West Texas wasn't a good time to be low on gas.
I undo the chain on the front door and slowly, silently open it. No movement outside. I start for the car, my head swiveling from side to side. Thirty feet to go. I think I hear something, but I can't be sure and I can't stop. Twenty feet. I do hear something, close behind. I raise the pistol and spin and see it, maybe ten feet off, red eyes glowing in the dark. I let off five rounds, shooting after it as it darts to my left—the loss of accuracy is a problem, after all. I take a step back and trip over the umbrella, falling back onto the lawn. I hear the hiss of my breathe escaping and then another hiss, louder and farther off and getting nearer. I sit up, pull my legs back and fire—my left hand is good enough this time.
Blood spurts from its neck as it pulls back. I abandon the umbrella and clamber to my feet, ignoring the pain. I let off a few more shots to keep it back, then make my way to the car. I go in through the passenger door and close and lock the door behind me, sliding over the armrest to the driver's seat. I can't help but moan when I bend my knee to get my bitten leg over the shifter, and then it dawns on me—I have to drive with this leg. I sit motionless for a moment before something collides with my door. One look at the yellowed face and bloodshot eyes hungering after me through the window and my keys are in the ignition. I hardly notice my leg.

It's good to be home, one hundred and fifty miles from what used to be my brother. I pull off the highway and drive up our long gravel driveway. As I near the ranch house, I can see my wife sitting on the porch steps, illuminated by my headlights. She gets up and hurries toward the car as I slow to a stop next to my uncle's truck, and I review my story in my head—she's a discerning woman, and I don't want to give her cause to be suspicious.
She opens the car door for me, and I can see the tears in her eyes, beautiful green eyes that quickly find the blood-soaked towel wrapped around my leg. I suppose her worries weren't exactly unfounded this time.
"Were…Were you…" She can't bear to think it. And I won't make her. I've fixed it; I know I have. I must have. No point in giving her doubts.
"No, I wasn't bitten—not by them at least. Bill was nowhere to be found, and his dog was shut in the house half-starved. I thought the damned mutt was coming up to lick me and he tore into my leg."
I can see the relief flooding through her. "Oh God, I was so scared when you didn't come back, and when I saw your leg…Oh, God! And what about Bill? Did you figure out where he'd gotten to?"
"No. And there were too many of them around to look for long. I'm not hopeful."
She pauses, still too relieved to be as pained as she knows she should. "I'm sorry Rich."
"Me too. I'm dead beat though, and I should really get this bite cleaned up. Don't need to get an infection. Help me in, will you darlin'?"
It's over. I know it's over.

I can't sleep. I don't know it's over, and the thought of closing my eyes is only slightly less horrifying than the thought of looking in the mirror. I'm scared stiff of how I'll look in the morning.
But I drained it—I got all that poison out of me. That's why I looked so pale—just the blood loss. And the burning is from walking and driving on an injured leg. It doesn't mean a thing.
I pull my Jack from the drawer of my bedside table. Liquor's a real luxury when there's no one left to make it, but I think this occasion warrants a drink. My first pull is for Bill, the next dozen are to forget his colorless, blood-soaked face. I find my eyes are closed. I let the darkness take me.

Light burns. Feel heavy. Carol's not next to me. Get up. Leg doesn't hurt. Walk to bathroom. See face. Bill's face. Not Bill's face. Turned Bill's face. Not turned Bill's face. My face. Not my face. No, my face. It didn't work.
But I'm me. I'm me. Scream and crash. Not me. I look. Carol dropped tray. She made breakfast. She cries, falls to floor. I should tell her it's alright. Can't form words. Throat is tight.
I step forward. Bend down to hug her. She kicks me, hard. Blood drips from nose. She grabs knife from dropped tray. Holds it out and scoots back. Throat still tight. No choice. I walk outside. Can hear her cry even when out the door. Keep walking. Keep walking.

I'm still me, but hungry. So hungry. I take corn from field. Don't want it. I know what I want. Go back toward house. Take meat from smokehouse. I know I don't want it, but I try. I don't want it. I know what I want.
And I know I don't want to want it. But I do. And so hungry. No choice. Must eat, or die. And I have to survive.
But who? Few are left. And where? None in Bill's town. Neighbors left. Who? Must look. But where to look?
I hear a noise. Door shutting. Carol walking out from house. I feel a pain in my stomach. I want her. But no. No. I love Carol. I love Carol. I want Carol. I love Carol. The pain is bad.
She looking at car. I must stop watching. What if she sees me? What if I keep seeing her? I walk back into smokehouse, close door soft. The pain is bad. I won't do it. Not to Carol. I love her. The pain is bad. I vomit.
I must find someone. Have to survive. It's still me. I'm still me. I have to survive.
The door opens. She steps in and stops. Wanted meat, didn't know I was here I think. She is still, except her face. Sad and scared. Tears come down. And she is still. And the pain is bad and worse. And I have to survive. And she is still and I love her and I have to survive and the pain is so bad and she is still and she is still and I love her and the pain is so bad, so bad and she is still and I am fast and I am on her and she screams but my teeth sink in her throat and she stops.
The pain is less bad. My face feels strange and wet and I cry. I love her but I have to survive.
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