It’s not so bad, really, being a zombie. The worst part is the isolation. Now that I no longer have a life, I’m shunned by those who do. All I have for company is my fellow zombies. When I look around, all I can see is grey. There is no colour, no vibrancy any more. Not for us.
We’ll have the last laugh, though, when we eat their brains.
Daylight hurts my eyes, now. I prefer to travel at night, when no one has to see my face. I must look like Hell. I haven’t been able to look myself in the mirror since the day I died.
My muscles ache. I can force my limbs into a lethargic shuffle, not much more. The others seem to have a similar problem. We perambulate in this fashion, like an army of grey clones marching to a beat that only we can hear, though our hearts, such as they are, lie still. None of us truly feels. None of us is capable. Each day flows into the next, each day we continue, eating the brains of the living. I sometimes think we do it out of spite as much as to survive. Everyone has to make a living somehow. Heh.
I used to worry that people will find out what we do here. That we’ll be caught, persecuted, hunted, destroyed. As our ranks continue to swell, our activities become ever more obvious. They must know, surely they must. Perhaps we’re tolerated. Perhaps we’ve already eaten too many brains.
You can find the complete version of I, Zombie in issue 48 of TBD.