My Unlife: Rebirth
Written by Typhoid Marty
Copyright © 2013 Typhoid Marty
Cover Art Copyright © 2013 Pici
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Acknowledgments
I dedicate this book to my wife, Emily. She is my love, my friend, my confidant. Thank you for your unswerving focus and ideas – I survive by shamelessly plagiarizing them.
Emily is also a damned fine artist, which comes in handy for our combined webcomic, Hell Inc (https://www.hellinccomic.com). I write, she draws. Emily also makes her own webcomic, failytales (https://www.failytales.com) which she makes from our combined bizarre experiences.
Believe me, there are a lot of them.
I would also like to thank my editors, David and Sarah. Thank you for pointing out the obvious and subtle flaws that I had previously missed!
Lastly, thank you to the cast of the original webcomic that spawned this book; Emily, James, Cassondra, Paul, Jason, Charlie, Doug and Dan. Dan; I like that you stalk our comics, silently watching for any way to be of assistance.
Preface
I am quite possibly the last person I expected to write a book about Zombies. Maybe that is not an admission best made at the start of a novel but I feel like we have developed a bond in the last few lines, you and I, and you can handle the honest truth.
In my opinion, a monster is born in response to a stimulus or concern of the age. Vampires for instance were a response to an increasing trend towards godlessness – a concern among many people at the time. They were sexy and seductive and ultimately sucked the life out of a person until all that remained was a shallow husk, dedicated to nothing but their master’s nefarious goals.
Frankenstein was born at a time that medicine was truly becoming an institution. Doctors were moving the craft forward for the first time in recorded history, traditional medicine was being supplanted and people were scared of man playing God. So along came Frankenstein and his monster, a mad genius who reached beyond the grave to create a sad frightened being - a thing who had lost most of his humanity.
So what does that say about us? Zombies hark from our fear of genetics – playing with our fundamental code we will in our foolishness unleash a disease that we cannot control. Zombies themselves are mindless automatons serving only to further the machinations of the virus that created them by transmission of body fluids.
A friend – staunch supporter of the Zombie mythos and proud owner of a Zombie escape plan – was discouraged by my frank admissions of apathy. When asked what I find so implausible, my answers could be dropped into the following categories.
1) Most of the Zombie propaganda material I have consumed suggests the virus almost immediately kills the host. The viruses then take a killed host and puppet it around to infect other people. If this virus ever gets bored of killing, it has a promising career on Sesame Street.
2) It is routine for Zombies to autopilot around even when large parts of their body are compromised.
3) Zombies rarely need any food and though the subject is often left unsaid, they will generally not just die of malnutrition.
4) The virus always spreads impossibly fast. Zombies are interested in eating Brains – how the hell are they infecting but not killing so many people?
My biggest problem with Zombie flicks though belongs in none of these categories – it is the age old wisdom of starting the movie with *hand wave* oh look Zombies! No-one seems interested in answering the Why, never mind the How.
When this friend asked how I would do things differently, I thought for a while and came up with the following answers.
1) Zombies are known for taking damage, to do so there would have to be a component of regeneration.
2) Bodies cannot operate by magic. Harm has consequences even if it is only temporary.
3) Viruses do not know how to carry commands from the brain and are not smart enough to control a life form as complex as a human. They are also boring at parties. Given these conditions, the host must still be alive but in an altered state of mind.
We talked about it further and they ended up really liking my ideas – later, drunk on my own persuasiveness, I began to write the book. Hopefully my alterations to Zombie lore will seem like a natural evolution (pun intended) to you too.
Oh and now we have become besties, I want to remind you of my other work, Hell Inc (https://www.hellinccomic.com) – remember, friends read friends comics (and possibly buy their merch).
Introduction
The victim’s first memory after the attack was a wet sound, the sound of a ripe peach being dropped from five feet onto the sidewalk. To her, the sound was deadened, as if heard through five layers of fabric. It took her a moment to realize that all other sounds were similarly muffled.
A pain from the back of her head instantly dragged her attention from the vagaries of hearing loss - a jagged sawing sensation that demanded investigation, but for some reason her hands wouldn’t move. Nothing would, with any reliability. In this time of crisis, she was weaker than she had ever felt.
In the end it was more gravity than action that did the work for her as her head flopped to the side, revealing a figure not ten feet away painted against the dark of the alleyway in patches of grey. More an impressionist painting of a man than an actual figure, he was currently engaged in brutally bashing some poor bastard’s head against the curb in a sincere attempt to break it open like there was candy inside – this probably accounted for the wet noise from earlier. The knowledge failed to make the woman feel any better.
What little light there was came from a sign, proudly proclaiming in flickering lights that this particular pawn shop belonged firmly to ‘Big Willie’. The little relief it gave to the scene seemed intent on highlighting fluid oozing out of the crushed back of piñata’s head.
The looming figure coughed - a wet wracking sound – and flipped the ragdoll facedown with the effort normally associated with folding laundry.
With a lack of ceremony, he bent over the crushed cranium scooping a handful of unmentionable matter from within and began to eat.
She gulped involuntarily at the scene and instantly felt a reaction from her salivary glands and an overwhelming sense of nausea.
Lacking the control to turn – she vomited straight upwards. Emma felt her face wash in dinner’s second performance of the evening. Given that it hadn’t been so great on the first show, there had previously been no real plans for this second visit. If the feasting figure knew or cared, he gave no sign.
“You!” a voice yelled eloquently from down the alley and Emma struggled to see from the side of her eye the figure issuing the command. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was a police officer, hand resting on his holster.
“Help,” Emma tried to call out, her voice cracking halfway, making it sound more like she whimpered “Hep.”
It was clearly loud enough, the figure crossed the distance to her in a blur and lashed out with a kick to the face, making her vision shake like an old television set.
Rather than clearing, her vision swam gently from side to side for a few seconds, before shrinking – like looking down a black tunnel at a grey curtain.
The last thing she heard - before passing out - was a loud “Crack!” of gunfire.
* * * * *
“Miss, Miss!” a voice called to her, distantly. Emma tried to see who was calling – before realizing that she had yet to open her eyes. It w
as like everything was on manual control only.
Blearily she blinked and made out the fuzzy shape of a police officer standing over her. Experimentally, Emma tried shaking her head and almost cried out at the pain in the base of her skull. Flopping her head to the side bonelessly, she found herself staring directly at the ear of the murdered man. In a shock of realization she found her arm draped over his stomach.
This cleared the fog, somewhat, and she managed to sit up – dragging her body away from the corpse. This action enabled her to drink in a scene of pandemonium. The neon sign down the alley flickered and flashed, shooting sparks over the scene and illuminating sporadically. The first thing it illuminated was a crumpled body of another police officer opposite, red splatters over the wall behind it painting a horror tale of what could have happened in her mind.
“I need to take you to a hospital” the police officer mumbled, following her gaze. “And then.. get your statement” he added, gulping.
“But I – ” Emma answered before pausing. “I –” what? she asked herself was passed out while this man died? “Didn’t see anything” she finished weakly.
“You still need to go to the hospital” the man followed, interrupted from saying anything further by a harsh buzz from his radio.
“Backup. Man down!” the voice on the radio crackled harshly. “South-East corner of Egleston Square!” it added.
The officer looked from Emma to the fallen police officer and licked his lips nervously. For the first time, Emma noticed he was very young – his cap obscuring all but a front shock of bright ginger hair.
“Wait here” he ordered, backing away “I will be back.”
“What?” she said, stupefied. Even though moving her head was agony she looked from the man to her side to the downed figure of the cop in front. “No!” she answered, incredulous.
“Right here! I’ll be back with a bus” he yelled, turning and running. To his credit, it was in the direction of Egleston.
Emma dumbly looked around, finding her way to her feet she staggered away from the horribly misshapen head of the man next to her. Turning, she dumbly was reminded of the crumpled body behind, crunching of glass beneath her feet informing her that some window had been broken in the struggle.
A noise echoed down the alley behind her and she span, nearly falling back over as she did so. Unable to see anything she slowly backed away towards the mouth of the alley.
“Stay here? Not likely!” she said out loud and stumbled below the wreckage of the flashing neon sign. Three of the letters from pawn briefly flashed ‘pwn' in the space above her head before she was gone.
Chapter 1
Emma was not having what she would regard as a good day. First she had to come to some lowlife’s pawn shop to buy back her most prized belongings – courtesy of an ex-roommate and her newfound fascination with expensive narcotics. Then she gets caught up in some crazy lunatic attack. Remembering the pain in the back of her neck, Emma slowly raised her hands to feel the throbbing skin – pausing from concern before finally lowering her hands onto the wound. The skin was sticky from blood but felt mostly just puckered and bruised – maybe it was just laceration from some glass?
“Thank heaven for small miracles,” she mumbled to herself, coming finally to a more major road and a nearby rank of taxis. Staggering a little she approached the first cab and was greeted by frantic waving to move along from the foul smelling driver.
Looking down, Emma almost cried out in dismay. Vomit stains all over her cashmere sweater. There would be hell to pay if they wouldn’t dry clean out – Emma’s mother had gotten her the sweater last Christmas and she would expect to see it on her next regal visit.
“Some drunk spilled lunch over me,” Emma explained, as she was shooed away.
Moving to the second taxi, his look of disgust was no less but he grudgingly held open the door.
“You can pay?” he asked in slightly broken English - some sort of Slavic accent, she decided.
“Yes,” she replied, sitting down heavily.
The journey started with a jolt that Emma would come to know as being characteristic on this voyage of discovery. Apparently, shock absorbers cost extra, as did actual knowledge of the city layout.
Emma zoned out during the trip, the frequent jolts the only thing connecting her with reality – they felt as if they were channeled directly into her damaged neck. On at least two occasions she looked up to see what appeared to be the taxi backtracking.
Emma frantically ran the incident through her brain, but it was all a blur. She couldn’t remember much from before being woken up by the young officer, no matter how hard she tried.
I was at the pawn shop she recalled but the damned place was closed early. I went around the side of the building to see if they were just out back smoking and… nothing. There was a gap in her memory filled with gore and panic from going round the corner to being called back to wakefulness by the officer.
Looking down, her gaze affixed on a tear on her arm – was it a bite mark? Emma started to shake – a sudden case of chills. The memories from the past hour were already foggy, possibly as a result of multiple head traumas. All she could really remember with any clarity was a terrible red spray of blood that gave her a greasy taste in her mouth.
Mother is always a fountain of advice, what would she say to all this? Emma wondered. Meth addicted roommates, shady pawn shops and strange attackers. Who am I kidding Emma answered herself She still wouldn’t be past the state of the sweater she gave me. “A lady vomits OUTWARDS Emma, not down. Have I taught you nothing?” Apparently she had not.
The cab ground to an eventual halt. I guess I should be thankful he didn’t have to brake suddenly with me in here Emma thought. Not without a good minute’s notice anyway.
Paying extra for the state of the backseat, Emma departed with as much of her dignity remaining as possible. She no longer staggered - her mother had taught her better than that after all - but she ached all the way to her bones, maybe further. Entering an elevator, Emma stiffly pressed a button for her floor and was thankful none of her nosy neighbors had chosen to ride up with her.
Sinking back against the wall, Emma’s vision swam. Little men had taken to sawing wood in her head and muscles she had previously not known existed were aching dully in a way that suggested whatever their function, they were highly annoyed at the recent spur of activities. More than anything though, Emma was tired – more tired than she could ever remember feeling in her short existence.
Getting out at the third floor, trudging and swaying slightly she came after a small eternity to her door. Sisyphus would be proud.
Fumbling a new key into a new lock – she did have the foresight to get a locksmith in after her roommate’s escapades – she was soon past that barrier. She didn’t take off her clothes - not even her shoes (an unforgivable affront to her well-bred ancestors) and collapsed into bed and a dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
Emma woke to a dull pain in her ear-lobes.
It’s going to be another one of those days she thought to herself. Who does that? Wakes up to aching lobes?
The lower part of the ear, as Emma was well aware, has one of the lowest nerve endings per square inch ratios in the entire body. She could have woken with a headache, a queasy stomach or shattered vertebrae yet nothing from any of them but her stupid ears – which she had secretly always hated – decided to wake with the dawn’s morning chorus.
Was it all a dream? she wondered briefly then discounted. She was still in her clothes and a colorful painting of blood, vomit, sweat and street grime adorned her normally pearly white sheets.
Has my room always been this blue? she questioned herself. Even the pinks had taken on a slightly lavender hue. A high pitched hum threatened to reignite the gone but not forgotten headache of last night.
Searching around, Emma eventually found the humming to be e
manating from the kitchen. Pointing an ear towards the fluorescent light gave no reward, nor did any of her other appliances until the fridge – a big door and a half arrangement that had never bothered her before this moment.
This close, it sounded like bee’s re-enactment of hamlet. She toyed with the idea of shutting it off but eventually settled for dulling the noise with 10 layers of cling wrap, which she covered the back of the fridge with. Hope that isn’t a fire risk she thought with a mental smirk.
A sudden plink! and an earring dropped to the floor. Examining the offending piece of Jewelry, Emma found the bar that bridges the hole had been bent to right angles and had eventually snapped. Feeling the hole in her lobe, Emma was rewarded with nothing. Her ear had no sign it had ever been pierced. Unlatching the other one, Emma pulled it free, it made a sickening ripping noise as it went through. Emma gagged. She would make a pretty poor doctor really, being very squeamish at the best of times. She was only going through pre-med because a medical degree was the only way to break into genetics.
Genetics - an illustrious career. Hopefully it would give her the medical skills to remove the parents from her ass. Rocket scientist would also work but she hated physics; genes had seemed like the logical choice. Honestly though, she would become a space doctor if it meant finally not having to hear any more about her wasted potential.
She had to admit, the classes she had taken on the theory of genetic code had fit nicely with her obsessively analytical nature – now if only she could somehow grit her teeth past all the disgusting practical courses necessary for her to break into the career as a lab jockey she might truly be at peace.
Finally an absence of something – easily ignored in her search for the humming quartet apparently set up in her fridge – clicked to the front of her brain. It was light out, but there was much less traffic noise than normal, rolling this around for a second she came to the only sensible conclusion - it was not early, it was late. And so was she. For Class.
* * * * *
Rushing into school, Emma didn’t need to look at her schedule to know Neuroanatomy was the first class. She groaned thinking about it; her professor had a monotonous tone of voice that always put her to sleep. She basically did all the work again outside of class because the haze she entered inside the room was impervious to knowledge.