The LONELY WALK-A Zombie Notebook Read Free

would always love them.
    Afterward, I wandered toward the edge of town, sorrow the guiding force. There is nothing else to do, nowhere else to go except away from the city. Downtown is empty except for the military. The army controls everything. The power plants, the telephone company, the farms, the deliveries to those few living urban dwellers who are left in their prison homes.
    I couldn't follow the freeway until I learned how to walk better, how to control the jerky movements of my extremities. I knew I wanted to go south, toward the islands. I wanted to leave the country. But I would have to learn, very quickly, how to pass for human to ever make it to Key West.
    There are people on the roads because the troops are there, coming and going, always on the move, hunting down zombies like rabid dogs, making deliveries of the goods that will keep civilization running for a little while more.
    I tried concentrating on my legs, my feet. The contractions, when I rise at dawn, draw my fingers toward my wrist, my thumbs toward the palm, my feet outward, toes curled under, my arms bent at the elbow up toward my face. Each time this happens, it comes on slowly, while I'm immobile and at rest, and I fight it, but unless I get to my feet and begin moving, it always works this way. I expect this is a form of rigor mortis returning, trying to make me like the real dead, the way I should be. It's nature insisting I lie down dead, fucker--lie down dead and silent and unmoving, you piece of shit.
    When I work really hard at it, I can get all my parts to move naturally. Pick one foot up, set it down, pick up the other, set it down. I found a way to do it in a small loping walk, as if perhaps I had a hitch in my hip, or an old war wound.
    Then I had to work on my arms, forcing them into a looseness so they would swing in rhythm with my strides. Flexing my fingers is the worst thing of all. The bones pop and I don't know for sure, I'm not conversant in anatomy or pathology, but I think those bones are breaking. Over and over again. The thought...as I flex and...stretch...makes me want to scream.
    It took miles and miles before I could learn to walk decently. Every time a convoy passed I had to duck into the palmettos and lie flat on my belly, eyes braced on the ground. Then up again, working at it, finding it easier the more I tried. I believe the only reason the others can't do so well, why they stagger and stumble and walk stiff-legged is because they cannot think, their brains are dead, so they can't concentrate the way I have managed to do.
    When I reached Interstate 95 it was like being drawn into an exodus. Whole families streamed north and south. They passed one another on each side of the freeway, staying clear of the rolling refrigeration trucks and the lines of green army jeeps. Again I brought my arm to my face to see how I smelled. I can suck in air and let it out. I can smell and taste, see, hear, and think. But I am corrupt. More and more each day. And I cannot speak. I have decided to pretend I am mute. I have no other choice.
    I keep a small pad and a pencil for writing notes. I took it, this notebook, a knapsack, fresh clothes, deodorant, soap, a washcloth, a pungent aftershave, and a flashlight from a deserted house. It was there I cleaned and bandaged my wounds. I put a large adhesive bandage on the bite at my neck. If someone asks about it, I'll just say it's a boil. Lack of iodine, you know, not enough salt in my diet. None of us get enough salt these days, or sugar, or coffee, or tobacco. Or milk for our children, never enough milk. I expect the shortage has something to do with zombies eating the cattle, but I can't be certain of that.
    My plan, what there is of it, is to flee Key West to Cuba. There I might find a ship or plane that will take me to Europe or South America. Or Mexico. I'd like to go to Mexico. There haven't been any reports from that country in months. Maybe things are better there. We have been told