Sometimes, when we have absolutely nothing to do, we bet on the behavior of the walking corpses. There’s usually one or two within sight of our rooftop. We bet on races. They don’t typically move a whole lot, and they don’t realize that they are racing, so it can be difficult. You have to set your sights low. I bet mine will make it past that trash can over there before yours, or mine will trip over that bump first. It can take all day, but as I’ve said, there’s not much else to do. Plus, it justifies day drinking. Today, Zoic won, but only because my guy fell on hers, knocking him past the bent hubcap. Lame. I burned them both.
I finally saw a hooker zombie on Van Buren. She was totally chilling there, just waiting for customers. She didn’t have much of a face left, but I think she was probably pretty. Also most of her ass was gone, just some red and bones. Rok, ever the gentleman, thoughtfully pondered and observed this for a moment and concluded, “dat ass.”
Nothing of grand importance happened today, but, as usual, we found it difficult to stay still for too long, so we decided to finally go through the next door neighbors’ house. We ignored it at first. They didn’t change when things went bad. They were one of those groups that just sat down and died. At the dinner table no less. They were a typical American family. Three kids, mom, and dad. I should say perhaps that they are the ideal American family. Typical would imply three divorces and at least one Gothic child. They are still in the chairs they died in, which is surprising. You’d think they would have fallen by now. They have reclined. Their heads have fallen back and their jaws hang open. One child is face down in the soup in front of him. Considering they’ve been dead for over a month, nothing much has changed about them. No noticeable decomposition, no smell. The food in front of them has spoiled and gone, but their bodies have not. There’s a small portion of the populace who might find such a discovery a dream come true, but Zoic and I could not bring ourselves to even touch them. Zoic used a wooden spoon from the nearby kitchen to move Mom’s body. Zoic brushed her arm, which moves freely, without a sign of rigor mortis, but caused Mom to topple out of the chair. Her head knocked against the wall and stayed awkwardly positioned. Zoic adjusted her to look more comfortable, still using the wooden spoon.
“I don’t like this house,” Zoic said.
“I have an idea,” I replied.
I found their linen closet. Moments later, I had covered each lifeless form with a sheet. Dad was covered with a burgundy king-size, Mom with a pale blue king-size, and the children with twin Star Wars, Mickey Mouse, and Lilo and Stitch.
“All better,” I said. And it was. Mostly.
This family has a nicer TV than the one we have, but it wasn’t worth the trouble to take it off of the wall mounting. Otherwise, there wasn’t much else to take. I took the car keys out of the bowl by the door, in case we needed use of their vehicles. Zoic found a pillow pet on one of the children’s beds that she insisted on taking. Can’t stand the sight of the deceased, but she can sleep on their pillows. Odd.
Zoic has made a rather big deal out of her clothing choices. It’s as though she has to assert her equality with me at every opportunity or the goddess Feminista will come down and smite her for lacking in vigilance. I get that she’s not interested in playing the role of the helpless woman, and believe me, that’s the last thing I want her to do anyway, but it gets a bit tiring. Not to mention, she didn’t like any of my costume suggestions. Granted, we found most of them in a suburban porn closet, but I know she would have looked good in them. As for fighting the infection in my underwear, I only did that once. It was… liberating. But the risks are just too high. And anyway, what’s fighting zombies in your underwear without a cigar? I’m fresh out.
I am constantly trying to accept the possibility that I might be the last human woman. I hope not. In any case, I am one of the few women left, and I feel obligated to take advantage of the opportunity to define what it is to be female. I haven’t decided what that means yet. Gender doesn’t really matter anymore. Rok and I both have the main objective of survival. Lots of things have changed about being a typical girl. I can’t say I ever was one, but I’ve had to change a lot of my old “feminine” habits. For one thing, clothes that look attractive have completely given way to clothes that will keep you from dying or worse. Living in Arizona, there is a constant struggle between wearing clothes that are light and sparse enough to keep you cool and clothes that offer a lot of coverage in case a Zombie tries to take a bite out of you. I usually compromise with tank tops and pants with the added protection of high leather boots to protect my feet and shins and longarm fireplace gloves. I miss dresses and skirts, but the less skin you show the better. Rok’s a completely different matter. He would probably shoot zombies in his boxers. He’s not as worried about getting bit as I am, but I’m a bit more paranoid about it. It’s really not as big a threat as one would think. They’re slow enough now that you can just kick or punch them away if they get too close.
Another issue that comes up in regards to my sex, is my relationship with Rok. He’s not the worst last man on Earth. He’s never said anything directly, but who wouldn’t be thinking about it under the circumstances, (he told you about the condom thing right?) and even though he’s really sweet, and even though he’s reading this over my shoulder, I’d turn him down. Don’t get me wrong, the apocalypse makes you horny. There’s no way of getting around it. That thing they say about near death experiences is true. Nothing is more life affirming than getting it on, but in every damn horror or sci-fi film, the girl’s first inclination is to run into the arms of the man for protection and inevitably a good shag. I’m changing that on both accounts. If not for anyone else, just for my own knowledge that I’m changing the role of the apocalypse woman first hand.
The virus seems to affect everyone differently. I’ve mentioned briefly how some people who turned maintained a degree of brain function after death. Some were faster and other slower, though the faster ones seem to have burned out and moved the excitement level of the apocalypse from yellow to green. Others never really turned. They shut off, and never turned back on again. These are some of the most mysterious findings. It also brings into question how the infection is spread, if it is indeed an infection. Some people just froze. Their homes remain an example of how life used to be lived. The reanimated dead seem to ignore them and leave their things alone. Zoic and I once found an entire family, motionless for weeks, sitting at their dinner table. It’s odd how the infection seems to have preserved their bodies. What should be a month or more of decomposition seems like nothing has phased them at all. We keep an eye on them, just to make sure they don’t decide to get up. They seem pretty dead, though.
I feel like this blog has done little but provide the sense that someone else is out there to any potential readers, so perhaps it’s time to do something useful. Say you’re an out-of-towner. You decide to yourself, “Phoenix sounds like a lovely place to try and restore civilization. I think I’ll head out there.” There’s some things you should know.
- The zombies are slow and spread out. But you have to keep a low profile or they will find you. You can practically hide right in front of them if you really try.
- Every large building was at one point a survival effort. Approach with caution.
- The summers are hot and the winters are a bit chilly. That bullshit about hundred degree changes over night is offensive.
- Stay Hydrated
- Don’t die
- I guess it’s not as complicated as I thought.
I feel like I should take the time to update this even when there’s nothing to update. I guess, at the very least, it’s another sign of life. I could die tomorrow, and at least this would be here. And if I had died this morning, this would not be here. It’s important. Potentially.
Anyway, if you’re out there, know that I do this for you. And my ego. Probably more my ego. I mean, it is a blog, isn’t it?