pre-text

	The problem arose when they infiltrated the fundamental systems of society. Law enforcement, banking, judicial structures and even global conglomerates were compromised by the devious and diligent planning of what we call 'zombies.' Now before your mind jumps to the misconstrued image of a zombie that the media presented as comical and fictitious in the past, allow me to describe the outbreak that is really occurring.
	No one is sure how it began - or perhaps it had no beginning - but the spread of the zombie disease was particularly worsened by their hunger for flesh. They would seek flesh actively as if it was their day job – which it wasn’t as the majority of these things worked in finance or high end government structures. They ate people just the same as their predecessors did, although in a much more 'professional,' manner. I'm not speaking in rhetoric or riddle to emphasize how evil their character is, I'm literally telling you that they are the type to indoctrinate our society, steal a child off of the street, and plan an entire evening family dinner around the idea of eating your child's torso as if it were Thanksgiving - just another piece of meat to stuff.
	 The difference between what we face now and the fictional zombies of the past is that the 'undead' of our society are living thinking creatures that know how to use a fork and knife. Now, it would a mistake to simply label them as simply cannibals because they're still dead, and they’re still diseased. They're dead in the way that they have no consciousness, and no morals or ethics. They don’t have a soul or anything human – aside from their physical anatomy – about them aside from primal urges for food and even sex. Hopefully you understand the severity of such a problem, and the paranoia that comes about as a result. How would you know who was, and wasn’t infected if the diseased look exactly like you down to even a molecular level? The simple answer - and the potentially only answer - is that you don’t. The sickness of such a collective cannot be cured or prevented. Once an infected labels you as a target, they’ll manipulate you, use you, eat you, and birth you in a diseased and reanimated state. So you become one of them, and no one will know what you’ve turned into. An acquaintance – or perhaps not even that - of mine was eighteen when he and I realized that this outbreak even existed. I was seventeen.
	Samuel was a challenging piece of shit, but he didn’t deserve being ruthlessly eaten by his own mother. Who proceeded to savagely butcher her forsaken husband in front of their four year old child. The kid didn't even get to escape as Mrs. Greyan - or Ms. Greyan now - fired a twelve gauage into his chest. The poor child bled out at what I presume was a last supper of sorts. This all happened while I was at the dinner table when I realized Ms. Greyan’s  meaning of “soup of the day,” was slightly different than us non-infected. I suppose I was saved for desert as I was last on the priority list - Ms. Greyan always had a sweet spot for me in more than a few ways - but unfortunately I managed to escape. I never heard from Ms. Greyan again, which genuinely surprised me as she was a woman who loved her seconds.
	 In no way am I attempting to intimidate you, I'm merely trying to describe what life and society has devolved into. These infected people - if you can even call them that - are ruining our society and the lives of billions, however with the power they hold in social systems the survival of our now dystopian civilization hinges on their existence. The proverbial double edged sword.
	This journal if you will is intended to act as a guide of sorts. A compilation of my experiences in such a god forsaken world. This journal is intended to inform those who follow me – as I presume I won’t be around much longer – of the dangers of the world, that most people aren’t even aware of. God save us.

Part One – Theresa, Charlie, Samuel and the Old Man
	Samuel pulled up in his distastefully red sedan, and motioned through the open door that I was to enter the car. I was being summoned. The rain pattered against my shoulders despite the sad excuse of an umbrella I held over my head. I stood for a moment staring at him as if I wanted to attract attention, to indicate to people I had no idea who this bum was. Normally I’d disobey such a condescending action just for disobedience sake, and to assert I wasn’t one to be commanded, however His Majesty was my only way home. As well as the fact I had already been avoiding his entire family for the past month or so (on the account of an incident that happened, which I’m almost sure was illegal). I entered.
	The inside of Samuel’s car reeked of cigarettes, and a pungent aroma I assume that was alcohol (which he was probably drinking behind the wheel in the moments prior)
	I looked over at him, expecting him to look back and submit the power he thought he had in our relationship. He didn’t.  His face was covered in an abnormal amount of stubble for an eighteen year old. Being only a year younger than him – physically that is - I probably made him look even older by simply sitting beside him. He was trying to prove a point by growing his facial hair out.
He spoke in a thick Southern accent that would make me think he was an idiot even if I didn’t know him – if I was racist that is, but I wasn’t.
“Hey fella,” he said to me without even a glance, “whatcha plans for tonight?”
I paused for a moment, puzzled by the mere assumption that I would even have plans.
“Nothing.”
“Spose you wouldn’t wanna come over for dinner tonight then would ya?”
Even more confused than before I began “Samuel, what’s the occasion for such an invitation?”
“Nothin’ really. The Old Lady has been buggin’ at me askin’ why you ain’t been ‘round since last month. She thinkin’ you hate her or summin.”
I blushed, and if it wasn’t for Samuel’s lack of caring for anybody but himself he would’ve looked over at me and noticed. Thank god he didn’t or I’d have a lot of explaining to do.
“What about your Dad, has he said anything about me?”
“Pops? He ain’t much for talkin’ bout my friends, so not really. But he did said you a wannabe highbrow a while ago.”
Black spots started appearing in my peripheral, and soon all I imagined was ripping that hick’s head off with my bare hands.
“Fine, I’ll come.”
The rest of the car ride to Samuel’s was pleasantly quiet. The fact he didn’t feel the need to suffocate the silence with small talk was refreshing, like a heroin addict relapsing. Every time the kid opened his mouth I could consciously feel my intelligence being questioned. As if he thought he was good enough to talk to me. I’ve never been close to Samuel  - or anyone for that matter – but I decided I’d get a good meal in me for once and on we went along the dark countryside road that circled his family farm.
	It seemed as if the rain fell harder, and harder for every stride the car took towards the farm. Correspondingly the car also seemed to go faster and faster as if it longed for the rest it deserved; like a marathon runner sprinting towards the finish line. The bumpy unfinished road jolted and jerked the car continuously; just as Samuel began to hum what I presume was his rendition of country music. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was too drunk to notice or if he was used to the danger of such an old car’s suspension.
	I knew we were close now as I began to see the Greyan family’s cows grazing on the soggy pasture. The silhouette of their crude figures were barely recognizable in the pitch dark of the winter season. If it wasn’t for their familiar hedonistic positions - their necks craned down to the pasture - I wouldn’t have even noticed them.
	They paid no attention to the rain slamming down on them, however. For a second I wondered if it was because they were too stupid to realize what rain was or if they were so happy to exist that a slight inconvenience such as being wet paid them no bother. Regardless of the reason I envied them. Having no care for anything, anyone, or any situation seemed superlative to me. But as a human being you’re naturally condemned not to mortality itself, but instead to the knowledge of mortality. Knowing you’re going to die changes a person. When you informed that terminally ill cancer patient that they’re going to die, you changed them. Maybe the cows did know that they’re going to die, and if so I truly pitied them just the same as I did mankind, however I preferred – and needed – to believe that they were blissfully ignorant of the world inevitable fatality.
	I began to drift off, however like usual my peace was interrupted by Samuel poking me with what I believed to be a lighter.
“Hey!” he yelled “wake up Sleepin’ Beauty we’re here!”
I wasn’t surprised that the extent of his referencing ability was restricted to Disney productions.
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
I got out of the car with a slight over enthusiasm to ensure Samuel knew I wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t allowed to be right.
My feet sank into the muddy grass, which was mush by this point – reminding me that I was nowhere near civilization. The Greyan Family farm was quite large, but seemed small to the non-mathematical eye as the majority of the area was either desolate or unconstructed and grassy. I’d been to the Farm a couple of times to see Mrs. Greyan, who up until a month ago was probably the person I hated the least in the world.
	I knew the layout of the land, and so without any further encouragement from His Majesty I began to make my way to the main house.
I heard him behind me, “so you hungry?”
Of course I was hungry; I hadn’t accepted this embarrassing invitation to sight-see after all.
“I had a big lavish lunch so not particularly,” I said loudly.
	I hadn’t eaten a full course meal ever since my parents kicked me out on the account of “bad behaviour.”
	My stomach was practically in knots now, and I was truly surprised hydrochloric acid hadn’t began to drill itself out of my body yet.
	I was reassured that the whole invitation wasn’t a mirage or demonic trick being played on me when I opened the house door, and smelled what seemed to be a meat of some kind. I was greeted by the farm dog who always seemed to be the first patron to see in any new visitors. He whined and wagged his tail as he began to circle around me, surely getting ready to make his move of affection.
	Dogs, such insufferable creatures they are. Their only motivation in their pathetic lives is to gain the affection of their masters, and to please them – a prisoner like existence that’s worse than death if you asked me.
“Will!”
I recognized Mrs. Greyan’s familiar voice echoing down the stairway, with a distinct cheeriness that was foreign to me to even hear.  I heard her delicate footsteps pattering against the upstairs hallway carpet as I began to take off my shoes – which were absolutely atrocious by this point, and not particularly as a result of the rain fall either.
	Soon her petite figure emerged from the cover of the staircase, and I couldn’t help but ponder for a moment why she was with a man like Mr. Greyan – although the lack of resemblance between her and Samuel was understandable as he was adopted.
	Mrs. Greyan – or Theresa if you wanted to get friendly – was a tiny brown haired creature that looked odd at first sight. She seemed too fragile, as if she would keel over and spontaneously combust at any second. Everything about her was small, except for her green eyes - which seemed to engulf your entire existence when she peered at you – and her naturally red lips that made one think she had something injected into them for such effect. On paper her description seemed awkward – which it may have been - however in person she was beautiful and feminine.
	Mr. Greyan on the other hand was built as crudely as one can imagine. A shaved head complimented by an uncanny amount of stubble – even moreso than Samuel -  that made his white face look more black than anything else. His stocky legs, bulky arms and a crooked nose all indicated to the amount of bar fights his drunken ass had been in. He wasn’t a good person, but he was built like an ox so getting on his bad side seemed like a slightly dangerous road to venture down.
I wondered were he was for a moment, but then I remembered the incident.
	“Will how have you been sweetie?” Theresa ran over to me and embraced me – a feeble attempt at that considering how short she was.
“How is school going?”
	I had attended an all boy’s private school in the Eastern end of Toronto (before I got kicked out). Apparently it was prestigious, but more than anything I thought it was pretentious. Like usual I would keep to myself, but there were a few students that seemed to enjoy bothering me – much like Samuel. They would make fun of my size, my voice, my family – or lack thereof – and even my name. If you asked me, what I did was not nearly as intrusive as those imbecile’s sad attempt to “bully,” me. However in the eyes of the School Board spiking someone’s drink with Ketamine is an illegal act subject to immediate expulsion, and further legal trial. Fortunately – or unfortunately – Mrs. Greyan spoke to the dean of the school “convincing,” him I was a “good,” kid who didn’t know how to control his emotions sometimes. I still got expelled, but I wasn’t legally charged for anything.
	To top everything off Samuel still attended the school, and even though my grade point was near perfect – and his was near failing – he still had out done me, or at least tried to do. He never seemed to let me forget that either, be it through his snide commentary on my lack of education or his even more blatant attempts, such as keeping me updated with the politics and inner workings of the school –as if I cared.
“Will? I asked how school was going. You’re at Blasworth now right?”
“Yes. Mrs. Greyan it’s going fine.” I lied. I never re-enrolled in school, because it was quite obvious I didn’t need an education (not to mention the fact my parents refused to pay a tuition after the Ketamine, and the other incident with Mrs. Greyan). In my eyes there was a distinction between knowledge and natural born intelligence. People born with no intelligence need to obtain knowledge as a form of compensation whereas intelligent people don’t – although there are those that are intelligent but still seek higher education and knowledge to prove their self-worth. My IQ was a hundred and ninety-four. I didn’t need education or any self verification.
	Samuel stumbled in through the front door about five minutes after I did. He was clearly drunk, he must have helped himself to the complimentary alcohol bar in his trunk. As he began to “take off his shoes,” Mrs. Greyan and I did stood in silence observing him like a wild animal. Similarly to a wild animal he finally realized his mother’s penetrating stare.
“I wasn’ drinkin’ and drivin’ Ma. Ask Will even, tell ‘er.”
He looked at me for confirmation, and I shook my head. It seemed Samuel could only look at me when he needed something.
“Sammy I believe you. You’re too smart to do that after what happened to your Father.”
“Speakin’ of Pops, I’mma go see him now.”
Samuel raced upstairs, and ambivalently I followed closely – but not too closely – behind, but not before giving Theresa a questionably inappropriate look.
	Samuel opened the wooden door slowly, as if he was deciding whether to enter or not – a complete contrast to the enthusiasm he showed just moments before. He turned the loose knob, and with a cliché creek of the hinges the door beckoned us forward allowing us entrance into the dark room. I heard the shallow breathing of Mr. Greyan, and I had to remind myself to stay calm.
“Pops. Will came to see you.”
	I turned on the light, and even though I knew what to expect I was still disturbed. Mr. Greyan was lying comatose on a mattress with his arms folded onto his chest like an angel or divine creature of somekind. This idea was the most disturbing of all to me; I played a significant role in facilitating this bodily transcendence. I had the ability to give and take life.
	 His shallow breath still smelled of bourbon, an indication either to the flavour of toothpaste he used, or a testament to how much the man loved his drink. If I was a betting man I’d put my money on the latter.
	I followed Samuel in sitting down – very gently – on the hard edge of the mattress, and I stared for some time at him, amazed how incapacitated a body can be – yet still be alive. Alive. He was still alive, and if he ever came out of his coma – god forbid – Mrs. Greyan and I would have a lot of explaining to do.
“Boys dinner will be ready in about five minutes,” she called up, clearly preoccupied with the family’s youngest member, Charlie - a four year old kid whom I didn’t particularly dislike for some reason.
	I began to come back into reality when I noticed Samuel talking to Mr. Greyan. He was holding his hands and gazing into his eyes explaining the occurrences of the day and the week. He even went as far as telling his father about the standings of his favourite sports teams.  I sat by Samuel and Mr. Greyan for about ten minutes when Theresa called us down for dinner.
“Buddy you goes on without me. I’ll catch up,” said Samuel.
I hesitated heavily – as this would mean I’d have to be alone with Theresa – and Samuel noticed, although maybe for the wrong reasons.
“Don’ worry I’mma be fine. Jus’ want some time alone with my Old Man.”
The guy thought I cared about his sentimental space. I didn’t, and I thought I spent all the years we had together indicating that to him.
“Sure,” I said. I’d allow him to think I cared – even slightly – about him if it meant he wouldn’t find out about me and his Mother.
I exited the room slowly, ambivalently, and even cautiously to some extent – for some reason I didn’t know. The hallway at this point was saturated with the smell of cooking meat, and the sounds of a familiar child’s crying – as well as the music of my own stomach’s orchestra of sound.
	I took careful steps towards the stairs as to not give indication of my coming into the kitchen – or else Theresa would be able to ready herself for a speech. Talking to her was inevitable and so I decided to get it over with as at least we were alone – but then again aren’t we all.
	I came down the stairs, yet I still stood in front of them – as if I could escape through their heights if this all went south.
	“Mrs. Greyan.” I said.
The carpet was plush, and the walls were beautifully painted – a complete contrast to the depths of Mr. Greyan’s hearse of a room.
	“Hold on Will, I’ll be right there,” she yelled over from the kitchen.
	My cheeks began to burn, and my eyes watered – not on the account of crying, but instead because they were stinging. She was coming, again.
	Before long she was standing before me, vulnerable once again, to what I was about to say.
Her feminine figure was tantalizing, and the whisper of her voice even more so.
“What’s up.”
She leaned closer, embraced me, and followed with a soft kiss.
“I’m happy we got Richard out of the way,” she whispered.
	Richard was Mr. Greyan. There was an incident between Theresa, Richard and I that involved his comatose state about a month ago. I was over to “visit,” Theresa and while we were sprawled out on the couch Mr. Greyan happened to walk in. We “terminated,” the compromise by bludgeoned him with a lamp post.
	I personally enjoyed hitting him, however the part that disturbed me the most was that Theresa did, and that she didn’t hesitate for even a moment about what to do with the “Richard Problem.” A woman of such tiny stature bludgeoning the love of her life was a scene that was forever imprinted into my mind, particularly the blood. The viscous red blood joyfully bounced out of it’s bodily vessel upon every provocative strike with the hard edged lamp post, rendering Richard unconscious after only a single bludgeoning, and comatose after I presume four or five. The hate in Theresa’s eyes was arousing, she looked primal – as if not human – and she continued to strike her “life partner,” again and again until she was out of breath. We continued with our afternoon meetup without even cleaning up the mess.
	As far as Samuel knows his father literally drank himself into an alcoholic coma and collapsed, falling into edges and counters on his way down to the ground.
	“Listen Theresa. We need to talk about what happened with him,” I responded, a little louder than I perhaps should have.
“I love you, but what happened scared me. Not because of what we did, but because I enjoyed what we did,” I continued.
Theresa looked at me without even frowning a wrinkle onto her perfect skin. She looked happy.
 I didn’t love her, but it seemed like what a normal person would say in such a predicament. I said it to comfort her as I just admitted a sadistic pleasure I took in incapacitating another human being.
Instead of being shocked or disturbed she replied with a gigantic smile “I enjoyed it too.”
Dinner was good and according to Samuel’s exclamations even Mr. Greyan thought it was good when Samuel brought him up some food, and a newspaper  – who obviously couldn’t talk, or eat.
I was sitting beside Mrs. Greyan, in between Charlie and her, with Samuel sitting on the other side of the toddler. I attempted to touch her with my legs several times under the table, but instead of responding she brushed me off and looked into her food as if it wasn’t fulfilling enough. Perhaps she was afraid of Samuel finding out about us, but I didn’t care. Me and her together could handle anything, and in a way I wanted Samuel to find out – there was another perfect lamp post in the living room.
	I was thinking about me and Theresa running away together - perhaps going to Florida or Mexico, people never bothered you down there as long as you kept to yourself – when she suddenly reached for a steak knife and without any hesitation sprung up, leaned Samuel and his chair back, and plunged the glimmering knife into his chest. She dragged up towards his neck once the knife was all the way in as if she was simply carving a pumpkin.
I was shocked –for a lack of a better word – she wanted to run away with me as well.
She looked over at me with eyes that were not familiar to me. I doubt those eyes would’ve been familiar to any person in the world. Her pupils were dilated to absurd extents and blood vessels were broken as if she was under a correspondingly absurd amount of stress. Theresa licked her lips, and without wasting another second lunged face first into Samuel’s stomach biting and eviscerating an uncountable amount of organs, arteries and muscles on the way in.
	I heard her bite something – a sound that reminded me of biting a wet and soggy carrot – and without the use of her hands she ripped Samuel’s intestines out like a hammerhead shark frenzying over freshly dumped chum.
	I dropped my knife and fork – perhaps dropping the knife wasn’t such a smart idea – and the warm brussel sprouts I was just chewing dropped out of my mouth in a mushy, wet paste. I stood for a moment watching this animal like creature – that I loved – eating, literally eating her own child. I couldn’t move. I wasn’t afraid of her, but I was afraid of what she was going to do next as I cautiously looked over at Charlie –whom was even aware of an irregularity in his dinner time schedule.
	I couldn’t understand why Theresa was doing this, and I began to run towards the front door as I mouthed “I’m sorry,” to Charlie as an cue for him to start crying.
	My mind was racing – even moreso than my legs were – and my face was burning as if I had been the recipient of an acidic facial wash.
The door was bolted shut.
	I realized I was fucked, when I heard a gun-shot ring out from the confinements of the kitchen. I sat in the dark corner beside the front door, and looked around for anything I could potentially use to kill myself with. It’d be better than the fate that awaited me – like the fate that awaited by Samuel. I closed my eyes, and leaned back against the wall; there was nothing I could use.
	I heard familiar footsteps. However they sounded different, as if she was limping or staggering her walk. The delicate sounds of a woman whom I loved walked towards me. Theresa emerged into the foyer – I was surprised a Hick Family like the Greyan’s even had a foyer – and paused for a moment.
	Her blouse and slim fitting pants that were once upon a time blue and grey, had now turned red and brown – undoubtedly by the paints of Samuel’s bodily fluids. By this point I had opened my eyes already if that wasn’t clear, despite my vulnerability I needed to know what was happening – as if knowing what was happening would fuel my ambition to live.



rparmar