This is part two of my unfinished zombie story.
I was on the fourth floor – a walk-up, not that elevators worked anymore – of a four floor building. I had moved up after most people abandoned their places. I was previously on the first floor but moved up before the electricity even went out.
In the first few days a city-wide evacuation notice was given. They televised the destruction of all of the bridges leading into Manhattan. It was useless I remember thinking at the time, it seemed to be a worldwide infection from the TV coverage, but I’m sure the proverbial “they” wanted to seem like they were doing something about the problem. Many had the idea that this would a quarantinable situation. While the cameras were still running that looked like the idea. Helicopters air dropped the walking corpses onto Manhattan island before culminating that first week with a well punctuated bomb. Manhattan was reduced to rubble resembling blackened hills instead of a chiseled skyline. A thousand times worse than any terrorist attack.
The halls of my building were decorated with bloody handprints turned brown. I always wondered why there were so many unnecessary handprints on the walls in horror movies. I don’t wonder anymore. It has become second nature to climb over corpses with half or no heads. At least the news gave us that much useful information : Destroy the head.
The stench when I walk out of my building is overpowering. It could probably knock someone of lesser constitution out cold. That is of course if you had not already lost the contents of your stomach – bordering on dehydration – or there was always getting eaten alive. You think that the city smells bad when it hasn’t rained for a few days in the middle of summer? Try walking among a world of decaying flesh. It’s one thing no one thinks about.