Out in his police car, he picked up the mic and, even though he knew he would sound crazy, he requested an APB be issued for the man that had been described to him.
“You should be sitting down for this one, Sarge. We need to be on the lookout for a cross between a smelly zombie, the Grinch, and Wally from Where’s Wally.”
8
To say that Arnold’s family reunion hadn’t gone well would be a gross understatement. In fact, gross was the perfect word, as that is exactly how Keira had described him to the police officer.
His daughter had screamed when she saw him and his wife had tried to kill him. They didn’t even recognize him. It had only been six weeks or so since they’d last spent time together watching TV – surely he couldn’t have changed much in such a short space of time? He thought about going back to the cottage and trying to talk to them, maybe calm them down and reason with them, but he knew in his heart that it would be a waste of time.
So, where should he go? What should he do? Clearly, he couldn’t go home. He had friends in the village but, if his own wife and daughter didn’t recognize him, how could he expect anyone else to? He had nowhere to go.
Maybe Keira was right – maybe he was a zombie. But zombies were hungry for human flesh, weren’t they? And – although he hadn’t eaten for weeks – he wasn’t hungry. If he were a zombie, he’d have ripped his family apart to satiate his hunger but all he’d wanted was a cuddle. No, zombies don’t want cuddles. Ergo, he couldn’t be a zombie. He wasn’t hungry and had no desire to eat people.
He’d have to move away, far away. To stay in his village would be too painful for him. Every day he’d run the risk of seeing Gillian or Keira, maybe both. And he wouldn’t be able to communicate with them – he’d probably scare the shit out of them if he tried. No, the best thing to do would be to start afresh, a long way away. That’s what he would do.
But first, I want to see my grave. The proper one. Not the one in the woods.
Gillian had allowed the doctors to turn off his life-support machine, so she must have thought he was dead – that would explain her horror when he turned up at their house unannounced. If people thought he was dead, then they must have buried him, properly, though, in a coffin, in the village cemetery.
It didn’t take him long to get to the graveyard. After his family’s reaction, he decided to keep out of people’s sight so a ten-minute walk turned into a twenty-minute walk, ducking and diving behind bins and fences sporadically so that he wouldn’t frighten anyone else. It wasn’t a large cemetery and it wasn’t hard to find the plot where he was supposed to have been buried.
He looked at the tombstone and read the epitaph to himself.
Arnold Leadbetter, loving husband and father. Gone but not forgotten.
He had to admit that he was a little disappointed at the inscription; it wasn’t very original. Very boring and matter of fact, actually.
Is that the sum of my life? I was born, I got married, I had a child, I loved my family, and then I died?
He felt saddened and disillusioned. He thought his life meant more than just that. It did to him, anyway.
It suddenly occurred to him that if he was above ground, visiting his own grave, then somebody else – a stranger – must have been buried in his place. He didn’t know why, but he felt violated. He pointed at the mound of earth.
Who are you and what are you doing in my grave?
Of course, there was no response. The usurper – an unidentified vagrant – was well and truly dead.
Arnold looked up at a nearby tree where a song thrush was singing loudly, trying to attract a mate. A butterfly – a Red Admiral – fluttered in front of his nose before flitting off in the opposite direction. The graveyard was busy with small woodland animals and insects. Arnold thought it ironic that a resting place for the dead was so full of life. He made a decision. He would let nature take its course. If the Universe wanted him dead, then who was he to argue? But, at least, he would be in his own grave this time.
Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain in his neck. He spun round and uttered the first words he had spoken in over five weeks.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
9
Arnold wasn’t sure what had shocked him most – hearing his own voice outside his head for the first time in weeks or the fact that there was a man standing in front of him, with brown viscous liquid dripping from a pair of previously gleaming white fangs.
The man stared at him, saying nothing for a good ten seconds before finally uttering his own response to what he was seeing.
“What the fuck?”
Arnold put his fingers to his neck.
“You bit me!”
The man shook his head.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You bloody bit me. Hard.”
The man looked sheepish.
“I slipped. The ground’s pretty slippery here. Haven’t you noticed? It’s been snowing.”
Arnold felt violated.
“You don’t slip and accidentally bite someone in the neck, whether it’s been snowing or not. That doesn’t just happen. You meant to bite me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, yes I did. But I can assure you I wouldn’t have bitten you if I’d known what you were.”
“What do you mean, what I am.”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know. What am I?”
The man couldn’t believe that Arnold had no idea what he was.
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Why. What would I see?”
“A zombie, friend. A zombie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a zombie.”
“You bloody well are. You’ve got the greenish reddish skin tone, the smell of a zombie – you really need to get hold of some deodorant – and…”
“And?”
“You’ve got bits missing.”
Arnold didn’t want to believe his assailant, but being a zombie would explain a few things.
“Missing? Like what?”
“Put your finger in your eye.”
Arnold raised his right hand and put a finger to his right eye.
The stranger watched closely.
“Move your finger closer until it touches your eye.”
Arnold had never had a problem with touching his own eyes, so he did as he was told.
The man seemed satisfied.
“Now touch your left eye.”
Arnold didn’t see the point of the exercise but went to do it anyway.
“WAAH!”
Arnold’s finger went deep into his left eye socket. He swirled it around in the vacant space and then danced around as if he were jumping on hot coals.
“Where’s my eye? Where’s my eye?”
He looked around on the ground for the missing eyeball. The stranger shook his head.
“You’re wasting your time looking for it. It’s probably been eaten.”
“Eaten? What would have eaten my eye?”
“I don’t know. Insects, rats, bugs. Who can tell?”
Arnold had to concede that perhaps his attacker was right. Maybe he was one of the living dead.
“Am I really a zombie?”
“Afraid so.”
That would explain Gillian and Keira’s reactions. No wonder they were afraid. He would have been too, in their shoes.
“Christ. I must look terrible.”
The stranger had to agree.
“You’ve certainly seen better days, I’m sure.”
He held out his hand towards Arnold.
”The name’s Trevor. Trevor Higginbottom.”