Attack of the Living Alive
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Attack of the Living Alive
Afterward,
people would tell me that they remembered where they were when the news first
hit. It was a mantra, some sort of tonic
that almost made things better; as if asking where you’d been or what you’d
been doing when it happened made it more real, more manageable. It was bullshit. Just another way for people to bring it up, another
way to process the trauma of what had happened without directly asking for the help.
And where had I
been?
I’d been in the
supermarket, holding a can of Worm-Away in my hand and a basket on my arm. It was a vivid memory burned into my
brain. Or what was left of it. My brain, that is. And I even remembered what was currently in
the little wire cage I held; there was some hair freshener, anti-bacterial gel,
tweezers (for those annoying little bugs that get under your skin),
moisturiser, and of course, the most essential items, a new set of needles and
some more thread in a variety of colours.
Of course, there’d
always been rumours about them. The Living. But they were only bogeyman tales. Bogus tales if you’d asked me before the
events of that day. The Living were just
tales to tell people to give them a little scare… and who doesn’t enjoy a cheap
scare? And that’s what they’d been to
most people. The Living were hiding from
us underground, sometimes in bunkers, sometimes in old nuclear test sites,
waiting. Waiting. Ready to strike when we least expected
it. A story to give a cheap thrill. And there were conspiracy theorists too, obviously;
those that believed categorically and earnestly that the Living were there,
scheming and surveilling us, and running our world behind the scenes.
The truth, as
always, had been a mixture of the two.
I’d heard the
news report coming from the nearby electronics aisle and, like a rat to the
pied piper, had followed the sound to my own dismay. It had begun with a rather ominous title
jingle, a tune that trilled and banged.
A tune that pulled me closer.
“Residents of a
village on the outskirts of London were evacuated early this morning amidst the
discovery of a recently abandoned….” The
news reporter was freshly repaired and preserved, with a familiar plastic sheen
over his grey skin; a procedure that most trendy celebrities couldn’t resist.
I hadn’t been
able to take my eyes off the screen.
Apparently, a
bunker had been discovered with its doors wide open. Evidence of tinned foods that only the living
ate; things such as chickpeas and hot dogs.
Ergh. It all sounded disgusting. Thankfully, not one Living person had been
spotted… at least, not yet. But they told
us to be vigilant. Just in case. The reporter started to reel off scare
mongering stories about the living being tougher than us, faster and stronger,
and if we saw one of them, to keep back from them, hide, and then call the authorities. The Living were dangerous. There was more; an expert joined the show, she’d
been hidden off to the side of the desk, and, with more scaremongering to fire
up the captive audience, said that the Living were a danger to our health, livelihoods
and our moral standards. And I believed
it wholeheartedly. How could I not?
And then the
vox pops started and I had to leave.
There was no way I was going to listen to the idiots they’d pulled off
the street talk about how scared they were.
As I walked away I could hear someone talking about how the Living were
going to take all our jobs…
Idiots.
All I wanted to
do now was get home and lock myself away until this all blew over.
I headed back
into the aisles and picked up some Tinned Animal Brains™, the last thing I
needed from my shopping list. I could
barely recall the taste of fresh human brain.
Everyone was raving about the animal brain these days. More hygienic. Ethical.
Back in the day, the Living hadn’t seemed so much of a threat, and we’d
all partaken of their flesh with no concern. I had to admit to myself that if they had returned,
I was a little curious of the taste inside their skulls.
I returned to
the aisles; there were still a few things I needed to pick up. Not too much.
Not this time. The last time I’d
come shopping I’d bought a little too much, and I was certain I hadn’t sewn my
arm back on straight. I grabbed what I
needed, including one of those little flat pine trees, you know the things I
mean, to hang round my neck, and headed to the checkout.
Ergh.
There was a queue.
Some things never
changed.
While I waited
I picked up some antifungal spray and some rat poison from the shelves nearest
the checkout. The latter was
particularly handy. Last thing anyone
wanted was to relax and suddenly realise a finger or toe was missing.
The line shuffled
forward. There was some twat ahead who’d
brought a trolley full of stuff to the ‘baskets only’ queue. Inconsiderate twat. It took him far too long for him to unload his
stuff onto the checkout (and bag it after it was scanned by the burdened checkout
worker) and he seemed to fumble about with every stuck action. And, oh god, he had coupons. Too many coupons. One after another was scanned and deducted from
the guy’s total; it took far too long.
The Living would’ve had time to destroy us all by the time the man had
paid and finally left the checkout.
Thankfully no-one
else in front of me was as inconsiderate and I was soon served.
“£19.68,” said the
girl behind the till. Her voice was nothing
but a drawl and her was pulled in a ponytail so tight that her scalp was starting
to come away from her forehead; I could clearly see the white of her skull
through the split. She cleared her throat. I’d been too busy concentrating on the half-baked
attempt she’d made to staple the skin back together. Metal glinted back at me as she swiped my credit
card.
I grabbed my
carrier bag full of goods and made my way to the exit.
As I headed to
my car, I suddenly had a feeling I’d forgotten something. I patted down my pockets. Yep. I
had my wallet (with my card), my car and house keys. I sighed to myself. It must’ve been something from my shopping
list. It was too late now; I was sure to
remember what it was by the time I walked through my front door.
I retrieved my
car keys from my pocket and walked around to the back of my car. I deposited my shopping and closed the boot. As it shut, it seemed to make a louder, harsher
sound than normal.
And then I heard
the screaming.
I turned, slow
and careful, and there, standing in front of me, the Living. She looked fresh. Alive.
Angry. And holding a shotgun
aimed right at me.
I was on the
floor before I’d even had time to react, my ears ringing from the shotgun
blast, and my fingers found themselves touching the newly made cavity in my chest.
Goddammit.
Yes.
There was
definitely something I’d forgotten.
Poly-filler.
Attack of the Living Alive
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Attack of the Living Alive
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