Zombie: A classic Tale of Revenge

It awoke.

Blurry. Everything seemed all blurry. It sat up. Something…on its chest. Something vibrant. Red. Yes. It was red. It touched the redness, and the colour spread onto its fingers. Interesting. It could not recall much. Just a name, and a face. Jack Hall. Something… with the name. An emotion. Hate. It hated Jack Hall.

Then it noticed the hole. There was a hole in its chest! It poked its fingers inside it. They came out red. Red like the red on its chest. A faint memory stirred within its brain; a gun, and a loud noise. That was the last thing that had happened. And before that? Blankness. It knew nothing of its past.

The redness was sticky. Blood. The word entered his mind. It was blood. It was so vibrant… so juicy. It resisted the temptation to lick its fingers. It had to wash it off. Why? It wondered. It was dirty, he decided. Yes. It had to be washed off. But where? It took a few wobbly steps, and fell down. It felt numb. Back… back before, it would have felt something. It was sure. What was the word?

It stood, and continued onwards. Into the shower. Pain! That was the word. It should have felt pain, when it fell. Yet it didn’t! It stripped off its clothes. They, too, were red. Then it stepped into the shower, and turned on the tap. Which was the hot one? It had forgotten. But it didn’t matter, it felt nothing.

It looked down at its body. Ah. It was male! He had forgotten. Yes, he was male. He stared up at the hot water falling down, unblinking. He felt neither heat, nor the wetness. It was as if he was encased in some kind of numbing shell, which prevented him from feeling anything.

Who was it? He. He was a man, he told himself. He must think of himself as one. Who was he? He tried to think of a name, or a personality, and found nothing. Only a face, a name, none of which were his. And a memory. The final moment. He thought of things as now, before and Before. Now was now. But before was when he had awoken. And when he had taken his clothes off. And when he had fallen. Before, with a capital, was beforehand. When he had been someone else. Then… the hole. The gun. He had been shot! Murdered! Someone had murdered him! Before!

Jack Hall. That was it. He remembered it now. Jack Hall had shot him. And now he was dead. But he wasn’t! Was he a ghost? He pinched himself, and felt nothing. But he felt the resistance. His arm was in the way of his other arm; they could not go through each other. So he was corporeal. Not a ghost then. He tried hitting the wall, to see if he could go through it. His fist smashed the tiles rather easily. He was satisfyingly strong. What should he do?

He glanced at the water. He was wasting it. He rubbed the blood off himself, and then stepped out of the shower, and slipped on the wet floor. Again; no pain. The hole in his chest was leaking, though. He would have to do something about that. A band aid? Too small. Perhaps he could tie some kind of bandage around himself?

He wasn’t breathing. He had only just realized. Before, Before he had had to breathe. Now he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t have to eat or drink, either! But, strangely, when he thought of eat, the redness came to mind. The blood. You didn’t eat blood, did you? It seemed a good idea, now. He glanced down at the blood running down his chest. No. He wouldn’t drink his own blood. Someone else’s, perhaps. But not his.

After rummaging through his cupboards for a while, he found a long white roll of bandage. He wound it around his chest – somewhat awkwardly, his hands were a bit clumsy – and used some sticky-tape to keep it together, as he couldn’t work a safety pin.

Now. What was he going to do? Revenge, of course. The answer came pretty easily; Jack Hall’s face was shining brightly in his mind. First, he had to dress. He managed to fit himself into some jeans, and found a red shirt – to hide any possible blood stains – and fit some shoes on. He was ready. He left his apartment, and found himself staring at the young man who lived in the apartment next to his. His neck…filled with blood…he couldn’t get the thought out of his head. Killing people is wrong! But was it? He was going to kill Jack Hall, after all. Another person wouldn’t do any harm, would it? No. This was between him and Jack. He didn’t want to kill anyone else. Just Jack. Jack had killed him. So he would kill Jack.

But he needed nourishment. He would find someone worthless, he decided. Someone living in the street. Or perhaps a thief. Thieves were bad. He exited the building, and walked down the road. Where was he going? A bad place. Where he could feed. Jack Hall. He was bad. He was in a bad place…but a different one. He was with lots of bad people. Here, he got confused. Had he himself been bad? He suspected that he might have been. It had to do… to do with Jack. And his death.

He had arrived. He was in the slums. He had to find someone…someone to eat. People avoided him, because he was so pale…he kept walking. He was in an alley. A man was there. Was this the man? The man he was going to feed upon?

“Give me your money!” The man yelled, eyes wide, brandishing a knife. The zombie approached him, staring blankly. The mugger panicked, and stabbed the zombie right in the gut.

A knife. It entered him, and came out red. He stared at it blankly. Normally, he would have died. This man had killed him. So he should also die. The zombie swung his hand hard and slapped the man so that he fell to his side, unconscious. The man was bleeding from a wound in the head. The zombie looked at him hungrily. He leant down, and snapped the man’s neck. Then he began to feed.

Finished, it wiped the blood off its face and hands using the dead man’s clothes. Then it stood. For a moment, he had been overtaken by an animalistic instinct… but now he was once more a man. And he was sated.

Now. Jack Hall. He had to pay. Whether it was the fresh meal, or perhaps some of the amnesia was lifting, but the zombie knew a bit more about his intended victim; he was part of an organization. An organization…known as…what was the word? The…mafia. That was it. Mafia. Lots of bad people.

Strange as it was, a location also came into the mind of the Undead creature; 42 Lonning Street. That was where Jack Hall was. For sure. He lurched out of the alley, barely noticing his red-shirt slowly soaking up the remains of his blood. How would he get there? The bus, of course. He paused. The bus? The bus. What was the bus?

Money. He needed money. He checked his pockets - where he would usually keep money - and found nothing. He went back to the dead man and went through his pockets. He found a black wallet. With money. Leering gleefully, he packed the wallet into his pocket, and went back to the main street.

He had to find a bus. He started walking. One came thundering past, but it didn’t stop, even when the zombie shouted, and moaned gutturally. The man in the alley had spoken. Could he speak, too?

“Juk Hul” he mumbled, then stopped.

“Jakk Haaall” he moaned again.

“Jack. Hall.” There, that was it. He could speak, after all.

He came to a place with lots of people and -- people. They were so vibrant and juicy; pulsing with blood. He vaguely remembered Before, and Before, his eyes had been better, he was sure of it. Everything seemed sort of drab and grey now, not many colours, and kind of blurry, as well. Perhaps his eyes were decomposing. Yes, that would be it. But his nose. His nose was far better than before. Probably so he could track his victim better. He could smell the blood pumping through the humans. And it smelled good.

Restraining himself, he waited. This, he decided, was the Bus Stop. He had vaguely remembered how to read, and had puzzled what the symbols on the wall said. The Bus would stop here. So he waited.

People stayed away. He was so pale. And his shirt was bloody, and had a strange gash in it. His black hair was untidy, and he looked half asleep. Some druggy, for sure, they thought, and shifted slowly to the other end of the bench.

The zombie didn’t care. Finally. The Bus. He had been getting hungry again. He stood in line, and climbed up.

“42 Lonning Street,” he moaned.

“Uh, that’s not part of my circuit, sir.”

“Money.” The zombie said, placing the wallet in front of the bus driver. He opened it, and saw the money, and seemed tempted.

“I’m sorry. You should try a taxi. Look, there’s one there.”

The zombie dejected, took its wallet and left the bus which promptly sped off. Taxi. The yellow car was a taxi. He approached it, hoping this would bring him there. He climbed in the back.

“42 Lonning Street,” he moaned.

“Sure, chief,” the Taxi Driver said, and started the engine.

Success! They were going! The zombie couldn’t help staring at the juicy, plump neck of the Taxi Driver, so he turned to the other side, staring out of the window. He was thinking. Trying to remember. Why had Jack Hall killed him? He was part of the Mafia. Bad people. But why?

He strained to remember, but everything seemed foggy. Even before, when he had first awoken, it was hard to remember. Was his brain decomposing? He thought frantically; he needed to know why he had died.

Words came to him. From Jack Hall. The last things he had heard before…before he had died.

“No one quits, Simon, no-one.” Bang. Dead.

Was he Simon? Had he quit the mafia? Good. They were bad people. But he had been one of them! Then he quit. So they must be bad. Jack Hall was supposed to die. That was what he knew. It was his purpose here. Everything else was unnecessary.

“We’re here,” The taxi driver said.

“That’ll be twenty bux.” The zombie opened the door, placed his wallet on the seat, and climbed out. The taxi driver stared at the wallet for a moment, grabbed it, and started counting the money inside. It was more than enough.

42 Lonning Street. Jack Hall was here. It was… a place, of the mafia. A mafia place. Not the place, of course, but a place. Jack Hall was here. He must die. He would die. Simon climbed the steps, and knocked three times on the door.

“Who’s there?” came a voice from inside.

“Simon.”

“Simon? I heard you got whacked.” He opened the door.

Simon swung his first, crushing the skull of the doorman. He hesitated for a moment, seeing the beautiful blood coursing down the doorman’s skull, but resisted the temptation, and went on. Jack Hall had to die. Jack Hall.

He rounded the corner, and almost ran into two other members of the mafia. He leapt at them, tackling them to the floor. They hit their heads on the polished floor and were still. A mafia hit man who had heard the noise came around the corner, saw the zombie and the guards, and drew his pistol.

The zombie charged at the man, but took three bullets in the chest before he was able to incapacitate the hit man with a swift blow to the head. His shirt was still dripping some blood, and was pretty much ruined. He bent over and picked up the gun from the corpse. Jack Hall. He had to find him.

He smashed through a wooden door and shot one of the two mafia members in the head with his pistol before they could do anything. Then he leapt at the other man, overturning the desk, and grabbed his arm. With a sick crack, he twisted it around and the man screamed in pain.

“Jack Hall!” he growled threateningly, and the man screamed.

“JACK HALL!” he yelled, and grabbed the man’s other arm.

“He’s upstairs, in his office! Oh god, please-“ Simon shot him in the head. He left the room.

Up the stairs. Disabled one more bodyguard. A plaque that read “Jack Hall” was nailed to the door. This was it. He smashed through the door and aimed his pistol at his killer.

Jack Hall was, in a word, surprised. His hands shot up, and he said:

“I have money. Lots of it. I can get it for you. Just don’t shoot me.” Simon’s mouth curled into an ugly sneer.

“Don’t you recognize me?” he slurred, grinning maniacally. Jack’s eyes widened.

“Ss-Simon?” he asked, turning pale. The zombie nodded.

“But…but you’re dead!” he yelled, backing against the wall. The zombie nodded again, and ripped the front of his shirt away, showing the four bullet wounds, and the stab wound.

Jack’s eyes widened even more, if possible, and he fell to his knees.

“I had to do it, Simon! I had to! They were gonna kill me!”

“I don’t care. You will die now.” The zombie murmured, and raised the gun.

“No!” Jack yelled, and leapt at him, just as the gun fired, and sent a bullet straight into Jack Hall’s chest, splattering blood on the wall behind him. He staggered back, and fell onto the desk. He was dead.

The zombie dropped the pistol, and gazed in wonder at the corpse of his killer. His purpose was fulfilled. He had done it. He had gotten his revenge. He had avenged his murder. The light faded from his eyes, and he fell to the floor, truly dead.