My Messed up Dreams

Story Five: Waking To Walking Dead

 Author/Weirdo who had dream note: This is pretty intense and slightly graphic in a description sense. I ended it harshly/straight to the point sort of way, because I feel I probably won't ever carry this story on, but I may. For now enjoy this short version of a rotting love story.

My eyes blinked open briskly, squinting at the change of glare. It was 3 am as said by the demonic alarm clock. The houses atmosphere was dead silent. I dragged myself from my sheets, rubbing my eyes as I made my way to the source of annoyance, which had woken me from my deep sleeping dreams. However they seemed more to be in the classification of nightmares. The small fishing town of Monterey Bay had been swept into a shady state. Reports of attacks, people going missing; homes trashed and invaded. Subsequently, media had a way with stirring fear into the minds of gullible fish folk. It’s a rebellion, some say. It’s an invasion from the Japanese, others proclaim. It’s rubbish, I say.

There was a continuous tapping and scratching noise rupturing from the front yard. It takes a lot to disturb me, especially in the early months of winter. For most people it’s almost impossible. Though somehow, the faintness of this mysterious tapping had managed to do just that. I had slumped all the way to the front screen door, brushing back the mane of dark hair cascading from my scalp. I strained to fully open an eye, placing it against the peep-hole.

Nothing.

With a shrug I swerved away, about to head back into my nesting place, when suddenly it echoed again. Tap, tap, scratch, tap.

A chill ran underneath my snug sweater and a mixture of irritation grew in place of fear. I cursed under my breath, the media induced paranoia that had captured me. I clambered back, shivering from the ice slick tiles, ripping open the screen door with a screech.  I scanned the yard, checking off what was meant to be there.

Two grey willow trees, hanging low over the low white picket fence. A loose pile of maple leaves which had drifted from the neighbour’s garden, sitting deceased in the corner of the frosting grass. A chore that I was meant to complete last autumn that had over time left everyone’s concern.

A sudden rustling silenced the rhythmic tapping. I didn’t flinch or even search around for its source. Tiredness was sucking away my ability to concentrate or take anything in. The dim street light highlighted everything’s outline. But there was nothing out of the ordinary that would have made those bizarre sounds.

Until a deathly cold embrace grasped my ankle, pulling my body down to collapse onto the unsympathetic cement. “Let go of me!” I shrieked, flailing my leg to loosen the clutch.

It didn’t budge. “Get off…” my words became lost; my eyes had finally got the message to me brain, the vulgar appearance of the creature. Its face bruised and bloody, sticky drool flowing over its blue lips. It looked like a man, but smelt of decomposing flesh.

Adrenaline was without warning released, making my leg instinctively spring into its face. He curled in pain as I fumbled breathlessly to the door.  I don’t know how that could hurt, he looked in more pain then before I attacked. However it also seemed I gave it a fright, for he limped away, leaving me gobsmacked and throbbing.  

…

I couldn’t go back to sleep. I just sat in the living room, hugging my knees to my chest.

I could have been killed by it. By a zombie? It had to be one, it seemed non-living. It smelt non-living. A distressing chill ran up my spine. The digesting paranoia was growing; I didn’t want to move from my spot. I just wanted to stay here, safe, away from outside.

“Charlotte, I need you to go pick up some milk!” an older woman ordered. “Get your lazy ass up and get dressed!”

My voice trembled as I summoned the words to reply. “Mum last night I was-”