I dreamt of Zombies

i dreamt of zombies


When I eventually found this I discovered that the diary it came from was long gone or hidden in the folds of an old phone.

However… What I did discover was that I was at some point, writing a book. Can you believe that? I can’t even remember doing it. I don’t think I was in a good place though or I was reading Chuck Palahniuk or both. Totally forgot I was writing a book. Jesus. Anyway here’s the zombie dream from chapter three. It’s a little different from what I remember but it’s here in all it’s gory (that was intentional gory not glory ok?). It might need to do a little rework if it was going to be filmed. Very narrator heavy. I dunno know maybe that’s part of the charm.



P.s. The photo came from here from this blog so all credit due. It’s a great photo. Paticularly love the geezer with the crazy look at the bottom just off centre (your left).



It’s always the same dream.

People eating people. Violence heaped upon violence. Remorseless. Unending. It never ends and there is never a way out.

Always the same house. Always the same time of day. The hot midday sun makes the dream all the more frightening. There are no shadows to hide in. For you or them. You always see them coming. Always the same balmy midsummer sun. Always the same outcome. Death

By now I’ve had the dream enough to skip past the intro. The slow low flying Stanley Kubrick helishot of the colonial style farmhouse or Ridley Scott’s creeping steadicam exploring the corridors of my creation.

Sometimes I seqway from another dream into this one. I get up from fucking Naomi Cambell, sticky from the fantasy fuck and the reality of the wet dream, I go to the bathroom only to find myself back at the house.

My house.

And I know I am back.

This is a recurring nightmare of which I’ve been trying to solve for twenty years. I am unaware of  much in the dream, only that I have done this before. Many times. The sense of Deja-vu is the stench of sweat in the warm wooden farmhouse. The sullen smell of my previous attempts to get free. My many attempts to get free. I see the corner in which I first had my guts ripped out eaten by decaying corpses and fresh cadavers. Over by the window my head removed whilst I struggled with the lock. The stains of my past deaths only there in memory but the house is littered with them.

It’s all too real and there’s no hitting fast forward once I start moving. Everything that must happen will happen.

For a while I tried doing nothing. Stand my ground. Don’t play this game of a dream. Wait out the dream until I wake or the A.D.D. kicks in. The one time I tried it the dream waited. Perversely patient it has all the time in the world. I am standing on the faint stains of that previous death now just a water mark on the exposed wooden floor.

I know now that I am not allowed to change dream or wake up until I play. Doing nothing is no solution. Always keep moving. I know this now.

I also know that in the cupboard in the corner of this bedroom is a loosely plastered wall that leads to the spaces between the walls. The first time I was gentle and quiet, but this took too long and I never got close to escaping. I can still feel their rotten teeth on my flesh. The muscle memory of being torn apart still with me.

They will hear you. If you try your luck they will test your luck and you will fail.

The house always wins.

The third time I tried the cupboard I smashed through fast enough to close the cupboard door behind me and buy me some time.

The bastards can run, but round door handles slow them down.

So far they haven’t discovered the passages. But if I take it I also know that by the time I get out the dusty labyrinth and I’m onto the roof I am exposed and the creatures on the hill would have seen me.

And some of them are fast. Really fast.

Most feel no pain. That makes them faster. And the fresh ones are really fast. You can’t outrun something that will run so hard it will rip it’s out tendons to get at you or rub the flesh from their boney fingers as they scrape through heavy oak doors. You can’t outrun them. Not for long.

Gotta move. Where? The furthest I have ever got was the tree line. I skirted around the edge of the river and up to the road where I crawled through a storm drain and under the road of undead refugees shuffling along. A sea of broken flesh and bones looking for their next fix or just going through the motions – mustn’t be late for work. I made it to the other side of the road but one of them spotted me and then they all came.

I peak over into the vent. I don’t remember a vent. On the other side is a kitchen. Don’t remember the kitchen. Something new?

Every now and again I discover something new.

Every now and again it’s something big.

I hear a pot clang against another. Shuffling.

Never had a weapon in my dream. The kitchen will have knives.

I slowly pull myself up and peak through the little window over the door. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. Several pots are still moving. Drawers are pulled out, cutlery and junk struned across the black and white tiles. Someone was look for something.

The dead flesh stumbles back in the room, it’s hand stuck in a drawer handle which in turn is still attached to the drawer itself. The dead flesh doesn’t care for its new addition and it tries to shake it off. It’s arm is so bent and broken that the draw is staying as fixed as a six pack’s plastic ring on a foxes head.

The flesh loses it’s temper and tries smashing the drawer off, but it’s broken arm is no use and it flails around like a child pretending to have a broken limb.

I slowly lower myself and shake out my own arms allowing the blood to return.

Time is running out. Gotta make a decision. Try the kitchen or try the usual path. A path that is getting better and better. I feel that if I can make sanctuary then the nightmare will end.

I do not know this, but you’ve got to hope.

Problem is when there’s something new it’s there to distract me.

But there was definitely a knife and a clever.

And I’ve never had a weapon before.

I know it’s a trap.

But what the hell. It’s only a dream.

I wake up clutching my stomach. It still hurts. I still feel the warm blood on my hands. My bedsheets are soaked and I feel the steam rising from me and it takes a moment of courage to find the light switch.

Slowly I become human again. Slowly reality calms me down. I’m back. It’s over and my belly is whole. The feeling of blood is simply clammy hands.

Damn! Nearly had that clever.

I go to the bathroom and wash my face. The cold water refreshes and soothes. My heart wont stop pounding my chest. It gets louder and louder – harder and harder. I take some deep breaths and try to calm myself.

I am getting colder.

The breathing doesn’t work. I don’t calm down. My heart slamming against my ribs like a loonatic in an old movie.

And It’s getting really cold.

I go for more water, cold water I throw it on my face but I see that the water is turning red. I try to turn the taps off but they have no effect -the water becomes wine which becomes sticky warm steaming blood.. The door handle turns left and right. The door rattles as someone tries to get in. The sound of the toilet becomes deafening. My heart pounds and pounds and I swear I can see the damn thing thumping it’s way out of my chest. It hurts! I put my hand over my heart to stop it exploding. Blood squirts from between my fingers. I collapse to the floor grasping my leaking exploding chest. The lights flicker on and off and the water is clear again.

She stands over me. Trying to get me up.

She strokes my head and cups my face. I blink and she is gone.

The door is still rattling.

I open the door to my flatmate, who looks at me without sympathy.

“Sleepwalking again?”

Yeah, I reply. We trade places and I leave.

“Hey! Is this yours?” The flatmate calls me back. The flatmate is holding the bloody clever. The clever from the kitchen.

I blink and he’s taking a piss

What did you say?

“I didn’t say anything”

I walk back into the lounge and sit down with the other fuck heads and do another line of K. This time I will have happy thoughts.

I make it as far as the kitchen before I hurl.

Categories: Short Story (Prose)

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