The Followers: A Journal (Horror Story)

The Followers: A Journal

Chris Walters

 
February 28

I don't know which is worse, the moaning or the screaming. The dead were bad enough before, when most people were alive.

It's been so warm lately, like spring. Yippee.

Never did like life. Now life is just like I always thought. Wonder what my shrink thinks now. Since Ford closed the plant, the walking corpses are almost redundant in this town.

I'm glad I took this apartment. The UPS truck took out the stairs. They can't get up. The ones with bodies at least.

I have food for 2 weeks. I have meds for 2 months. And booze.

Phone quiet, but works. No one I want to call.

Migraine. Took 3 and 3. No ice. Fuck the speed bumps.

Sleep.

March 4

I hate them. My pills. Because they wear off. Head screaming, but not migraine. Yay. Silver lining. Could be worse.

Sunny day. Again. Was wishing for better weather before. Murphy's law or something.

Looked out my window today. Big change. Big mistake. If they see me…

Yesterday didn't get off floor. Didn't want to see…

I hear them. They are stumbling through downstairs apartment. Neighbors? Maybe. Maybe eaten.

Turned on TV. Still some people alive, broadcasting.

I wish they would stop talking to me. The other they. I can't help them now. Not that I ever wanted to.

I used to hate hospitals. One would see me react, and I'd have a parade following me.

The doctors gave me meds because I kept screaming at no one. I wish it was no one.

I'm too conscious. Plenty Southern Comfort to fix that.

March 4, later

He got through my SoCo and med mix. Asshole. Young Cop. Cute. My type, strong, forceful, but a gentleman. Too bad I didn't meet him before.

Woke up to

"Ma'am? MA'AM?"

Said what the fuck. He told me I was the only person alive in the whole town. I said I knew by the noise.

Asked if my phone worked. Said yeah. Asked if I would please call someone for him. Saw wedding ring. Told him no. He begged. Said he'd do himself but…

He cried.

I said what's her name. Called. No answer.

He left 10 minutes ago. More SoCo.

March 11        

Talked to cop's wife today. Random chance. Cop went off to find her. Poor asshole; they never hear each other. They could both be here and I'd still have to pass messages. Like notes under the desk in Jr. High.

Eating one meal a day, rest of nutrients from booze. Too much sugar in SoCo; I'm manic now. Won't sleep for the next week. They'll get louder.

Gas is off. Big explosion across town yesterday. Might have something to do with it.

No gas means no sure way out. Can't do my wrists. Eeeeew. Wish I still had bullets, but Robbie took them away when he walked out on me.

When I'm down to a weeks meds I'll take them all. Fuck this. Fuck a bunch of this.

March 13,      

Most of the dead are heading down the 96 toward Detroit. It's getting quiet now. It's the plant closing all over again.

Finally looked out the window again.

Stragglers. 5 or 6. Broken bodies, missing legs, or broken backs. Crawling.

The ones who died old were clean. Young ones had ghosts.

Murder always makes them louder, and the world is all murder now.

Strong young black man, looked fresh, maybe dead yesterday. No meat on legs. Ghost following body screaming; trying to tear out hair. Jesus, man. Just accept it.

I was leaning on balcony, SoCo bottle slipped. Man's body turned toward sound, started crawling. Ghost looked. I looked away, pretended not to see him. Too late. They don't know how to, but they do. They just want to be somewhere and are. Would have dropped bottle if hadn't dropped it already; ghost appeared next to me.

"Please help me! I need to find…" They always say that; always have.

What?

"My kids…"

Can't help. Phone dead.

"They're in a truck over on Ten Mile. It's not that far."

No gun, no car. Too far. Go to them yourself.

"I can't!"

Stop being an asshole. Decide to be with them. You will be. That's how it works.

Argued 20 minutes. Finally he tried. Blinked out.  Had a vision of him alive, crawling under trucks back door when caught. That's why legs were all gone. Family dead next.

Big drink now.

March 13, later

Nothing cuts through booze like children crying. Dad's body was still hanging around outside building, making noise, trying to crawl up wall. Tiny little zombies came from direction of Ten Mile. I want to forget their wounds. SoCo doesn't help with that. Banging head on wall doesn't help with that.

Bodies followed by tiny beautiful little ghosts. Sweet kids, crying. I started. I always hated the kids. They couldn't understand any of it.

Little ghosts followed by big ghost. Dad. He only saw bodies.

Dad appeared next to me and said

"I found 'em." Cried. They are so fucking loud. Crying doesn't help them either, gives them no release. But like everything else about the new situation, they don't get it.

Said to him I know. They are like you, following their bodies.

"I can't see them…"

I know. It's like that.

Conversation went on for a bit. Fucker got me crying again. I hate that loss of control. Like puking.

Kids' ghosts heard me, appeared.

"Why'd daddy…?" Ugh.

The next half hour sucked. Passed messages back and forth. Crying, shrieking, wailing. Ghosts made some noise too.

Finally left. Kids just faded. Dad is still outside, taking swings at his meat. Post Mortem male stereotype. Heh.

Took 3 and 3, then 2 more each.

Just came to. Dad gone. Body still hungry, scratching at the wall. Same with kids.


March 23(?),        

I've been indulging too much with pills. Down to a week already. SoCo is low too.

Looked in mirror. Dreads are starting. Hate those things.

Head hurts. Thinking about my suicide plan. Got cold feet. One of the nuns from school said suicide is self-murder. Murder makes the most ghosts. What if I stay attached to my body? What if my body gets out the apartment, and starts eating people? I'd have to watch my meat make a meal of others. Fuck that.

New plan: I'm going to try to find a gun. Some of the neighbors had them. Head towards Canada, towards the cold.

I have to live. I have to.