So I decided (backed by boredom, and alcohol, like everything these days) to do Sci-fi. Now I’m not nearly done, but I’ve decided to post a very (very) short excerpt. It’s riddled with spelling errors (blame the alcohol), so you’ll just have to forgive me. Anyway, enjoy.
Being a zombie in a third world region is very difficult. To be honest, being anything in a third world region is difficult. But, a zombie, the scum of the earth, is even worse on the discrimination scale than being a woman or a homosexual. Unfortunately, I tick two boxes out of three on the damn scale.
I used to work as a carder at one of the few banks that obeyed the world government directive to hire zombies. Of course, the world government did not refer to us as zombies in the memo; the memo said Slowlings, the politically correct term to refer to us as. But it’s a third world region, it wouldn’t be third world if it was politically correct.
I was fired when a customer threw a tantrum after I bit him. It wasn’t my fault, really. I was trying my best to attend to him. The idiot had maxed out his currency card–how does anyone empty their currency card really?–and I was typing on as fast as I could on the laptop to confirm his identity, and fill his his currency card with data. He began hissing, and even though I heard him clearly–he did it like four times–I totally ignored him and continued typing. Then he asked if I could go a bit faster, and I asked if he would have said the same to my colleague with down syndrome, and he just hissed at me. I mean, this fucking ugly dude was being rude for no reason at all. I continued to ignore him anyway, until he lept to his feet, and grazed his hands against the stone walls. Now, there are a lot of ways to provoke a zombie–I’m permitted to use that word for the same reason a black man is allowed to say nigga–but exposed blood will certainly get us agitated. You can his and I’ll compose myself. You can scream at me and I’ll continue typing (don’t try it with the others though). You can even spit at me – lol, I’m joking, I’ll eat you. Anyway, so this guy injures himself, and instead of just sprinting away, he stands there and stares at me. I mean he just holds up his arm, standing on that same spot, and stares at me with his mouth wide open.
I smell the blood before I see it. I’m typing on my computer and I smell the sweet smell of blood iron. I cast my eyes towards him and see his mouth agape. I see his bleeding arm and inhale deeply. I stand and he says no. Well, now I know he says no but at that moment I just see his lips move. I climb over my table and over the iron bar and he still stands there, gaping at me. He obviously wants this as much as I do. He must be one of those zombie groupies I only hear about but have never encountered. I am grabbing his arm and he doesn’t resist. He just stares and murmur inaudibly. I lick my lips, my blue tongue dropping spittle on his black arm. I stare at the crimson blood – oh, so beautiful. Been a while, I whisper. I lick, then bite. He screams, and people come rushing in. I’m on the ground with several feet kicking me. What have I done, I think to myself