An old lady Z in a ratty housecoat, the puffs of hair left
on half of her head still sporting pink curlers, her mouth ringed with blood
like she'd missed while applying her lipstick, limped toward us from the
opposite direction.
She stumbled along, taking mincing steps in dirty pink
slippers. A small plastic handbag dangled from a chain around her arm. I
watched her progress, unable to shake the thought of somebody's grandma heading
to a tea party before she went missing.
Carm's poke at my arm barely registered, my focus solely on
Grandma Z shuffling along. "Bec? You good?" my cousin asked.
I shook my head, but didn't trust myself to answer. My eyes
blurred and got a little moist. I'd never expected this sudden stab of emotion.
Up until now the Zs hadn't bothered me, but this little old lady was different.
She could've been anybody's charming little grandma who unfortunately had
somehow become infected.
I couldn't do it. Not this time.
As if she sensed my hesitation, Grandma Z gave another
little growl and reached for me with chubby hands, her fingers pocked with rot,
bits of bone sticking out. I stared at her and screamed when Carm pushed me
aside. "Bec, watch out!"
Carm pumped her gun, the paintballs hitting the senior Z
full in the face. She made mewing sounds like a baby and grabbed at her
dripping flesh.
It was too much for me. I averted my gaze. The sight of her
agony and the reality of her body falling to pieces bothered me like it never
had before.
This was actually an emotional part for me to read. For some reason you don't picture little old ladies with curlers and handbags as zombies. Out of all the zpoc books I've read, you were the first to bring up this reality! :-)
ReplyDeleteWow, thanks for that comment. For some reason, she came to mind. Awful thought I know... but I saw her with those curlers... I think a lot of books are too concentrated maybe on the gore alone, and not "who" all the zombies really are? Sometimes they have to evoke some pity, at least a little...
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