Tween Zombie

  Life was fucking shit as a twelve-year-old boy. Yes, I have a fucking potty mouth. So fucking what? I’m a walking bag of bones. I think that now is the perfect time to swear and say what the fuck I want. I mean, if you can’t talk freely as part of the walking dead, when can you?

  You might think to yourself, what happened to this beautiful little zombie before to make him so jaded? To make him so furious at the world? Well, if that’s what you are wondering, then I will not hold back in telling you. Is this where I should put a trigger warning? I don’t fucking know, but strap in for a wild ride.

  People say to start a story at the beginning, but I’m fucking twelve. How am I supposed to know where the beginning is? Where it all started to go wrong. Was it when Shelly Martin turned me down when I asked her out after singing to her in front of the class? Maybe not, but that certainly didn’t do me any favours with my social life.

  I don’t think that’s the beginning, but I do know she has made it to my kill list at number five. I think that’s a fairly respectable place to be on any list. Yes, it might be your death number, but at least you get to know when I’m coming for you. Fuck you, Shelly. You didn’t hurt me enough to even make it to my number one spot. I might even move you further along if that will hurt more. Fucking skank.

  I could start with my wife-beating, child-hating dad, but don’t you think that’s the biggest cliché in the world? Oh, the poor boy has daddy issues. Nah, I just fucking hate that prick and he is a zombie now anyway. So that’s a pointless grudge to carry around. The same goes for dear sweet Mummzie. She was a massive cunt but is still walking around amongst us undead.

  Maybe I should talk about the teachers who humiliate me in front of my classes. Because they do have a massive part to play in my story. Then again, maybe not. Maybe their part is big but not the biggest. I mean, one of the bastards refused to let me go to the toilet, so I peed my pants. The fucking wrinkly old spunk bucket gave me a fucking for wetting myself while the whole class laughed. Some of those kids made my list.

  Do you know what? Fuck it. Everyone made my fucking list. No one was kind to me. No one spared me the time of day. So fuck it. I’m killing them all.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Let’s do this like an awards ceremony. Thank you to the virus. Without you, none of this would have been possible. I would like to kill my parents, but unfortunately, they’re already dead. So I’m going to go nine doors down the road and kill Gavin, my old babysitter. I will eat his liver raw after popping one of his plums in his mouth and the other up his arse. I never knew how much fun it was going to be not being scared. Now can I remember which house is Gavin’s? For some reason, things don’t add up.

  I want to play, but not with toys. Toys seem too complicated now. I used to love playing with cars and Lego. Now all I want to do is eat. I used to ride a bike, but now it might as well have square wheels for all the use it is. I wonder if all zombies feel like this when they first change—if they all want to kill and eat like I do. I wonder if my thoughts will slow down like my movements have. I was wrong about this. I am scared. I’m fucking dead, for fuck’s sake. I want my mum. Yes, she was a bitch, but she was still my mum.

  So I walk down the street like a zombie. Arms out, groaning, 'cause that’s all my mouth seems to be able to do, and my arms are out for balance. Plus, that’s what zombies do, right? I tried to make my groans say “brains” for a while, thinking it would be funny. It didn’t happen. I wonder if I had been older when the apocalypse happened if I would be a different zombie. You know, because I would have seen all the zombie films and series.

  I hadn’t been walking long, but there had been four distractions. A cat jumped out at me, scratched the shit out of my face, and fucked off at the speed of light. Someone was firing a gun—probably at some poor unsuspecting zombie. I hope they’re OK and eat the bastard. A man crashed a car into a house, which was fucking hilarious, by the way. Zombies piled on that car and then it exploded. Probably shouldn’t have found it funny, seeing so many of my kind on fire and in pieces, but I did. And last but not least, a woman with the perfect figure being chased by a dwarf and a few other zombies. That’s when I lost track of what I was doing and joined the chase.

  That woman could run. She should have been part of Team GB. When I was at school, I was not what you would call athletic or sporty. I was fat, greasy, and had an odour. People told me on a regular basis that I stunk. Running after this woman, I didn’t even break a sweat. Yes, I probably still stink like rotting flesh now, but I’m not even out of breath.

  When I caught up to the feast, there was one zombie that had her intestines in his mouth like a dog with a string of sausages from an old Tom and Jerry cartoon. Another zombie was running off with her head, and the dwarf… The dwarf looked like he was dry-humping her headless corpse and biting her tits. I needed to get my pound of flesh, and quick.