"I Zombie I" is the story about a journalist who becomes infected by a zombie and decides, with Pulitzer in his eyes, it is his duty to chronicle his every experience. With paper, pen, and digital recorder Jacob documents the first ever "zombification." During this "evolution" Jacob becomes the leader of a small group trying to discover the cure for the infection and escape the apocalypse.
"The virus has spread." In a moment of pure chaos, the majority of the Earth's population has become the walking dead. One man promises to help bring the truth to light. "The lies have spread." When journalist Jacob Plummer is infected, Jacob turns to the written word to not only ease the pain of change, but to bring to surface a truth far deeper and deadlier than anyone could have imagined. "The truth must now be spread." With some new friends, Jacob helps to fight off the growing undead horde in hopes of saving himself and the planet from the rot growing within.
Excerpt
Some of our motley little gang didn't take the news very well. Susan blew up at Godwin for even suggesting the idea. The doctor chased after Susan, most likely to explain the scientific gains from my 'zombification,' as Susan was wont to put it.
Z O M B I F I C A T I O N
If said slowly, it was made even more foreign than it was when seen written on paper. I read it and spoke it over and over again, in slow motion. Why? Because right now, everything I felt was in slow motion, as if the world was creeping by without purpose or meaning. Each breath stretched out, minute by minute, until my lungs realized they hadn’t sucked in that life-giving gas for far too long. My brain forgot to tell my eyes to blink, so my eyes hurt from drying out. My lips were severely chapped. My heart would slow down to the point where it was almost impossible to be sure it was beating any longer.
Slow me down.
Z O M B I F I C A T I O N
Zombify me.
I, Zombie, I.
Yes, another pop culture reference that most wouldn’t get.
Chiasmus. Balance. Order. Inverted parallelism. I would slowly become my very own chiasmus: an inverted parallel of myself. Undone. Folded inside out.
Bethany cried. I was touched by her sentiment. I tried to comfort her, but the harder I tried, the more emotional she became. Eventually, and without warning, she took off as well.
I was left alone. I didn't miss the irony there. Hell, that same irony just ran up and smashed me in the face. That irony crept up my leg and clamped its vicious fangs on my testicles. Even the thought gave me the chills.
I hated getting the chills.
So there I was, standing in the middle of the mess hall, having told the sum total of our little group that I was willingly going to allow myself to become the very thing we were all running from in order to find a cure to save the world, and everyone else seemed to need comforting but me.
I spelled out that irony, just in case it didn't get the chance to crawl up my leg and bite my other testicle.
I wasn't sure what to do next. I couldn't have a snack, which was what I normally did when faced with a challenging situation. My comfort food was two slices of whole wheat bread holding in one seriously thick layer of crunchy peanut butter. The only problem was that I knew I'd be able to hold down that tasty snack for about thirty seconds before it would insist on coming back for an encore. And I hated throwing up more than I hated biting irony. So consuming any snack was absolutely out of the question.
Consuming. Great. A thought popped into my head. How long would it be before the human brain became my one and only comfort food? And for the love of all things fatally sardonic, if I was going to dine on one of our crew. Don't let it be Bethany. For the first time in a long time, I felt I had a chance for something real. Unless, that is, I chomped on her gray matter first.
How was that for irony?
I briefly entertained the idea of chasing after Bethany, but as I knew how little I really understood the human female, I decided that would probably be a serious mistake. Instead, I chose to go back to Room 77. I figured maybe a little news could help. Hell, even seeing that everyone else's situation was just as dire as ours would help to choke down the bitter pill of despair we had all been forced to ingest.
On my way to Room 77, a thought crossed my still-processing brain. Eventually, the doctor was going to have to lock me up, otherwise I would wind up ripping everyone to bits to get to that delicious creamy center.
"Shit! That blows." My frustration was starting to seriously compound.
Another jerk of my head caused me to toss a splatter pattern of drool onto one very beige wall. I continued on down the hall of beige-ness, but stopped momentarily to bemoan the fact that I wasn't ready to go full-moaner yet. That thought urged me to run to the bathroom, grab a towel, and clean up the mess I had made on the wall. I would retain as much humanity as I could for as long as I could.
Fuck! I just wasn’t ready.
