I had to have been questioned and re-questioned by literally every available detective in the New York City Police Department. Must have told my story over a dozen times. Leaving out the bit about my stash of brains being stolen from my refrigerator, of course. If they were hoping something would change or I would crack under pressure, it didn't happen. However, I was nearing the end of my rope, it had been well over twenty-four hours and I was starving. It's not like they paused their interrogation to allow me to feed. Hey, Mr. Norrison you look hungry, why not pop over to our drunk tank and crack open someone's skull? Or why don't you check out our morgue, there's a couple of corpses in the meat locker, the coroner already processed them, he won't mind if you help yourself to some brains. Yeah. That's not a thing that would ever happen. Even if I told them that I was a zombie, on the verge of going feral. No, in that scenario, the best I could hope for is that they either assume that I'm nuts and ship me off to a psych ward, just in time for me to go rabid and I attack everyone in sight, or they take me seriously and someone shoots me in the head.


Oh but I could feel the hunger... overtaking me.


The last fragments of my sanity were hanging by a thread and I could smell their brains, like you might inhale the scent of choice cuts of meat in a butcher shop. The craving was overwhelming and everything inside me, screamed for me to simply let go and give in to the need. Yet, I hung on as a desperate man would cling to the edge of a roof on a high rise building, if he somehow stumbled and fell, at the last moment managing to grasp onto the ledge. Except this guy has been hanging there on that edge, for hours now. He's tired and his hands ache but he doesn't want to fall cause there's no coming back from that, so he does his best to maintain his grasp. Still the wind is picking up and it's starting to rain. There's another guy stomping on his fingers. Everything wants him to fall. He can't hold on forever, he knows that and yet he doesn't give up hope. That's exactly how I felt as I sat in that interrogation room. Sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees as they're pressed tightly into my chest, I close my eyes. My chin rests on the top of my left knee. I honestly don't know how long I can take this?


As that last thought passes through my mind, I hear the door open and I groan. Long and loud. It is truly a sound, reminiscent of a zombie from a classic horror film. Other than that, I don't move or even bother to open my eyes. They had to have sent every detective to talk to me already. There's no need for me to look at them anymore. It's just teasing the possibility of a fresh meal that I won't allow myself to consume. However, when I hear the chair pull out from across the table that separates us, I sense something... different. Lifting my head up slightly, I tilt it, while my eyes remain shut. No, there was something atypical, about this individual. Something dissimilar from the rest and distinct, yet not completely unrecognizable or unknown. Part of me not only distinguishes this individual as being out of the ordinary and rare but it also tells me there's a certain sense of familiarity and recognition. Then all at once it comes to me and the realization brings a small smile to my face as I open my eyes.





"Detective Mick Ashcroft."


Boy oh boy, was he a sight for sore eyes and I mean that both figuratively and literally, by the way. The closer I came to going primal, the more sensitive my eyes became. The harsh, florescent lights made them burn and forced me to squint.


"Bloody hell, you look like shit, mate."


His words draw a soft chuckle from me, I realize I must resemble an unholy creature from hell, at this point. On an average day, I normally can pass for a goth kid or someone that's really into emo. Perhaps an individual that's not too fond of the sun. On first glance, I'm certain one of these examples, supplies passersby and strangers with an answer, that explains my pale complexion to their satisfaction. The insatiable desire for brains that rips through me changes that though and the longer I deny myself sustenance, the more it drains on my appearance. Till I take on the look of a monster completely.


"I feel like shit."


My voice sounds dry and distant, while at the same time being rough and jagged. Like sharp rocks passing over gravel, during a sandstorm.


"Seems you've got yourself in all kinds of trouble. You're lucky I encountered one of the boys in blue that work for this precinct, running his yap about this mess down at the pub or else I would have never been able to interject myself into this matter. I work for the Brooklyn P.D you see and it's out of my jurisdiction. Lets just say it took a great deal of persuasion for me to get into this room, in order for us to even have this conversation. But I made them see it my way eventually and now, well they're happy as clams at high tide that I'm here to lend my much needed services."


"You hypnotized them and made them let you in here."


"Pretty much."


Mick grins and fires up a cigarette. Vampires are so cocky.


"Tell me Zane, did you really decapitate someone, like these fine men and women of the New York City Police Department, seem to think?"


"No."


"Yeah, I didn't think so. This type of brutality doesn't suit you. You might be a rotter and all but somehow, you don't strike me as the sort of man who could commit a violent crime like that. Even after I witnessed you almost start a zombie epidemic. Speaking of that, did you ever find out what came of that unfortunate dilemma?"


"Atticus Black, said he was going to talk to me about it and then, nothing happened. Other than that, I haven't heard anything. Although yesterday, I had to tend to the corpses from the accident that occurred on the expressway"


"I heard about that. The guy that caused the accident was high on bath salts."


"Except he wasn't. He was clean. The report that I gave to the chief of police, showed he actually died due to a virus of an unknown origin, seconds after the crash. Despite his severe injuries, they are not what killed him. There were also statements from first response units that indicated he freed himself from his vehicle after the crash. That he appeared to pass out and wake back up again. After which, he managed to release himself from the crunched up confines of his car and attempt to attack a medic. The guy was shot several times before a bullet to the head stopped him. That doesn't sound like a man that was simply high on drugs. No matter how crazy or intense those drugs were, I can't see them causing his behavior. There's only one thing that springs to mind that would do that."


"Turning into a zombie. I see. That is troubling. Do you think it's connected to what happened during our fight on Warfare?"


"I don't know but it definitely made me think. More than merely... think, actually. I was tormented. When I left work, I was still torturing myself over that very idea, utterly racked with guilt all the way home, only to find my apartment broken into and my stash gone."


"Stash?"


"My brain reserves. I work at a morgue, that's where I get my supply from usually but the accident totally killed my appetite, so I didn't take any brains home with me. Plus, I knew I had some leftovers, in my fridge. Enough for the night. Unfortunately, when I got home, I discovered my place had been broken into and upon further investigation, I seen that my supply was stolen. Minutes later a head crashes through my living room window. Wrapped up in a garbage bag. The police showed up after that and now, here I am."


"Here you are. How long have you been here?"


"I don't know. Over twenty four hours, I assume."


"Right and when was the last time you ate?"


"Well over twenty four hours ago."


"So we're on the brink of having a full on zombie attack right now?"


"Oh, I'm barely hanging on... by a thread. I honestly don't know how I lasted this long."


Mick merely nodded and then rose to his feet. Opening the door, he motioned for me to come with him and I immediately complied. Upon exiting the interrogation area, I observed that every detective in the next room, seemed to be busy, not paying us any mind as we strolled through and walked out the front door. Once outside, we both walked to Mick's car and simultaneously, got in. Resting on the floor of the passenger side was a black garbage bag. Based on the shape of what dwelled within that garbage bag, I knew exactly what was inside. The head from my apartment.


"I took that from the evidence storage before I spoke with you. This sort of case isn't meant for humans. For one staggeringly important reason, it's linked to you and allowing the world to know that zombies are a thing and very real, seems like it would only end in disaster. Resulting in mass hysteria and panic. Something the likes of which, even the great George Romero couldn't have done proper justice, when showcasing the event in one of his films. Horrors that surpass the human imagination. That's something I'm not in the mood to deal with. Not now, not ever. Anyway, I figured it might come in..."


I had already pulled the head from the bag and busted it open. Smashed my fist right through the skull. With fevered hands, I stuffed chunks of brain into my mouth. Devouring them practically whole. Not even wasting time with chewing.


"...handy."


Mick sighed.


"Where to mate?"


"The airport!"


I declared this through a mouthful of brains.


"You're joking."


"Nope. I have a match tomorrow night on Warfare. I'm defending my title against Alister Dante and Dillinger D'Marco."


"You have blood, gore and brain matter, all over your face."


Ceasing my brain consumption, I wiped my sleeve across my face.


"Oh wow, that's so much better. Why if I encountered you fresh on the street, the thought of you cracking open a human skull and feasting on it's insides, would never occur to me."


With a sarcastic snicker, he started the car and we drove off.

1x X-Treme Champ
1x Hart Champion
1x SOTM November 2018