ContamiNation

Infection

Diamma/Jolyne

Damn, I wish I had a sword, I thought as I stabbed another zombie through the eye. It was just me and Phil slashing the things. Though they were zombies they weren't like the Hollywood zombies. The things died like humans. If I stabbed it in the heart it died in around three to five seconds. Head was instant. Major artery was about a 30 seconds to a minute depending on where the artery was. The zombies didn't rise again but other than that—the hunger, the stupidity, the balancing issues, the growling and snarling—it was the same. These zombies also seemed to have absorbed all other infections; if it were properly alive all the wounds on the body would have been infected and should've killed it by now. But none seemed to die from the infections that they should've had.

As I sliced the throat of another zombie with one of the daggers Phil gave me earlier—he brought so many from his house we could form a miniature army if we had the people—I realized that unless the zombie suffers a mortal wound, a wound that didn't need and infection to kill, it continued to 'live'.

Phil fought off somewhere to the right of me. Last I saw he was taking down two at once. He had more weapons training so he was fully capable of using the weapons he'd strapped to himself. I avoided looking at him for the most part because of his skill with that sword of his—I think he called it a Falchion—and every time I even glanced at him I became mesmerized. He'd offered me one of the easier to use swords—a machete, a beautiful claymore—but during practice I tended to do the same move over and over, and it wasn't even a useful move, so I said no. Plus, I liked the intimacy of the long daggers, and the duality of having one in each hand.

The daggers that Phil gave me were about as long as my forearm. The blade part was as long as my forearm without my hand. And the hilt was the length of my hand. It wasn't particularly jeweled or 'beautiful' but it was nice-looking; a leather grip, smooth and sharpened blade, strong hand-guard­—or quillion, and looked simply aesthetically pleasing and dangerous.

And as I stabbed into another zombie's eye, I felt powerful. Like I lived in the medieval or renaissance times and was a super amazing knight or warrior.

The car alarms were deafening but they were doing the trick; attracting every zombie within the nearest few blocks. Some were missing hands, feet, or had rope burns across parts of the body, as though they had restrained themselves like that news site had said to do if you got infected, and ripped through the bonds from the need to follow the sound.

"Diamma, behind you!"

I spun, my chin length curly hair blocking my vision for a second, coming face to face with a zombie. Not giving myself enough time to look beyond the bloody face and open mouth I put one dagger behind the neck and the other in front. Pushing them into the skin I pulled my daggers out, slicing the neck though.

I turned to the whirlwind and said, "Thanks."

Phil nodded. I thought that by now his silly camo bucket hat would've fallen off—even with the strap under the chin. Between his hat, his long dark green parka, and his green Bermuda shorts I'm surprised he's lasted for so long; he had more training with fighting and weapons though.

Together we got through every zombie in the near vicinity until the entire street was littered in bodies. The car alarms just kept on going.

Taking a deep breath I asked Phil, "Where are Chris and Giev? They said they wanted to help, if not fighting then scavenging."

"I don't know." He shook his head and started of cleaning his sword with a clean part of a zombie's shirt. "Sharp left."

"I know. I said bye. She wanted to sneak away." I laughed lightly, and handed back his daggers. "That worked out well for her, didn't it?"