Of course people were scared. We used to enjoy it. Back in the good old days of Starbucks and H.B.O, we would flock to the cinema to see some hideously disfigured maniac gleefully tear through a pack of scantily clad teens. We would sit around campfires, relating tales of hook-handed killers and giant urban reptiles. We would strap ourselves into roller coasters and soar upside down at seventy miles an hour, screaming.
These days, when you heard screaming, you could be certain that it wasn’t because someone was enjoying themselves.
Fear had become something different in the aftermath. Instead of being something that we paid for, something we would actively seek out, it had reverted to something much more primal. Heart pounding, adrenaline surging, bitter copper taste in the mouth. Some people froze, which of course was the worst possible thing to do, given what they were so terrified of. My point is, everyone you met in the aftermath felt that way. Well, almost everyone.
Howard hadn’t been very popular before the dead started coming back, not that he had cared. Although he was initially charming and charismatic, others would soon realise that he boasted, lied, cheated, and stole. He absolutely felt an undeniable right to do anything he felt like doing. His personality disorder dictated that his own well-being was paramount above anything else, and most people found that extremely discomforting. He had a complete lack of empathy with any other human being, and was secure in the knowledge that he was superior to other people anyway. Fear as most people knew it was a condition that was alien to Howard, and the strongest emotional response he had when he saw his first zombie was mild surprise.
He had watched enough movies, and lately, heard enough drivel on T.V shows, to know what he was supposed to do if confronted, so when his neighbour started pawing at the front window, moaning and smearing blood across the glass, he simply raised an eyebrow. His neighbour, a tall, bespectacled man named Sadler, looked alright, but the set of his jaw, his moaning, and the fact that he was covered from head to toe in blood suggested otherwise. This would be interesting. He switched off his television, drained the last of his beer, and standing, looked around his room. It would be a lie to say he had never considered smashing Sadler’s skull (amongst many others), but he had never considered it seriously enough to have a weapon in mind.
Walking from room to room, he considered the implications of his visitor. This meant that the news reports were correct, that the dead really were returning to life. “To feed upon the flesh of the living!” he laughed, picking up, then throwing down, his aluminium baseball bat. This was precisely the kind of situation Howard excelled in. Whilst others panicked, he remained calm. Whilst the masses scrambled to save their families and friends, he cared for no one but himself. Whilst other people might lock themselves away in their cellars and attics, huddled in fear…. Selecting a short handled mallet from his toolbox, he unlocked his front door and stepped outside, turning to face his neighbour. Somebody he could finally relate to.
Lifting the mallet overhead, he noted several undead around the street, plastered in blood and gore, on their knees and feasting on those that had been unable to process the situation and remain calm. Bringing the flat end of his weapon down on Sadler’s forehead with a satisfying crunch, he felt something strange bloom in his chest, something that could only be described as happiness. Within three hours, Howard had prepared a backpack full of supplies, looted several shops, and re-killed seventeen zombies. He stood smiling at the crest of the hill that overlooked his already burning part of town, sword in one hand, mallet in the other. Whistling softly, he turned and walked away, content.
This was his kind of world.