The Infected Read Online Free
Author: Gregg Cocking
top right corner of the screen as he tried to loosen the camera from probably what was a tripod. He looked panicked and, clearly, quite petrified. As he struggled with the camera, the three people , one woman and two men, all sporting bloodied mouths and shredded, unkempt clothes, kept on heading towards him in their somewhat ungainly walking style. The cameraman glanced over his left shoulder at them, and if there had been sound to the visuals I am sure I would have heard him groan or scream, or both. They were now close enough to make out their features, and what I noticed first were their eyes – there was no life, no emotion... just unblinking nothingness.
The cameraman gave the camera one more desperate tug but only managed to change the video feed from colour to black and white. The three were almost upon him now – in monotone the blood was now just a black smear on their empty faces. The cameraman shot them another nervous look before discarding the camera and, I hope, making a run for it. The picture shook violently as the camera fell and rested on its side. Pandemonium in the background caused the picture to rapidly go in and out of focus. Suddenly a face appeared and the focus calmed down. A man, probably close to sixty though it was hard to tell because of the angle and the blood which covered the whole left hand side of his face, leaned forward and appeared to sniff the camera, his motionless eyes peering right through the television screen into my lounge. All of a sudden he lunged for the camera and I squealed, jumping back and slamming into the corner of my coffee table. Then the video loop started again.
I am in so much shock it is unbelievable. People are eating each other…
Alright. Well after watching that shit on TV I just had to go out and see what was going on with my own eyes. I wasn’t going to go anywhere near Nelson Mandela Square mind you. But even before I climbed into my car, Mrs. Myburg, one of my elderly neighbours, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck. I was so close to doing the only thing I could think of to protect myself – poking my car key in my assailant’s eye – when I saw that it was her and noticed the tears rolling down her heavily wrinkled cheeks. “Please, Samuel… Its Walter… Walter is sick.” She broke down and threw her head onto my shoulder. I didn’t even have to ask what his symptoms were.
After determining whether it was safe to check up on him – Mrs. Myburg assured me that he was ‘resting’ – I made my way to their ground floor simplex, just a few hundred metres from my townhouse. I nudged open the front door with a spade which I picked up from a pile of the garden service’s discarded tools, and called out, “Mr. Myburg? Mr. Myburg, its Sam. Are you okay?” I got no answer. Mrs. Myburg had told me that he was in the main bedroom so I made my way through the open plan kitchen and lounge, noting the typical array of ‘crapper’ (my term for the clutter old people usually have lying around – porcelain cats, Japanese fans, ornate frames which usually stand empty), which seemed to adorn every spare centimetre of space. “Mr. Myburg?” I called again, and this time I was sure that I heard him replying – but not the way I would have wanted him to reply – it was a guttural, primitive sound. I told Mrs. Myburg to wait in the lounge and she dutifully did what she was told, sitting down on the horrible mustard coloured couch as I inched my way to the room.
I poked my head around the door, not knowing what to expect, so what I saw, not unexpectedly, was a huge shock. There was Mr. Myburg, a tall, lanky man, crouched on the bed, his back at an angle which wouldn’t have pleased his chiropractor, grumbling and moaning in low, rhythmic bursts. The bedspread was coated in what I think must have been puke, and the smell was utterly foul – I can remember that it made my eyes water when I first entered.
After what I had just
The cameraman gave the camera one more desperate tug but only managed to change the video feed from colour to black and white. The three were almost upon him now – in monotone the blood was now just a black smear on their empty faces. The cameraman shot them another nervous look before discarding the camera and, I hope, making a run for it. The picture shook violently as the camera fell and rested on its side. Pandemonium in the background caused the picture to rapidly go in and out of focus. Suddenly a face appeared and the focus calmed down. A man, probably close to sixty though it was hard to tell because of the angle and the blood which covered the whole left hand side of his face, leaned forward and appeared to sniff the camera, his motionless eyes peering right through the television screen into my lounge. All of a sudden he lunged for the camera and I squealed, jumping back and slamming into the corner of my coffee table. Then the video loop started again.
I am in so much shock it is unbelievable. People are eating each other…
Alright. Well after watching that shit on TV I just had to go out and see what was going on with my own eyes. I wasn’t going to go anywhere near Nelson Mandela Square mind you. But even before I climbed into my car, Mrs. Myburg, one of my elderly neighbours, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck. I was so close to doing the only thing I could think of to protect myself – poking my car key in my assailant’s eye – when I saw that it was her and noticed the tears rolling down her heavily wrinkled cheeks. “Please, Samuel… Its Walter… Walter is sick.” She broke down and threw her head onto my shoulder. I didn’t even have to ask what his symptoms were.
After determining whether it was safe to check up on him – Mrs. Myburg assured me that he was ‘resting’ – I made my way to their ground floor simplex, just a few hundred metres from my townhouse. I nudged open the front door with a spade which I picked up from a pile of the garden service’s discarded tools, and called out, “Mr. Myburg? Mr. Myburg, its Sam. Are you okay?” I got no answer. Mrs. Myburg had told me that he was in the main bedroom so I made my way through the open plan kitchen and lounge, noting the typical array of ‘crapper’ (my term for the clutter old people usually have lying around – porcelain cats, Japanese fans, ornate frames which usually stand empty), which seemed to adorn every spare centimetre of space. “Mr. Myburg?” I called again, and this time I was sure that I heard him replying – but not the way I would have wanted him to reply – it was a guttural, primitive sound. I told Mrs. Myburg to wait in the lounge and she dutifully did what she was told, sitting down on the horrible mustard coloured couch as I inched my way to the room.
I poked my head around the door, not knowing what to expect, so what I saw, not unexpectedly, was a huge shock. There was Mr. Myburg, a tall, lanky man, crouched on the bed, his back at an angle which wouldn’t have pleased his chiropractor, grumbling and moaning in low, rhythmic bursts. The bedspread was coated in what I think must have been puke, and the smell was utterly foul – I can remember that it made my eyes water when I first entered.
After what I had just
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