Corpse As Body, Corpse As Meal

3

CJAY entered the first nightclub he saw. He walked slowly to conceal the natural stagger in his walk, since being a zombie compromised his motor coordination. The playful strokes, rhythm-coordinated blink of the lights, and the huge crowd on the dance floor also helped in hiding him from observant eyes.

So far, the nightclub still looked the same as it was years before the epidemic. There were still colorful lights, dreamy fogs as part of their special effects and cigarettes, energetic people sweating off their perfume and the sweet, highly addicting adrenaline from their bodies, and music like defibrillators that could bring anyone to life. Because of all of these, Cjay could not help smiling.

This must be the exact thing that he needs, something that would make him feel truly alive. Which was ironic, because he was already a zombie. A dead man. A walking corpse.

He wanted to dance, but the lack of coordination in his body held him back. Once he tries to make big movements, everyone would discover his presence, including his father once the news about a zombie dancing in a nightclub began spreading like fire. So, he contented himself by sitting on the bar counter. He ordered a drink so that he could keep his seat which also faced the dance floor. If Cjay couldn’t dance, then he should at least enjoy himself by watching others dance. Once his alcoholic drink was served, he felt a little scared at first. The last time he got drunk, he was still a normal, functioning human.

Cjay sipped a little beer and tried to feel his body. He cocked his head upon realizing that everything felt normal. The alcoholic drink did not seem to affect him, so he drank some more until he lost count of how many times he asked for a refill. Then, he was reminded of his limitations—his face twisted as his gut began hurting. It was a combination of a chilly pinch, his intestines felt like being wringed and burned, all at the same time.

Confused, he left his seat and searched for the toilet. After being tossed by the partying crowd, he got lost and found himself outside the nightclub.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. He didn’t want to leave yet. But when the pain in his gut persisted, he felt like he had no choice but to go home. ‘It must be because I had coffee before beer . . . Shit! Why did I forget that? Or i-it must be only the b-beer’s fault.’

Staggering, he decided to search for his car. It must be somewhere in this shadowy parking space dimly lit on a few spots by the lampposts.

Unfortunately, the pain was slowing him down. Cjay was starting to gain more clarity about his situation. He felt as if he has an open wound dribbled with ethyl alcohol. At this point, he knew it was the beer and his stupidity to blame.

He felt the impulse to scream, that might relieve him. But as soon as he opened his mouth, something burning hot and sour climbed from his gut up to his throat, like a volcano getting ready to erupt. Alas, he dropped on his knees and threw up everything he could. He could feel his fragile throat stretch as pieces of the food he ate earlier came out of his mouth along with his blood, and the coffee and beer he just had.

His vision blurred, but his vomit kept sputtering until he was empty like a chest scoured by pirates. He shuddered and shook as chills ran all over his body, followed by his coughing.

“L-Let go of me!” he snarled when someone held his arm from behind. He wanted to say something more, but he coughed again and was unable to stop when it went on and on.

“Let me help you—”

He could not help chuckling mockingly as he turned to look at this fool who was offering him some help. ‘Help? Heh. Is someone trying to be funny here? I’m . . . Cjay . . . the rich and famous zombie son of the president . . . and you want to help me?’