The Putrid Manifesto

“A spectre is haunting the world — the spectre of the dead. All the powers of the old world have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: scientists and soldiers, men and women, young and old.

And yet, the comrades we once called our own, after seizing power, began favoring humans and forgetting their fellow zombies, condemning us to cruelty in this harsh struggle. To be cast aside in our own homeland, in the very civilization we built, is an insult to the honor of zombiekind.”

These were the opening words of a manifesto written by a zombie politician whose aim —ironically— was to bring down the socialist zombie regime of his time. Though it is known that the author now rots in a prison cell (and when the so-called political dissident is a zombie, the phrase “to rot in prison” becomes a disturbingly literal truth), no one knows where he is held, nor if he will ever be released.

The necessary legal framework for sentencing the “undead” to life imprisonment, alas, has yet to be definitively settled.

Dear reader, I would not wish to throw you into the lap of this necro-dystopian order all at once. Instead, let us begin our tale on the very day the zombie revolution erupted, and tell it through the perspective of a band of seven “survivors,” whose minds are, at this very moment, as confused as your own.

Our story, unlike most zombie tales, does not begin at the outbreak, but at its end. A band of survivors, having endured countless ordeals, had locked themselves into the basement of an apartment building on a main street, taking what could only be called sensible quarantine measures.

They consumed the canned goods they had stockpiled, and for their personal needs they were forced to use a bathroom with a broken door, stripped of any sense of privacy. Needless to say, under such conditions, their relationships had grown somewhat unceremonious.

The eldest of the group, Arthur Doyle, a former soldier who had traded his ability to walk for a limp and the honorary title of “veteran” after a wound to his leg, was the first to break the silence that day. After a long toilet symphony echoed through the dim basement, he pulled up his trousers with a look of satisfaction and, without the faintest shame, called out to Margaret Collins — the group’s perpetually dissatisfied mother figure:

— “How many cans have we got left, Maggie?”

Margaret, with her usual endless tone of reproach, sighed deeply. When food becomes the central problem of survival, you cannot help but see the human body as a flawless machine that transforms canned goods —treasured more than gold— into nothing more than shit. And of course, rather than internalize this grim fact, it is easier to project it onto others than to accept that everyone shares the same nature and live with it in peace.

Thus Maggie, viewing Arthur as nothing but a black hole consuming scarce resources, answered with undisguised annoyance:

— “How should I know? The box is right there. Go count them yourself.”

Arthur looked at the box on the floor; inside were a little more than a dozen cans. For a group of seven, that stock could serve as a faint glimmer of hope for at most two more days. The younger members had already slung their weapons over their shoulders and gone out to search for food. You’ll meet them soon enough, dear reader. For now, allow me to give you a little more detail about the two survivors who we just mentioned.

Arthur Doyle had once served in the army. Of course, what remained from that time were not glorious victories but the metal he carried in his leg and the honorary title of “veteran.” He liked to present his survival as a great achievement, but for the rest of the group his most notable traits were the endless stream of expletive-laden nationalist speeches and unsolicited war stories. The wound in his leg had left him limping for years; rather than join missions to find food, he had taken on the vital duty of staying home to endure Maggie’s nagging and thereby vent his frustrations. He was like the unwilling, surly father figure of a dysfunctional and decaying family.

Opposite Arthur sat Margaret Collins, who replied with a deep sigh. Maggie, forty-nine years old, had made complaining a way of life. In a basement where survival demanded stock, patience, and silence, she rejected all three. She never stopped talking about her son, forever beginning her sentences with “If my son were here…” as though he alone could raid an entire supermarket chain and provide a feast for everyone. Her son’s fate, however, was far less certain than Maggie chose to believe. From the very beginning of the outbreak, there had been no word from him; and when, at her insistence, they had gone to the factory where he worked to see if anyone had survived, they found only a handful of zombies whose brains they were forced to splatter. Still, Maggie clung to her fantasy. Her endless comparisons, her ceaseless laments — in short, every word that spilled from her mouth — worked like fine sandpaper on the group’s patience. So much so that, from time to time, everyone caught themselves wishing the zombies would kindly kidnap Maggie and be done with it.

The tension and mutual resentment between the two was just about to bear fruit in the form of a proper quarrel when Father Thomas Gallagher poked his head out from the adjoining room. This Catholic priest was the group’s most level-headed, conciliatory presence. He spent his days reading the Bible, repenting, and praying for the welfare of the group and the forgiveness of the dead. His absolute pacifism had kept him from taking up a weapon even once throughout the outbreak. He rarely spoke, but when he did, he assumed the role of a divine authority figure, capable of silencing all disputes with a single utterance. To interpret everything as either “divine punishment” or “divine trial” made their wretched existence just a little more bearable, and thus gave him a crucial place in the group.

Arthur’s mouth was already shaping up to fling another curse at Maggie when the priest’s voice rolled slowly through the basement walls:

— “Enough, children… We are not here to gnaw at one another, but to carry this burden together. If God has allotted us hunger, then hunger must be met with patience. For patience is the nourishment not of the empty stomach, but of the unspoiled soul.”

As his words echoed, Arthur’s brow furrowed and Maggie pursed her lips; neither of them truly wanted to be silent. Yet Thomas’s voice had a weight to it, the sort that cut through the air like a father’s slap — undeniable and final. And so the quarrel dwindled into a faint grumble and quietly died out.

For a while, the basement lay in silence. Arthur grumbled, rubbing his bad leg with the irritability of a man long deprived of cigarettes; Thomas sat with eyes closed in prayer, and Maggie stared at the door with restless impatience. Time in the dark seemed to drag heavier with every passing minute.

At last, they heard the rattle of a lock turning above. The hinges groaned, and Maggie sprang to her feet, her shrill voice cutting through the gloom:

— “They’re back!”

And indeed they were: Oliver, Ryan, Edwin, and Tori, drenched in sweat, stumbled in through the doorway carrying crates in their arms. Yet instead of the joy of reunion, it was as if they had dragged their quarrel straight into the basement along with them.

Oliver’s voice broke out first, sharp and insistent: “I’m telling you, Ryan, there was a reason that alarm went off. The power was still on in there. You can’t deny that.”

Ryan dropped his crate to the floor with a thud, wiping sweat from his brow as he snarled: “You’re talking nonsense. A zombie must’ve flicked the generator by accident. That’s all it was.”

Tori threw her hair back, her tone incredulous: “Accident? Those shelves were immaculate, Ryan. As if someone comes in every morning to tidy up. Have you ever seen a supermarket that neat? Untouched. Perfectly stocked.”

Edwin clutched the edge of his crate, his words stumbling out in a whisper: “The… the avocados… they were fresh.”

Ryan spun on him, anger boiling over: “Shut up, Edwin! What, you think zombies are running grocery stores now?”

Edwin’s shoulders slumped, his voice barely audible: “No… but… I don’t understand.”

Oliver’s voice rose again, firmer this time: “And the woman. She shouted after us. Said, ‘Thief!’ We all heard it. You did too, Tori!”

Tori nodded, eyes narrowing as she fixed them on Ryan: “Yes, I heard it. Do you think we all went mad at the same time? A zombie said it.”

The muscles in Ryan’s jaw tightened. But everyone in the room —especially Maggie and Arthur— felt a heavier truth slowly sprouting beneath the quarrel: if zombies could speak, and even grasp the notion of property enough to accuse them of theft, then the last remnants of the world they once knew had already slipped away.

Father Thomas spread his hands with patient gravity.

“Enough. Be silent, and tell me clearly, one by one. What happened out there?”

Ryan pressed his lips together and said nothing. But Tori’s voice quickly filled the air, her eyes still haunted by the sight of the streets outside.

“The streets… they were spotless. Car windows smashed, but not a shard of glass on the ground. Not even dead leaves. As if someone had swept it all away. Someone… had cleaned everything.”

Ryan let out a sarcastic chuckle, muttering low.

“Zombies have always been the best at municipal services.”

Oliver spun on him, furious.

“Shut up, Ryan! Stop making a joke out of everything. Don’t you see something is seriously wrong? Can’t you see how absurd this is?”

Oliver’s voice grew louder, and Edwin nodded frantically in agreement. Then all at once, the four of them began to spill the story, cutting across one another, finishing each other’s sentences.

Tori threw out her hands.

“First, the shutters were down. Properly chained, locked tight. We—”

Ryan cut her off with a shrug.

“If it weren’t for me, you’d still be standing there. I forced them open, that’s how we got in.”

Oliver jumped in, sharp as a knife:

“Yes, but that wasn’t the strange part. When the shutters lifted, the display window was still intact! Untouched, like no one had laid a finger on it. Imagine a supermarket sitting there for years, glass unbroken!”

Edwin’s voice cracked as he added, barely above a whisper:

“Then we broke the glass… and that’s when—”

Tori’s eyes widened.

“The alarm went off! Loud, like a scream. How? There’s no electricity in the city!”

Oliver waved his arms, trembling.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying! Someone has been maintaining that place. The shelves were pristine, perfectly ordered. This… this is impossible.”

Ryan growled, his patience gone.

“Is it really so hard to imagine a zombie stumbling onto a generator? Instead you chase fantasies, swallowing every ridiculous thought.”

Oliver shook his head, voice rising.

“You still don’t get it, Ryan. As we were leaving, a woman—yes, an old woman—shouted after us. Clear as day. She said, ‘Thief!’”

Tori nodded firmly, though her voice trembled.

“I heard it too. It was crystal clear. We didn’t all go mad at the same time.”

Voices collided, the basement erupting in chaos. The loudest of them all were Ryan’s furious bellow—“You’re all idiots! You’ve lost your minds!”—and Father Thomas’s desperate plea: “Calm yourselves! Stop shouting!”

And then, in the middle of the pandemonium, Edwin silently turned his back, reached for the switch on the wall, and pressed it.

The dusty bulb above them flared to life in all its dingy glory, flooding the room with light.

Everyone fell silent, staring up at the lamp. Ten long seconds passed in dead quiet before Ryan finally muttered, head lowered:

“…Well, fuck me.”