"I Zombie I" is the story about a journalist who becomes infected by a zombie and decides, with Pulitzer in his eyes, it is his duty to chronicle his every experience. With paper, pen, and digital recorder Jacob documents the first ever "zombification." During this "evolution" Jacob becomes the leader of a small group trying to discover the cure for the infection and escape the apocalypse.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

The last thing I remembered was the blast. It wasn't just the sound. No. It was visceral. I felt it in my gut, my eyes, my brain. It rang in my skull and burned my skin. The sensation and sound was everywhere and everything. And then it was nothing...which was the strangest part of it all. I expected the sound of chaos; Alarms, cries, screams, but there was nothing. I was affronted with an all-encompassing nothing. For an instant I felt like someone had lowered me into a deprivation chamber, where all was lost save some scattered randomness in my brain. At first I thought maybe the concussion blew out my hearing, but the sound of breathing and the rustling of sheets neatly tucked away the fear of going deaf.
The blast and the shaking room were enough to make me worry something serious had happened. Against the moral code of any good journalist,

I thought maybe the television would have something to say...certainly the local news would interrupt whatever reality-trash was broadcasting to instruct the citizens what to do in case of an emergency. The television, as usual, brought me nothing...nothing but static and white noise. I stared at the snow-filled screen for what seemed like forever. I wanted to hear some fifties-era tones echo from the speaker informing me to get to my nearest bomb shelter. Anything that would give me some indication the world hadn't finally managed to destroy itself. Instead the noise of the static did its best to lull me into some semblance of comfort. I wanted to stare into the void until everything just disappeared.

After I managed to pull myself away from the hypnosis of the empty television screen, I thought at least the front desk would have something to offer. I was wrong. I let the phone ring, and ring, and ring...nothing. No "Front desk, how may I help you." Not even an answering machine.

I tried the radio. Static.

I checked the Hallway. Empty.

Open the curtains...there's a fog in the air. I'm too high up to see the streets clearly, so I can't even assume the city was awake and reacting to whatever had happened. Wonderful. I'm in a strange city, I know no one, and I can't reach anyone. I think the world might have ended and left me behind. Me. Why me? And why in the hell am I writing everything down?

I think I am getting a bit ahead of myself. I should probably fill you in on who I am before I write another page. At least then you can decide if you care enough to draw your own conclusion to the question "Why me?". Of course I am being presumptuous in hoping there is still a "you" left out there to be reading my words. After what shocked me out of bed...

Anyway. My name is Jacob Plummer. I am a writer. Actually, I am a reporter, which is probably even more fitting for someone trying to chronicle what might be a cataclysmic disaster. There I go again with the presumption. I keep writing as if I know for a fact that something tragic has happened. Maybe that is the reporter in me desperately hoping for the story. Okay, okay...focus.

I work as a political, world news, and events correspondent for a newspaper owned by one of the largest media umbrella companies in the United States. It's a good company and I get to travel a lot. Unfortunately most of my traveling places me right in the middle of war. This time around, however, I was assigned to Munich for an unveiling of an epic scale. Why me? Because I'm one of the few reporters on staff with absolutely zero family to keep me tied down. No wife, no girlfriend, parents dead, only child, and no real friends to speak of. All I have is my job. It defines me. It is me, in a sense. There really is no "Jacob" there is only "Reporter". Therefore, good old Jacob can roam the planet in search of the next great story for the paper. Speaking of which...

A physicist, Dr. Lindsay Godwin, developed a device that will solve the worlds' energy crisis. The device is of the nuclear fission sort which promises a perfectly renewable energy source. No more dependency on oil, no more need for gasoline. No more OPEC. No more price gouging. No more pollution. The global economy would be salvaged and the epic depression, suffered world-wide, would disappear. Bold promises at a time when any promise, no matter how small, brought about both hope and doubt in the same breath.

So on the day this salvation was to be handed to the planet I plan to wake, lay in bed, gather my research, and write a few notes when, before I can even get started, something must have gone horribly wrong. Or so I presume.

So here I am, in a hotel room unable to make contact with another human being surrounded by an implausible silence...a silence so consuming it seems there is nothing left outside the walls dividing me and whatever lies beyond. But I will go. I have to go. And like a typical journalist, I will document everything I see and do. But I do hope my fear and musings are all for naught. I hope to step out of this room into some bizarre practical joke where this unveiling goes off without a hitch and I can head back to the states to my loft in Manhattan where the sounds of the city completely consume me.

But know this, if I don't write another page then one of two things has happened: Whatever lay in wait outside of this hotel has silenced me or there is nothing else to report. That is not completely true. I do have a rather important event to cover and with that event comes a crucial deadline. So if I am not dead I will continue writing on, only the subject will have change. Enough about me...back to chaos.