In the movies and poorly written television shows, it's seldom explained. The dead rise, and start to eat the living. Some random bozos hide out at the mall, and what follows is not so much the living against the dead, but rather, social issues commentary. The zombie threat is always manageable, and all it takes is a stronghold, supplies and weapons. Small wonder that when the ravenous dead began to finally rise, humans were woefully unprepared.
In case you're wondering who this might be, the name is Ali. Like Muhammad Ali, the late great boxer. Tall, slim, dark-skinned, bald-headed and African American, that's what most people see when they look at me. You'd never believe that I've been around since before the time of the First Crusade. I was born in what is today known as Bandar Beyla in Somalia, but I've roamed just about every corner of this globe for many centuries. Why is that? I'm a bloodsucker.
When the zombie apocalypse began, I was working as a call center operator in downtown Ottawa, Ontario. The well-dressed, super polite and aloof guy who always sits far from the windows and never attends company picnics, that used to be me. I was living an okay life at the time. Decent apartment somewhere between the hood of Vanier and proper, respectable Gloucester. I made a few dollars above the minimum wage and all I had to do was harass clients about their credit card debt.
"Ali, got any plans for the weekend?" came a sultry female voice. I looked up to see Nora, the charming, curvy, bronze-skinned and dark-haired Moroccan gal with a penchant for Yoga pants and backstabbing. I sighed and took a deep breath, even though I haven't breathed in nearly a millennium. Nora is ambitious, smart and has no conscience. I know a predator when I see one. We tend to spot each other. It's a gift.
"Might take a drive out to the country," I replied nonchalantly, and Nora leaned against my desk. On that fateful afternoon, Nora wore a white blouse and dark Yoga pants, plus sneakers. The dress code at the call center is casual to the point of being absurd, and Nora takes advantage of that. A lot. All the guys on our floor ( with the exception of Derek the lizard, who tends to gawk at me ), tend to sniff after Nora. I don't get involved with co-workers, female or male. Nothing good can come from there.
"Ali, our man of mystery," Nora whispers and she leans so close that I can smell the Subway sandwich she had for lunch, hours ago. I smile politely, and wonder why Nora and so many other humans tend to be fixated on me. I've lived in Massachusetts prior to moving to Ottawa, so I guess I still have the remnants of a Boston accent. Other than that, I can't think of any reason why anyone would give me a second look. Humans, go figure.
"I'm secretly a spy," I say to Nora, in an almost flirtatious manner. Nora smiles, shrugs and walks away. I admire her fine behind as she sashays her way down the hall. There are one hundred and twenty people working on the floor, and Nora, as one of our supervisors, is responsible for twenty percent of them. Last week, she got this guy named Peter fired. Too bad, really. I liked Peter, a pudgy farmer lad type who was the master of bad puns. The dude couldn't hack it as a phone drone but he was passable as a comedian.
"Hey girlfriend, how's our African prince charming?" comes a familiar, and decidedly annoying voice. Said voice belongs to Derek the lizard, a chubby, balding guy with a penchant for green outfits and bowler hats. Derek has had the hots for me ever since I got hired by the call center. I had to talk to the human resources ladies to get him to back off. Me and my fatal allure, or something along those lines. Thanks but no thanks.
"Still tight-lipped," Nora replies to Derek, and they glance at me before walking away, giggling like school chums. I roll my eyes and continue working. I've got a list of calls to make. The next one is to Patrick Weinburg, age thirty four, residing at Gerry Lanes Road in Kanata, Ontario. He owes fourteen hundred dollars on his credit card and hasn't paid a dime in six months. I have been harassing him once a day for the past three weeks. He's blocked my number but I have so many alternates. I won't rest until he starts paying.
On this particular afternoon, not only did Patrick not pick up, but there were a whole lot of people who didn't answer their phones. Like the through collections agent that I was, I called them at home, at work and on their cell phones. Nobody was answering. I finished my shift around nine o'clock, and decided to walk from downtown Ottawa to the east end. I was bored, yet with a foreboding feeling. I was worried, but I couldn't tell you why. I haven't lived for nearly a millennium without paying attention to any feelings of threat. Like I said, I couldn't tell why I felt the way I did.
There aren't a lot of us, creatures of the night. For the most part, we blood suckers are solitary creatures. If there were too many of us blood suckers, there might not be a human species. Worldwide, there are perhaps a few thousands of us. Most live in small bands of three to ten members. I shed the need for Undead companionship ages ago. Sooner or later, we will turn against each other. It is virtually inevitable. Welcome to my life.
I reached my apartment, and heated the bowl of blood I purchased a few days ago from a medical student. I drank it all down in one gulp. I cannot go more than eight days without drinking blood. I will lose my mind and devolve into a mindless monstrosity if I do. That's the part of the blood sucker myth that the movies and television shows don't seem to get. I'm not crazy about sunlight, but I don't burst into flames come dawn. I can't fly, hypnotize people or turn into a bat. I'm just really strong, really fast, immune to disease and I simply don't age. Otherwise, what kills you is likely to kill me. That's why I stay out of trouble.
