Prompt: Zombies

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Kata

"Stephen!" An old voice yelled from behind the door.

"Not now, Grandpa!" Stephen shouted back.

"Spare your grandfather just a little time." Grandpa chided.

"I don't have time for this, I'm in the middle of something!" Stephen began to get annoyed.

"Where has the respect for elders gone? Surely you have five minutes for your old man." Grandpa sighed. A pang of guilt stabbed right through Stephen, knowing that his grandfather meant well. He sighed, and opened the door. Stephen's grandfather was a handsome man, and though he was not weathered and worn from both age and a hard-knock-life, he still was a charming man. Stephen had always loved his grandfather, and seeing him always put him at ease, no matter his situation.

"I thought you'd like some company." Grandpa smiled, and took a seat on the bed within Stephen's room.

"You always seem to know what I need." Stephen cracked a smile.

"It comes with age, they say." Grandpa chuckled. "How about a story?"

"Grandpa," Stephen started to complain.

"It'll be a quick one, I promise." Grandpa held his hands up in mock surrender. "And I think it's one that you need to hear."

Stephen sighed, lamented silently, and sat down next to his grandfather on the bed. Grandpa cleared his throat, and muttered to himself, deciding where to start. Then, as if reading from a book, began his story.

"I was there before the Council began. Or even, before the end of the world." Stephen perked up at the sound of this story. He loved to hear about how the world used to be. "In that world, we had a say in what our leaders could and could not do. We had doctors who did more than just have the general people survive, they helped be content and live."

Grandpa sighed, and shook his head. "We should have seen it coming. The world was on the brink of a new age, one that promised opportunity of happiness for us all. That's when IT came. To this day no one can agree where it started. But what we do know, is that the world, as we knew it, had ended. It no longer mattered how rich you were, how attractive, how smart. Death is too impartial for such matters. Entire cities were dropping dead, and coming back. It was straight from the movies we used to laugh at.

You see, Stephen, when it comes to survival, people don't want to take chances. They prefer order and rules. That's why when the Council members are in charge. They saw their opportunity and seized it. A powerful group of scientist learned to control zombies. Those who control death, control people."

"I know, Grandpa." Stephen sighed. "Miss Rodney taught me that."

"Ah, did she?" Grandpa chuckled. "Then let me tell you a different story."

"There was once a young man, who defied the council, and lived to tell the tale." Stephen let out a small gasp. "I know, they had said it was impossible but I knew him. I recognized him, and I just had to hear him out. So, I walked up to him, and asked 'So how did you do it?'. I gave him my dinner and a drink just to hear his tale.

He had stolen from the market place. A crime, as you know, that the Council would punish. But this was a time before the Council really knew if they wanted to be a kind or demanding leadership. No small crime like that had be stopped so far, and the Council was left with a decision. They could let him off easy, or to give him the same punishment as the other crooks.

It took three days. He told me that it was the longest three days of his life. But the Council had their answer. They decided they wanted to make an example of him. You see, the young man had stolen some medication from the market. If it was food, perhaps he could have walked away, but he stole something so precious in this new world they found themselves in."

"Was he dying?" Stephen blurted, before covering up his mouth with his hands.

"I asked him the same thing, but he looked me in the eyes and said 'no'. I have to admit I scoffed and asked who was worth it to do such a risky thing.

'You see, I have the most beautiful and charming woman back at home. I would miss her too much if I just let her suffer.'

I was blown away by such an answer. Love is a powerful thing, and that man walked through Hell for her. To this day, I'm sure he was proud of his answer."

Stephen nodded in awe. Grandpa cleared his throat and continued.

"The Council decided that they wanted to make an example of him. So they told him, that he had the same two options as the killers. Trial or Execution." Stephen shuddered, and Grandpa gave him a knowing look as he spoke. "Trials in the arena is a cruel thing, but it gives the criminal a chance to live. Execution was a mercy for those who know they couldn't make it.

This man chose the Trial.

But this man was clever, I could see it in his eyes. It had a certain gleam in it. When he was told he was allowed a weapon, as men and women were allowed, he had a clever answer. Every man that day had dusted off their ancestor's gun, and stole in as much ammo as they could hide on their bodies. Each one boasted how he was the best shot in the whole city, and that he would be the first to survive the Trial with their prized gun. Everyone, but him. You see, he knew that pride would be his downfall, so he grabbed his grandfather's hunting knife, and hoped that it would be enough.

What happened next, nearly broke my heart, but don't let it break yours.

He was called upon by the guards, and he stepped out into the arena. The large crowd cheered, deafening and terrible. He looked out into the audience, and saw his love. She blew him a kiss, and he swore that that gave him the strength to fight.

His opponent that day, would be five zombies. Any other man who fought that day would be grateful for such a low number. Or any man who stole after this young man's survival for that matter.

A loud voice rang out, and the crowd hushed. For the first time, the young man heard his competition. The undead were pale, and sickly. They gasped in long groans that sent chills down everyone's spines. No matter how hard the young man tried, he couldn't steel himself against the horrible sight and sound of these undead beings.

The voice spoke. 'Here is a thief, stealing from the good people. Robbing them of precious medicine. He took more than he deserved, and he has chosen to withstand the Trial.' The Head Elder of the Council spoke in a melodramatic voice. The crowd booed at the young man. He simply nodded, and awaited the fight.

'Now let us... begin!' The Head Elder called again and the gates for the zombie's pen opened.

Zombies are known for many things, their cannibalistic nature, their terrible death-like appearance, but they are not known for their speed. The disgusting creatures limped forward. While any other fighter started firing their weapon, hoping to thin the crowd, the young man charged.

He took the zombies, and the audience, by surprise. He charged up and with a jumping slice, cut the first undead beast in half. You see, Stephen, that the dead flesh that makes up the zombie is just barely held together. With one hit, it can fall apart, like a house of cards.

He swung again, and took off a zombie's arm. He sliced and stabbed and cut this way through limbs and torsos alike. However, he forgot one thing.

That zombies hunt in packs, and for good reason.

While the man swung to cut one zombie's head off, another grabbed his other arm and chomped down, right on his wrist. The man told me that no other pain could compare to this. No burn, no cut, no bruise would ever close to the pain he felt in those rotten teeth, and the sickness that came after.

Worst of all, was continuing to fight, without one of his arms. But, as you will know soon, Stephen, that there will be a time when a man must decide if there is something to fight for. Something that makes all the pain and all of the effort worth it. For this man, it was his lady, who was the reason for him even being there. He decided that love got him in this mess, and love would get him out.

So, he gritted his teeth and...well, the man swore he couldn't remember what happened next. One moment he was in a tight spot, sandwiched between zombies, and the next, he was the last one standing. He remembered being sweaty and out of breath, but he was still standing.

There was a deafening silence from the crowd. They were as shocked and in as much disbelief as he was. Silence turned to sparse clapping, to applause to a roaring cheer. But none of that mattered to him, he kept his eyes on the love of his life. He survived for her..."

Grandpa fell silent, and Stephen was at a loss for words.

Suddenly, a loud knock came at the door. A loud, commanding voice spoke. "Citizen Stephen Kanes, it is your turn to face the Trial."

Stephen jumped, panic blooming from the pit of his stomach. He cursed, not caring that his grandfather was right there.

"Thanks a lot, Grandpa, I didn't have time to choose my weapon." Stephen jumped up and scrambled to where he had been studying the weapons provided to him. Most of them were guns, of various shapes and sizes. Stephen panicked even more. He needed a knife, like the man in the story. He had to survive.

"Calm down, son." Grandpa clapped a hand onto Stephen's shoulder, and pulled so that Stephen was facing him. "If the young man could do it, so can you."

With an outstretched hand, Grandpa held out a large knife, beautifully made, with a deadly sharp edge. Stephen stared, and reached a hand to gingerly take it out of his elder's hands. The guard, impatient, ripped the door open and grabbed Stephen by the arm.

"Come on, son. The Council is waiting." The guard grunted rudely.

Stephen was pulled away with a jerk. Stephen reached back towards his grandfather. Grandpa, with surprising agility and grace, lunged forward, and got the knife safely into Stephen's hands. His eyes widened, he had seen something else, but his mind was still reeling, that it took a moment to realize that there was a crescent shaped scar on his grandfather's wrist.

Stephen was pushed into the arena. The crowd's cheering was loud, both deafening and terrible. He looked out into the crowd and spotted his grandmother, who clutched at her heart, and smiled at him as warmly as she could manage. Stephen nodded, and faced forward towards the gates. Today his opponents would be fifteen zombies. They were deathly pale and sickening, and no matter how many times he had seen them, he shuddered. Stephen tried to steel himself. He took a deep breath.

A loud voice rang out. "Let the battle begin... now!"

Stephen charged. 

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Moon-MA IS MA

It's always the birds. They see everything we don't, everything we should've, and they'll fly circles trying to warn us.

But we ignore them. We turn a blind eye to the signs and the warnings, to the second chance. When I got to Heaven, God asked me if we deserved it. I told him we did. Humanity is a cruel, greedy breed of animal; full of savages and rabid wolves hidden in sheeps' clothing. We should've cleansed the air of fossil fuels, saved the glaciers from melting. We should've protected our animals and trees, our fresh water, our Earth. There were a million things we could've--should've--done, but we chose to take, and then we took and took until there wasn't anything more to take.

Now, there's no Earth left.

Devil's Heel made sure of that when it sprouted throughout the continents, upsetting ecosystems and releasing a gas that choked woodlands and swamps alike, sinking deep into the underground where it crawled beneath fingernails and into the hollow crook of a heart. Devil's Heel terrorized the environment, and when it was done with that, it terrorized us too.

STAGE I.

There are five stages to becoming a member of the undead--I've learned this from the observation of countless graveyards, funerals, and to my regret, the death of an extremely close friend.

The first stage begins in the graveyard, in the mess of dark, foul soil and the worms squirming inside it. A body lies beneath a headstone, heavy dirt carving into motionless lungs and skin black and rotten with ruin. The bones aren't enough. There has to be skin--dark, decaying skin. The Devil's Heel sprouts beside the headstone, where a fresh bouquet of white roses or yellow daffodils have been set. It's an ashen black that creeps up the gravestone, and the stems and leaves are so putrid that even the sweet scent of the roses can't hide the acid that stings your nostrils.

You see the black foliage and think it's a dead plant. You smell the rotten scent and think it's from the nearby roadkill. You don't notice the Devil's Heel. I thought I could--I saw it on Dean's grave, and on the grave of the lady from Walmart. I saw it on all the graves I observed and recorded, all the graves I researched.

But when it begins to creep up my Ma's gravestone, I don't notice it at all.

STAGE II.

Devil's Heel opens up its dark foliage, until the pores glisten like the moonlight at night. The gas that floods the air is the color of the sky right before the thunder booms, when the rain is a loud patter and the wind is picking up: a dark, somber gray. It's like it knows that all your hope is gone. But you don't--I didn't. I thought Dean was in Heaven, happy and at peace. I thought the old man across the street would finally get to see his wife of over fifty years again. I thought that everything was perfectly okay. That was my first mistake.

The eleventh day I visit my Ma's grave, I think that the fog has fallen low.

STAGE III.

A single finger twitches. The mechanical whir of an inhumane vein sounds. The gas clutches the still heart, choking each valve until it's forced to dissolve into it, and the heart begins to boom, to beat, to find a new kind of rhythm. The blood pulses faster and louder, and though the skin is still black and decaying, it begins to warm.

You stand beside the grave of a grandmother, of a close friend, of a stranger. Again, you think that everything is okay. It's not.

The soil sinks deeper until the brown and black is collapsing in. All the worms have fled by now, and the putrid scent has grown so strong that you can feel the sting in your chest. It's in your breath too, and you inhale and exhale with just a little oomph--something you don't notice, but maybe a friend does. You're exhausted and in greving, and your doctor tells you it's just you dealing with loss. But it's not. Listen to me, I know that grieving, but I know that extra sting is a sign. I know that the moving soil you think is a figment of your imagination is real. I know that you life is about to get a thousand times worse--I've been down this path. Dean was one of the first.

But it's hard to listen to myself. I see the soil move and I think I'm going crazy. My Ma isn't Dean. That sting I feel? It's just the product of the cold wind and my broken heart.

STAGE IV.

When the Devil's Heel has grown enough to cover the gravestone in what looks like an intricate mess of black spiderwebs, the gray begins to dissipate, and for a moment, it seems like the sun has begun to shine again. It hasn't.

A single hand of five bony fingers and torn, decaying skin emerges from the dirt. The ghastly pallor of the wrist is a stark contrast to the black that has devoured the metacarpals. You might be at the grave and looking up at God. You might be at home, eating a cold, microwavable dinner. The rain is loud, and the snap or crack of bones might be louder, but hear me now. You need to run. I ran. I felt the instinct tugging so hard at my gut that I thought they might fall out. So I ignored everything that I heard and saw and ran until I could hide behind the trees where the gray fog of the Devil's Heel had never touched down before.

An elbow follows the hand, and then a shoulder, and then a head. The face is horrendous: the eye sockets are blackened and rotten, and the cartilage of the nose is no longer in place. The skin has been dug out so deep that the jagged edge of the jawbone peeks out. But still, you recognize the face. It's the face of someone you know. No. You think it's the face of someone you love. It's not. It's the face of a monster that'll eat you alive. Hear me: you need to run. I know the five stages of becoming a member of the undead, and when it comes to number five, there's nothing left that can do for you.

But for now, we're still on number four, and you need to forget that face you think you see. I tried to forget Dean's face when I ran and hid away.

When I see my mother's face, I don't hide. I feel the warmth blossom in my heart, and I run into her bony, blackened arms and embrace what I haven't in days. I wait for the kiss on my forehead, but it never comes.

STAGE V.

The gravestone is cracked and broken, destroyed by the force of a fist and a slam. It crumbles away. The dirt in front of it has collapses inwards into an empty grave. The corpse is a corpse no longer, and it emerges through the rain, with curled fingers and a stomach from which guts spill.

I didn't forget Dean's face. I tried to, but I didn't--I couldn't. I looked back into the graveyard, hidden behind a tree, and though the rain was pouring and the sky was dark, I saw as clearly as I ever did: I watched Dean eat out his father's brains.

I wonder if anyone is watching when my Ma eats out mine.