In the Bunker
“D’you ever try to teach zombies to dance?” No answer. “Michael made it look so easy. But, you know what? Zombies really aren’t that flexible, and choreography is not their strong suit. I don’t know how they got that video together.”
He grunted.
“‘Cuase this is thriller!” I start to sing.
Something large and heavy went sailing past my head.
“No singing,” he said.
At the Waterfall
Over the echoing roar of the cataract, the high pitched screams came to my ears like the cries of birds. As useless as it was, I pulled at my bonds.
The birds were suddenly quiet, their voices dead. They had flown up, up and away.
He came back, bloody and smiling.
“I’m gonna leave you here,” he said. “They’ll be coming round for you soon enough, I’m sure,” he added, glancing over his shoulder to where they lay dead. “When they first wake up, they’re always hungry.”
In the Snow
“Thriller night,” I mumble through my chattering teeth. I know he can’t hear me over the howling winds. I keep my eyes on the large figure ahead of me; my guide like a black shadow against the white snow.
At the Waterfall
As the twilight settled over the wooded hills, they finally came crawling towards me. It was not lost on me that my arms were outstretched, that I was about to be made into a feast in this hour of darkness.
But my flesh could not bring them life.
Their grey eyes gazed up at me in hunger as they clawed their way over the jagged rocks leaving trails of gore behind them.
The Reunion
“Nice place you have here,” I quip for my opening salvo. His blood is pooling up under him; he’s gasping and wheezing and old. He’s clutching at his leg, trying to keep the blood inside of him. “I wish I could tear it down,” I add. “Let you watch the place burn. But we can’t have everything we want, can we?”
My taciturn companion comes in.
“How long?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t want to rush it. He’s an old friend. Deserve my time and full attention.”
“Night’s coming,” he replies.
“Can’t we stay here?”
“Not with dead man in house,” he points to the dying man on the floor.
“Very well,” I say.
In the Cave
Both hands broken. Why couldn’t I break them earlier? When they needed me, why couldn’t I break them then?
There is no relief from the throbbing pain—the pain, the physical pain, it is the relief. I let my hands throb, let my brain go mad with pain. The pain leaves no room for the memories.
The End
Holding up my mangled hands, I say, “Forgive me. These have little strength, but they’ll have to do.”
Tale Told 