I stood there, my mouth open in horror, staring at the cadaverous thing before me, its eyes black and degenerated, its skin thin and gray, like wet flower pasted over brittle bone. The jaw hung down, exposing rotted teeth and a black tongue like a bloated leech.
I stepped back from the sheer horror of the sight, endeavoring to get as far away from the anomaly as possible. It came toward me, a leering grin upon its thin, twisted lips. My heart thumped madly. My blood ran like a flood-stricken river. There was no place for retreat. Had there been a window, I surely would have flung myself through it, even at the risk of broken bones or death.
I pleaded with the thing, but it was of no use. It cocked its head to one side and advanced upon me, reaching out with gnarled fingers. I screamed without shame. The creature followed suit, matching my own wail with the same full intensity, though perhaps an octave lower. Our screams melded, creating a verbal obscenity that most certainly pierced the depths of Hell.
My foot slipped at the opening of the trapdoor. I caught myself as I plunged through it, dangling above my desk, my feet searching madly for something solid upon which to rest. Just as the ghastly thing peered down at me with the curiosity of a child, I let myself fall to the desk top, sending books in every which direction.
As I lay flat on the polished mahogany of my desk, the thing in the attic came down and bent over me. I could smell its rancid breath. I tried to get away, but my arms and legs were twisted at uncanny angles. My head swam and my sight grew dim, then I slipped into a black void that provided a welcome relief from reality.
When next I was aware of my surroundings, I was pacing the attic as if it were my sacred domain, though I knew not for the life of me how I had managed to get there. Passing an old mirror with beautiful gold trim, I gazed upon the reflection it held. Complete horror gripped me, for the pale skin and bleak eyes of the thing in the attic stared back at me. . . .
Born Again.
He'd risen from the cold, dank earth, shaking off maggots like rainwater as he made his way through the cemetery. Others were rising too, but he didn't care about them. He cared only about the home and family he'd left behind. He was sure they needed him. He could hardly wait to see the joy on their faces when he returned.
Surely there would be joy.
Others wandered the streets. So many lost souls. He kept moving. He had a purpose. He had somewhere he needed to be.
There were noises. Gunshots. He remembered the sound. He remembered so many things. Being dead hadn't changed any of that.
Dead things falling around him, dying again.
He kept moving, minding his own business. If he didn't wander, no one would realize he was one of those who'd been born again. As best as he could tell, he was still in pretty good shape. His rotting flesh still covered most of his bones; his organs were mostly intact.
He minded his business and kept moving.
A truck roared past him. There were more gunshots. A bunch of yokels in back, throwing flaming bottles at a group of the newly risen deada"those, like him, who had been born again.
He kept his head down and forced himself to walk.
Not shamble, walk.
The dead things (funny, he couldn't quite include himself in this group) had a way of shambling. That was a funny word when you got right down to it. Say it. Listen to it roll off your tongue . . . shambling.
Maybe if he could walk instead of shamble, just maybe no one would notice his clothes were moldering and the maggots clung to him no matter how hard he tried to shake them off.
He could only think about his family. He had to get home again. He had to see the wife and daughter he'd left behind.
"Goddamn maggot-infested fucks," a voice came over the chaos that was beginning to break out everywhere.
More gunshots, an explosion somewhere in the distance, and the sound of tires squealing on pavement. He knew all of these sounds. He could remember it all so clearly, but something was still lost to him.
His name.
He couldn't remember his name.
He couldn't even remember dying.
His wife would tell him. He remembered her name. Claire. His wife was Claire and his daughter, who was just nine, was Jenny. They would be happy to see him, and then Claire could tell him how he died.
He was close now. So close he could almost feel Claire in his arms. He'd have to clean up some, of course, but then he could hold her. She'd be happy to be held by him, wouldn't she?
He changed direction, away from the chaotic streets of the plaza. He'd always laughed at that. This was a small town, with a population of just over 1500, and this little section of town was the plaza. What small town needed a plaza anyway?
Now the plaza was a war zone.
He heard explosions and screams even as he disappeared into the dark, moving away from the chaos as fast as his rotting legs could take him.
Someone bumped into him. Right out of the dark, another one just like him, only in worse shape. This one was missing an arm and at least half of his back. Something long and slimy trailed along behind him.
Jesus, he could smell it.
Or maybe it was his own stench.
He crossed through a section of the park and onto a deserted street. His mind was confused. He looked both ways.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
He decided to go left. No reason in particular, except it felt right to him. He stayed on the sidewalk and kept moving.
The dog barked again, closer this time.
He looked over his shoulder. It was coming after him, running full tilt. He felt the urge to run, but his legs wouldn't hear of it. He still wasn't used to being dead, then born again, but still technically dead. Could you get used to a thing like that?
He pushed on, but the dog was catching up to him. He saw that the front of its chest was mangled and raw. One eye dangled and flopped.
The dog was born again too.
He stopped and turned just as the mutt was snapping at his ankles. He concentrated and managed to kick the mutt. His foot connected with the dog's head, causing the born again mutt to yelp as it went sideways.
The dog came back for another attack.
A gunshot erupted.
The dog's head exploded in a shower of bone fragment and jellied blood.
"Goddamn dead things," a voice came from one of the houses.
He didn't wait around to see who had shot the dog. He knew he'd be next. He crossed the street as quickly as his legs would take him, then he took a shortcut between two darkened houses, hoping the bearer of the gun didn't take it upon himself to follow.
The next street he came to was well lit. He recognized it. There was a meat market on the corner.
He salivated at the thought. Raw meat.
Bloody meat.
He went in the direction of the market. Maybe he could break the glass. He couldn't feel anything in his stomach to signify hunger, but he felt it nonetheless, a hunger for meat.
There were others when he got there. They were inside the market and outside, feasting on raw meat, shoving it into their mouths by the handfuls.
He headed in the opposite direction. He had more dignity than to get involved in a mess like that. His wife and child would feed him. They would be happy to see him. They would give him meat.
There were more gunshots.
Distant gunshots and more screaming.
He stopped under the yellow light of a street lamp and stood next to a car. He could see himself in its side window. The shock of it caught him by surprise. He wasn't in as good a shape as he'd thought. Half of his face was missing. Half of his goddamn face was just gone.
He hadn't died naturally.
He couldn't remember how he'd come to be in that dark, damp, dirty grave, but now he knew for sure it hadn't been a natural death.
Claire would help him remember.
Claire always helped him remember.
He needed to remember. There was so much he couldn't recall, and now, seeing half his face gone, he wondered if maybe half his brain had gone with it. That didn't seem likely, though, or he wouldn't be walking around. If he remembered the George Romero movies, dead things didn't keep walking once they lost their heads. Wasn't that the way it was?
Or maybe it was just the brain. Maybe his brain was still in good enough shape to keep him walking. That had to be it. He was still walking. Dead things were really dead when you took out their brains.
But he couldn't remember much of anything. His wife's name and his daughter's name. That was something, but he couldn't remember dying. He just simply couldn't remember . . .
The world around him seemed to be spinning. He heard screams inside his head and the sound of a little girl's voice screaming, "Daddy, nooooo."
The sound of that voice was more awful than anything he had heard on this dark, ugly nighta"more awful than even seeing half his face gone.
He had to get home, but he was lost now. Not sure which way he should go. Not sure of anything now, except he knew half his face was gone and he didn't want to be out here anymore. All he wanted was to get home to Claire and Jenny.
Claire would have his answers.
He found a direction that felt right. He felt himself swaying as he walked, wishing there was something he could put his hands on to steady himself. He had no control. His legs wobbled and his knees buckled. It was all he could do to continue standing.
Only his wife and his little girl kept him going. The thought of seeing them again was the thing that made him continue walking.
It began to rain. It felt good to him. He thought it felt good to him anyway, but he really couldn't feel it. All he could feel was his hunger, and he really couldn't feel that either, but it was there.
Raw meat.
At least the rain would wash away some of the dirt and rot. He needed to be presentable when he saw his wife and daughter.
As presentable as one could be with half his face missing.
Lights swept over him, and he heard a car engine revving as it came down the street in his direction. He thought he should hide. He couldn't just keep walking and pretend to be normal. Not now. Not with half his face missing. There was no way to be normal with half of your face gone.
The car was coming fast.
Too fast.
The tires squealed and the car suddenly swerved off the road, into a tree.
He crossed the street and looked inside. The driver was against the steering wheel. She made a low noise but didn't move. Her head was cracked and bleeding.
He jerked the door open and pulled her out, dropping her onto the wet ground. He knelt beside her and touched the blood on her head.
He licked it from his fingers.
It tasted good.
He bent down and sank his teeth into her neck. He felt the warm splash of blood over his lips as he tore her throat away and chewed.
There was another smell he recognized. He didn't pay attention at first because the meat tasted so good.
He took another bite, then another. Each bite brought more warm flesh into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed.
That other smell.
He sucked strings of bloody flesh into his mouth like . . . like . . .
. . . noodles.
He remembered noodles, but noodles wouldn't satisfy him now. Not noodles. He needed meat, and here in front of him was plenty of meat.
And that other smell.
He climbed inside the car. That other smell was coming from inside the car. He remembered the smell, whatever it was. He didn't have a name, but he knew the smell as sure as he remembered Claire and Jenny.
He saw it on the floor. A bottle. An open bottle, leaking onto the floor of the car. He picked it up and held it to the light. Jim Beam. He knew that name. He remembered meeting him on several occasions.
Jim Beam smelled familiar.
There was an urge he couldn't quite place. An urge as strong as the urge for meat. He started to shake, clutching the bottle of Jim Beam tighter as he knelt down for more meat.
He ripped more meat away with his teeth, swallowing and washing it down with Jim beam. When he was full, he walked away. There would be others behind him, feasting on what he'd left behind, but he took the Jim Beam with him. He wasn't going to leave that behind for anybody.
He staggered down the sidewalk, still heading for where he thought home was. His wife and daughter would be waiting for him. They would be happy to see him.
Memories came back as he staggered with the bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. The way he walked, the way he held the bottle, the way the taste of it seemed to make everything better.
He tried drinking from the bottle as he walked. With half of his face missing, the liquid ran down the front of him, but what little he could get down his throat was as satisfying as the meat.
He heard the sound of squealing tires and remembered the car hitting the tree. He still tasted the blood from the meat.