In the midst of a field buried in snow,
A stick, small and sturdy, started to grow.
No branches or leaves on this tiny tree.
Just roots, and a stem you could barely see.
Winter storms ripped the land with their icy blast,
and the stick, nothing special, held strong and fast.
The dark and the cold gripped the earth in its hand.
Still the stick stood, guarding over the land.
“There are too many of them. We can’t just fight them head on.”
They could only see what looked like a dark, writhing mass in the distance. If only the smell was as vague. The pungent, rotting stench of the zombie horde was unmistakable, the first attack against anyone in their way.
“What are you going to do about it though?” someone asked her.
Run screaming? It was the first thought in her mind, and obviously the smartest. Of course, someone else had to open their big mouth with an idea.
“You need to challenge their champion to a duel, buy us some time to get our defense team in place.”
She had to question that bit of wisdom, of course. “Me? Why me? I’m not even the best fighter here. Since when do zombies have champions, anyway?”
“You want honesty or do you want to earn your name?” was the response from the old Big Mouth. With her dying breath she’d call him Big Mouth. She knew she was going to do it anyway, because she always did what she was told. Still, Big Mouth.
The others shoved her forward and started chanting, “Monster! Monster!” She didn’t even want the name.
She recovered from her stumble, she was always so graceful after all, and strode forward, yelling to the general undead audience, “I challenge your champion to a duel!”
To her disbelief, the horde stopped making their undead moaning racket, and one of them raised a shredded arm. Pleasant.
The zombie rushed towards her, and it was obvious this wasn’t going to be a civilized fight. She rushed to meet him, dropping lower to take him down. He landed on his back, wrapping his rotten legs around her, and she knew she fell right into his trap.
She reared up, trying to keep her head away from the gaping hole that used to be his chest. She loosened his grip just enough to give her arms room to move. She elbowed him a few times in the face, and though pieces of his jaw broke off, he just ignored her strikes and kept squeezing her with those damn legs. It was quickly becoming difficult to breathe, and if she didn’t escape, the fight would be over soon.
Brute force wouldn’t save her. She had to think, not something she was used to in a fight.
She leaned on his arms and twisted her body back and forth, taking advantage of his slippery, loose flesh to squirm her way out from the squeeze. She could hear the bones of his ankles grinding together as she worked.
Finally, she made her way out, or he let her out. Either way, less rotting flesh on her. Always good.
**
One-Eye whispered to Big Mouth, “Are you insane? She’s terrible at this. She won’t even last long enough to buy us time.”
“Not if you keep talking, boy. I think one of us has the wrong name.”
One-Eye rolled his eye and stopped talking. Big Mouth would run out of words once Monster came back undead, and probably a better fighter.
**
Monster was shoved face-first into the ground, and was starting to believe this fight would not end well. The cheering (or groaning) zombies around her thought otherwise.
She curled up, her legs and head tucked in tight. The zombie shoved his hand into the tight space between her arm and face, and she learned quickly that he used all his weapons in his fights, like his slimy, stinking, rotting corpse nature.
She jerked her head away from that hand, and got caught in a choke.
**
Big Mouth motioned to everyone to follow, backing away slowly from the crowd of undead while Monster kept them occupied. It was clear they wouldn’t have much time to escape.
He just hoped Monster wouldn’t be able to find them.
Every day, in the middle of the desert, it happens. The devils gather to dance, twisting and writhing in the deadly heat. The only sign of them is a little spiral of wind and dust, what we called dust devils even before devils were real.
Well, the dust devils used to be the only sign, before the sky exploded and everything became wrong, before Vegas was taken over by a host of creatures better left unseen. Now, the devils, like the rest of them, have no shame.
Now we can see their distorted, ecstatic dance in the wind, those of us who watch long enough.
People tell me it’s the heat, that I stay out too long, that I’m just another crazy Sentinel, but it’s true. I’m just the only one here willing to look.
I shouldn’t look. They keep asking me to dance with them. I’m tempted.
That is their way, right? To tempt, to lure. They tease with the promise of wreckless abandon, of freedom from the whispers and stares. I could go with them. Then I wouldn’t be crazy.
I could.
But if I leave, who will warn the rest when things start happening again?
Does it matter? I could go…
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“I know that smell, Keija.  What is a dhondushe even doing here? Continue reading