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skonen_bladesShahrain looked up at me from the bottom of the ladder with her white bloodied eyes before I kicked the ladder away from the edge of the roof. She didn’t make a sound. That’s the scary part about all these zombies. They’re silent.
They breathe heavier if they’re doing something strenuous. They grunt involuntarily if they’re punched in the stomach. Other than that, their tongues are stilled.
They make no more noise than footsteps and the rustling of the clothing they have left.
It’s become a silent world. I kicked the ladder away but Shahrain and her friends now know that I’m on the roof. They aren’t smart enough to put the ladder up but they know where I am.
I’m on an island surrounded by an ocean of dead flesh and reaching hands. More are on the way. I think the bad thing about where I am is how far I can see. I live on the prairies and I can see for miles from where I’m sitting.
I can’t see one little bit of ground. All around me for miles is a waving field of outstretched arms and white red-rimmed pleading eyes. I can’t be sure but I think the walls of the house I’m sitting on are starting to groan and crack. Soon the house will collapse or I will starve to death.
At night the sea of eyes around my house pick up the moonlight like the eyes of cats. All I can hear is the rub of fabric on skin and the breathing of a thousand soft breezes.
I feel like I’m at a silent slow-motion film of a punk rock concert in a sold out arena and I’m tempted to do a little stage diving. I feel like a prophet with needy quiet followers.
I threw one of my shoes over the edge to hopefully cause a little scuffle and get some entertainment but they weren’t fooled for a second. My scuffed Reebok bounced off of the unblinking face of a middle aged farmer before disappearing into the crush of bodies with no effect. Still they reached. Still they swayed. If it wasn’t me, they weren’t interested.
I don’t have a gun. The weather’s not bad enough to die of exposure. I don’t have a belt and I don’t think my remaining shoelace would hold me if I tried to hang myself with it. I’m wearing shorts. My shirt might hold my weight if I could figure out a way to tie it around my neck but the only place I can think to hang myself off of is the corner of one of the gutters around the roof and they’re made of cheap plastic that would crack and splinter, sending my body like spare change down to the mute begging dead.
It’s a tug war between a few types of death. It takes a lot longer to die of hunger than it does to die of thirst so it looks like we’re going to have a little race.
Either that or I jump.
We’ll see how it turns out.
tags
They breathe heavier if they’re doing something strenuous. They grunt involuntarily if they’re punched in the stomach. Other than that, their tongues are stilled.
They make no more noise than footsteps and the rustling of the clothing they have left.
It’s become a silent world. I kicked the ladder away but Shahrain and her friends now know that I’m on the roof. They aren’t smart enough to put the ladder up but they know where I am.
I’m on an island surrounded by an ocean of dead flesh and reaching hands. More are on the way. I think the bad thing about where I am is how far I can see. I live on the prairies and I can see for miles from where I’m sitting.
I can’t see one little bit of ground. All around me for miles is a waving field of outstretched arms and white red-rimmed pleading eyes. I can’t be sure but I think the walls of the house I’m sitting on are starting to groan and crack. Soon the house will collapse or I will starve to death.
At night the sea of eyes around my house pick up the moonlight like the eyes of cats. All I can hear is the rub of fabric on skin and the breathing of a thousand soft breezes.
I feel like I’m at a silent slow-motion film of a punk rock concert in a sold out arena and I’m tempted to do a little stage diving. I feel like a prophet with needy quiet followers.
I threw one of my shoes over the edge to hopefully cause a little scuffle and get some entertainment but they weren’t fooled for a second. My scuffed Reebok bounced off of the unblinking face of a middle aged farmer before disappearing into the crush of bodies with no effect. Still they reached. Still they swayed. If it wasn’t me, they weren’t interested.
I don’t have a gun. The weather’s not bad enough to die of exposure. I don’t have a belt and I don’t think my remaining shoelace would hold me if I tried to hang myself with it. I’m wearing shorts. My shirt might hold my weight if I could figure out a way to tie it around my neck but the only place I can think to hang myself off of is the corner of one of the gutters around the roof and they’re made of cheap plastic that would crack and splinter, sending my body like spare change down to the mute begging dead.
It’s a tug war between a few types of death. It takes a lot longer to die of hunger than it does to die of thirst so it looks like we’re going to have a little race.
Either that or I jump.
We’ll see how it turns out.
tags