When The Dead Walk

by J.P. Hunt © 2002

Donít cry. I say donít cry because it will do no good. The day of reckoning you say? No, but I have wondered that myself at times. After all, what other time is the dead professed to walk. If it scares you I believe it should. I know I am scared. As I sit here within the confines of my safe home, I see them passing by the window. The many corpses of both friends and strangers. I saw many go in my lifetime, and they where sad days. But I never dreamed of seeing them again, especially not this way. One day in heaven perhaps but not shambling zombies wandering among the living.

My wife sits outside the doorway. She left me five years ago to join our sons in another world. But her soul less body now slumps just outside the door. Two hours ago she came pounding. She stood rapping and crying, waking me from a dream. Her voice sent me out of bed and to the floor faster than I believed my old bones could go! Looking out the window I cried with joy at the radiant beauty of the woman I loved. I threw open the door and was stopped aghast at the horrid creature that stood before me. If she had come to me in any other way I would have greeted her with embraces and kisses. Instead I quickly came to my senses and slammed the and door quickly drew the locks as fast as my old shaky hands could do them. Sheíd only stopped pounding roughly ten minutes ago. My sons have joined her now on the porch they all sat. Three lifeless bodies somehow animated. It was hard to pass judgment on what I saw and did not believe.

The pounding on the door has begun again and my poor old heart is beating so. I find myself torn between those that I love and the unmistakable reality and terror of what they are now. I want to hold them ago so badly. I donít know what scares me more. The horror of what I see, or the fact that I am so blanched by that horror that I can not except them unto myself.

The dead continue to walk, dropping appendages, skin and clots of dirt onto the ground as they travel. I see that other family members are also awake. Perhaps they to are afraid to leave the assured safety of their homes. Perhaps they to are afraid to reach out to there loved ones.

A window shatters. The big picture window that my wife always cherished. I see one of the boys has done it. A re-enactment of something that happened long ago. The image of a ten-year-old enters my mind as he steps through the broken pain of glass. Sheepish grin and baleful eyes. A smile crosses mine as I turn to beckon him to me so I could hold him, embrace him like I so dearly wanted. He comes to me but as he steps closer the image falls away and I see him as he really is. The infested and rotting corpse of my child long dead. I turn weakly, and run.

x x x




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