>March of the Broken

>I thought I should finally post something on here that everyone can read. Having checked that the electronic rights have reverted back to me, here’s March of the Broken. My first (very) short Zombie story from Murky Depths #9:

Unsteadily I take to my crippled feet, make my first shambling step.
    Survey the carnage. The ground is slick with scarlet and I drag my reluctant toes through the gore unsure of my destination. The silence is maddening. I can not feel myself as I move, propelled forward by preternatural will, but I can feel the hunger. It rises in my dulled mind with insatiable ferocity that catcalls and jeers to only me.
    There are more, so many now. We move in shuffling unison, a broken battalion, an exodus of the hungry.
    And there are the others. They move so swift, and always away.
    Please. Don’t leave me.
    My voice sounds so morose and the words merge into a single hollow syllable. Some of them cover their ears as I plead in vain.
    Only in the earliest morning has the city ever been so still. There is a dreadful tension in the chill air. The buildings themselves seem to quiver with the effort of remaining still. There is a vacuum caused by the holding of mortal breath as I wander by.
    A sound. It catches my instinctual ear and I am drawn.
    My tattered hands scratch ineffectually at their walls, their doors. They plead like prisoners, afraid of their guards. They beg me to leave them alone. I can hear them from behind their barriers of brick and wood. They think them impenetrable. Nothing is more timeless than me. I am beyond the grasp of Time and Death. Not your bricks, not your wood, not your fragile lives can withstand my patient hunger.
    I wait. Outside.
    There is a press of bodies without people. Torsos and limbs held together by force of habit. We jostle and sway in the dark, our senses strained toward one inescapable goal. There is movement and the mob flows with wilted vigour. A sorrowful lament rises from our swelling ranks.
    I’m here. Can you not see me? Help me.
    Let me inside. I’m so alone and the world hurts my insomniac eyes.
    Sometimes they shriek and writhe in my arms. They beat at me like a beast, thrash and struggle. The thick taste of tin as it jets against my palette or the wet crunch of flesh is all that I ask for. Yet, they are so reluctant.
    So warm. I just want to be warm.
    I see you, a face from the locked vault of my mind. Your hair, I remember, it felt as if I were touching a dream. I knew you before. There was something before the stained shirt. There was something before your face was so cold and scarred with tear tracks. You know me. Who am I now, that you see me with such loathing? There was love there once.
    A whisper as you raise the rifle to your shoulder.
    Yes. That was my name.
    You say you’re sorry.
    Please, please.

Thanks for reading.


2 thoughts on “>March of the Broken

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