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Death on Two Legs
Byron's eyes open in the darkness of night and the dimly lit interior of the cabin. Rocking chair creaks. He feels something heavy and metallic resting in his lap, touches its surface, gets struck by the ghost of a memory and knows he has a shotgun. Looks down at it, unlocks the breech, sees shells in both chambers.
Place is quiet.
Cradles the gun in his arms and looks about the living room. Hears a low moan several feet away. Someone somewhere other than him. Senses it's coming from outside and checks the nearest window.
Barren land as far as the eye can see. Dead trees. Bushes in a state of skeletal after-life. Byron's breathing stops for a moment as he spots people lumbering about on the property, their eyes glowing, limbs ramshackle, carrying with them the weight of rotting flesh. Byron knows, despite not being told by anyone, that these are zombies, members of the living dead.
One of these creatures turns its head toward the window and sees Byron through it, its eyes burning with fury. Clumsy walk turns into a sprint, rams its forehead into the glass and through it, screeching like a lamb in agony before having its throat slashed and spilling blood in the slaughter factory.
Instinctively, Byron raises the twin barrels of the shotgun at the flesh-eater's head and pulls one of the triggers. Shot rings out. Pieces of skull and brain mush fling in every which way like confetti.
Byron's breathing speeds up. Excitement at the sight of the blood and exploded skull.
Door in another room gets beaten in. Claws scratch at wood and the dead things howl.
Turns around, then pulls the other trigger.
A pack of zombies, like wolves, breaks into the cabin from at least two directions. Byron reaches into his pockets desperately, scrambling for shells, but soon feels something cold and hard and sharp on his neck. Brain goes berserk, aware of impending death.
And yet—
But of course, the shells are in the bedroom, in a drawer, in a little box originally meant for cigars.
Byron, in a simple fashion, fills his pockets of his overalls with shells. Makes sure shotgun is loaded. Knows danger is just around the corner. Being an animal, ignorant, untarnished, not knowing of God or the serpent in the garden, he grunts and stays alert.
Not enough to survive.
The dead are strong, their lifeless arms not knowing the limits of mortal strength.
Even when aiming for the head, making sure his aim is true, painting the walls and floor with blood and brain matter, he gets blindsided by one of the undead, its teeth piercing the back of his skull and causing him to know no more.
Byron, even being so simple-minded, knows that something is amiss. Shivers ripple through his body, of having died before, of flesh-eaters pouring into his home and eating him alive. No matter. Must find solution.
Apparently he keeps a revolver, a double-action six-shooter, tucked away under the floorboards. Good. Shotgun is good, but a gun that doesn't need to be reloaded as often is better.
There are three doors: in the front, in the kitchen, and in the basement.
Mind makes basic calculations. Find tools in basement, board up windows, rid home of vermin, then think of something. The claw of the hammer good for cracking skulls. Not to mention nails.
A man with a hammer and some nails can be intimidating.
He can still be killed, though.
He tries again.
And again...
And again...
Finds several sticks of dynamite, clearly meant for mining, but where can one find a match with which to light a fuse?
But of course...
The zombies can be tricked so easily.
Allows the zombies to enter through the front and kitchen doors. Revolver at the ready, Byron leads the packs down into the basement and makes them converge, picking off members who are too eager to take his life.
The dynamite has been set. Lights a match and ignites every fuse before leaving for outside.
As the wooden fragments of the cabin burn and apocalyptic puffs of smoke rise up into the heavens, Byron sits in dead grass and gazes upon his work.
He laughs.
He laughs into the night, his smile shining. He keeps laughing, even as his lungs become devoid of air, even as a flesh-eater sinks its teeth into his throat.
One must imagine Byron happy.
Place is quiet.
Cradles the gun in his arms and looks about the living room. Hears a low moan several feet away. Someone somewhere other than him. Senses it's coming from outside and checks the nearest window.
Barren land as far as the eye can see. Dead trees. Bushes in a state of skeletal after-life. Byron's breathing stops for a moment as he spots people lumbering about on the property, their eyes glowing, limbs ramshackle, carrying with them the weight of rotting flesh. Byron knows, despite not being told by anyone, that these are zombies, members of the living dead.
One of these creatures turns its head toward the window and sees Byron through it, its eyes burning with fury. Clumsy walk turns into a sprint, rams its forehead into the glass and through it, screeching like a lamb in agony before having its throat slashed and spilling blood in the slaughter factory.
Instinctively, Byron raises the twin barrels of the shotgun at the flesh-eater's head and pulls one of the triggers. Shot rings out. Pieces of skull and brain mush fling in every which way like confetti.
Byron's breathing speeds up. Excitement at the sight of the blood and exploded skull.
Door in another room gets beaten in. Claws scratch at wood and the dead things howl.
Turns around, then pulls the other trigger.
A pack of zombies, like wolves, breaks into the cabin from at least two directions. Byron reaches into his pockets desperately, scrambling for shells, but soon feels something cold and hard and sharp on his neck. Brain goes berserk, aware of impending death.
And yet—
But of course, the shells are in the bedroom, in a drawer, in a little box originally meant for cigars.
Byron, in a simple fashion, fills his pockets of his overalls with shells. Makes sure shotgun is loaded. Knows danger is just around the corner. Being an animal, ignorant, untarnished, not knowing of God or the serpent in the garden, he grunts and stays alert.
Not enough to survive.
The dead are strong, their lifeless arms not knowing the limits of mortal strength.
Even when aiming for the head, making sure his aim is true, painting the walls and floor with blood and brain matter, he gets blindsided by one of the undead, its teeth piercing the back of his skull and causing him to know no more.
Byron, even being so simple-minded, knows that something is amiss. Shivers ripple through his body, of having died before, of flesh-eaters pouring into his home and eating him alive. No matter. Must find solution.
Apparently he keeps a revolver, a double-action six-shooter, tucked away under the floorboards. Good. Shotgun is good, but a gun that doesn't need to be reloaded as often is better.
There are three doors: in the front, in the kitchen, and in the basement.
Mind makes basic calculations. Find tools in basement, board up windows, rid home of vermin, then think of something. The claw of the hammer good for cracking skulls. Not to mention nails.
A man with a hammer and some nails can be intimidating.
He can still be killed, though.
He tries again.
And again...
And again...
Finds several sticks of dynamite, clearly meant for mining, but where can one find a match with which to light a fuse?
But of course...
The zombies can be tricked so easily.
Allows the zombies to enter through the front and kitchen doors. Revolver at the ready, Byron leads the packs down into the basement and makes them converge, picking off members who are too eager to take his life.
The dynamite has been set. Lights a match and ignites every fuse before leaving for outside.
As the wooden fragments of the cabin burn and apocalyptic puffs of smoke rise up into the heavens, Byron sits in dead grass and gazes upon his work.
He laughs.
He laughs into the night, his smile shining. He keeps laughing, even as his lungs become devoid of air, even as a flesh-eater sinks its teeth into his throat.
One must imagine Byron happy.
Kind of geeking out about this one! There's a whisper of the time loop/Sisyphus's Cabin in the very first line, but I didn't think anything of it until the repeats actually started. Cool, subtle foreshadowing.
I had just praised Snowclad for completing a narrative arc, and I'm now slightly altering that same praise, here. Since we're in a time loop sort of situation without hard memory retention, it's difficult to grow a character at all, yet we still see dear Byron gradually improve on his murder skills and finally end up, one must imagine, happy.
Very cool work. And just in case anybody asks, the deluge of line breaks didn't bother me at all, even when they were only a line or two apart. I think of them as jump cuts in this sort of narrative style.
I had just praised Snowclad for completing a narrative arc, and I'm now slightly altering that same praise, here. Since we're in a time loop sort of situation without hard memory retention, it's difficult to grow a character at all, yet we still see dear Byron gradually improve on his murder skills and finally end up, one must imagine, happy.
Very cool work. And just in case anybody asks, the deluge of line breaks didn't bother me at all, even when they were only a line or two apart. I think of them as jump cuts in this sort of narrative style.