The Dead
By John Ogden
Awakening.
Dull pain, light; movement, the taste of dust in my mouth.
Hands tightening, fingers flex, spasm. Razor-shard of agony driven nail-like into my skull. Vague memories of rotor blades, loose belt, jarring, fall. Cracked helmet.
- - That’s when I see them, when I remember, knots rising, knots upon knots. Scrabbling hands, gritty pavement. Have to get away, have to- - Eyes, narrow, cruel, crooked nails fast, hungry. Have to get away! They reach me before I can hurl myself to my feet, cold eager hands straining, curling, digging, tearing, harbingers of jagged, ravening mouths. Tightness in chest, throat, struggling against grip, desperately fighting fingers, so close to howling jaws, cracking, biting teeth. I pull away and they follow, stumbling, scratching, stumbling. I run, and they follow. In endless hordes, they follow, pouring from yawning windows, cavernous doors, a plague boiling up from the visceral depths of dead and rotting urban sprawl.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
By John Ogden
Awakening.
Dull pain, light; movement, the taste of dust in my mouth.
Hands tightening, fingers flex, spasm. Razor-shard of agony driven nail-like into my skull. Vague memories of rotor blades, loose belt, jarring, fall. Cracked helmet.
- - That’s when I see them, when I remember, knots rising, knots upon knots. Scrabbling hands, gritty pavement. Have to get away, have to- - Eyes, narrow, cruel, crooked nails fast, hungry. Have to get away! They reach me before I can hurl myself to my feet, cold eager hands straining, curling, digging, tearing, harbingers of jagged, ravening mouths. Tightness in chest, throat, struggling against grip, desperately fighting fingers, so close to howling jaws, cracking, biting teeth. I pull away and they follow, stumbling, scratching, stumbling. I run, and they follow. In endless hordes, they follow, pouring from yawning windows, cavernous doors, a plague boiling up from the visceral depths of dead and rotting urban sprawl.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
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