Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Morning Write - 2

This morning write isn't related to the last one I did. They are two very separate stories, both of which I might keep continuing on here. Anyways, here's the story that ran through my mind as I woke up this morning.

The Porch
Robert woke with a start to the sound of heavy thumps. Footsteps, slow and rhythmic woke him from his nap. There was a weight in them that seemed unnatural and awkward. He held his breath to hear exactly where the footsteps were. Just around the corner. His heart hammered in his chest, slowly filling his body with adrenaline. He closed his eyes. His hand carefully removed the revolver from his coat, and let it lay on his lap. The weight was comforting.

You’re safe here, he thought to himself. You’re under the porch, right where they can’t get to you. It helped calm him just enough to focus. Observe what you came here to see.

Very slowly, he positioned his eye just under a hole in the porch. The heavy footsteps approached where he hid. Something dark came into view, the low light of the morning made it difficult. The thing came even closer, and came to a stop, just in front of the door to the house.

The breathing, Robert thought. Oh, that wretched breathing. Heavy breaths that rattled and whined, like wind through an abandoned house. They were slow and long, occasionally emitting a low groan. Robert’s thumb very slowly cocked back the hammer on the revolver.

Staring upwards, he could see the thing standing over him. It was a man, a dirty, lanky man, but Robert knew better. Other details exposed themselves as his eyes adjusted to the light: the wild, unkempt and dirty hair, the large stains and smudges of dirt all over his raggedy clothes. He also noticed the small cuts and wounds that had bled and dried long ago. Whether the wounds were before or after death, he knew not, only that what was standing above him was a reanimated corpse.

Porch by arch522. Used with artist's permission.

The zombie just stared at the door, breathing and groaning for a moment. Then it lifted a heavy arm, and knocked on the door.

Robert couldn’t help but to smile. He actually knocked. Chris was right! His body relaxed a little, but he didn’t let down his guard. He would still want to eat my flesh if he found me, he chided.

Another knock, then silence. The zombie ducked down, stood back up, and began to march heavily back the way it had come. Robert fought back his curiosity and waited, once it rounded the corner, he began to shuffle towards the crawlspace opening. Waiting a moment, he listened for the approach or breathing of any other zombie, then quickly squeezed through the hole.

Calmly, he found the ladder he hid, and climbed up on the roof where he could safely keep observing, where he had slept the night before. The zombie had just left the porch, and continued down the drive way, where it turned and started walking down the street. Robert began to laugh as he realized what the zombie was wearing: A very ragged and soiled postman uniform.

“Some deep memory from the life before?” he mused out loud and laughed. “So deeply programmed into its muscles and body that even in death it continues to march.”

He watched the zombie disappear around the corner of another house, and then decided to move on. He rolled up the two blankets he slept on, and packed them into the backpack he wore. Taking a few sips of water from a tin, he scanned the neighborhood with a pair of binoculars from the bag. Seeing a handful of slow-moving zombies, he decided to make his way back to the Shelter.

Recovering the rifle he stashed in the rain gutter, Robert checked the rifle’s clip and the revolver, strapped the backpack tight, and started trekking through the silent neighborhood.


This story continues with Homeward

No comments:

Post a Comment