Life Among The Dead

How did it happen?
Was it a virus from space? An accident of science?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that death had claimed the earth.
He tried not to show it, of course. Day after day, they were all around him. But he just kept his head down , watching his feet take slow, deliberate steps on the shattered sidewalks and ignoring their ghostly reflections in the darkened windows as they shambled past him. But he couldn’t stop his heart spreading the urge to explode into full panic with every pound. And he couldn’t stop them from sensing the life within him. Not his physical life, but the life he had created within him. Life that deserved birth, not abortion at no longer human hands. He knew they sensed it- and hungered for it.
Just keep going, he told himself. Head down, hands in pockets. Don’t look up and don’t look into their faces. Slow, steady steps. Don’t run. If he could make it home, he’d be safe.
But his heart continued pounding. Panic coursed through his veins, growing and spreading through his body, saturating every cell.
They were all around him.
How could he keep-?
The scream broke the deafening silence. Someone had given in before he could. His head jerked and he caught a glimpse of a woman running past him down the street. They took after her, their voices rising in shrill unison that drowned out her screams as they fell on her and covered her.
He did pity her, even though she allowed him to make it home.

At home was safety and solace. Surrounded by loved ones, he found the perfect nurturing he needed. In his room with the music playing and the computer screen shining bright, life took shape and substance, weaved in the womb of his mind. Characters, settings, plots, poems, and songs were birthed from him to the monitor to the paper. Free to be shared with all that would listen.
But it slipped through his fingers before he was even aware. True, he did notice the incomprehension in their eyes when he finished reading his tales. But there was also love, appreciation, and honor. These he embraced and drew strength and inspiration from. Until the day came when he looked into their eyes and saw how faded and frail they had become. It startled him, but as he did in the streets day after day, he didn’t let on. He just continued creating and reading- and watching the eyes watching him grow dimmer and more hollow.
Until the day came when he looked up and saw they were completely empty.
That’s when they attacked.
They sprang at him before he could react. They were on top of him, shouting as one, screaming with garbled voices. He struggled and kicked with all he had but they held him firm.
And then he could feel them leaching away- his creations and the ones he hadn’t yet. They were being sucked out of his mind, being devoured, destroyed. He could almost hear them screaming for help, crying out for him to save them. And he was powerless to do anything. When they had sucked him clean, he was left crumpled on the floor with nothing but tears and echoes of screams he never heard.
And that was how it went. He would have a thought, he would work with it and give it form, only to have it ripped from him. Eggs snatched from a hen before she could even lay them. After a few times, he became aware of a haze swimming before his eyes and a numbing where his imaginations once took root. He started ignoring any new ones. Days began to lengthen, blending into one another. Where did one end and the other begin? Purpose was becoming nonsense. He roamed the streets with no destination, taking no notice of anything. Colors faded and lights dimmed…
No.
No! He wouldn’t let it happen to him! Fight to stay alive! Struggle to regain focus! Penetrate the haze!
He did, but only for a moment. He wasn’t strong enough. But he saw where he had to go.

It wasn’t hard to get there. Just a brisk walk. But to him, it was a sluggish swim through oil. He had to force himself, the indifference was so strong.
It never used to be a struggle going there. He loved it and so did many others. With countless books on any given subject, tranquil music, delicious drinks, stimulating discussion, and joyous laughter, it was a haven. His home away from home.
And now for all intents and purposes, it would be his only home.
Nobody had even bothered locking it up. He just walked in, like all the other times. For a time he just sat on the stage and took it all in. Many times, he and others had stood on the stage and shared their creations to enthusiastic applause. But with death overtaking, the applause grew thin and soon stopped. Patrons came less and less. Books remained unopened and unread. Music faded into deafening silence. And just like so much else around him, it died before anyone had time to notice or even care.
Now it was little more than a tomb only admitting light through its’ windows and the particles of dust drifting in them.
But it would live again, through him. And through it, he would live.
The more he went each day, the easier it became for him. Indifference was losing its grip. Of course, he still had to be careful and not let anyone know where he was going. He couldn’t be sure who to trust. Once inside, it was his own private world and he was free in it. Well, almost. He always made sure nobody saw him coming or going. He got one of the hand chargeable flashlights that didn’t use batteries and used it as his only source of light. He stayed low in the aisles or under the tables so as not to be seen through the windows. But it was paradise. The books were still there, and he absorbed everything within their pages. Broke it down, reassembled it, reshaped it into the form of his choosing, and laid it bare onto blank paper.
Until the day came when the silence he had savored was broken. It was only the slightest stirring, but it sent a jolt through him. He thrust his light at the suddenly menacing shadows and saw nothing. He took slow, deep breaths and regained his calm, then returned to his book. A few moments later, he heard a creak almost directly next to him. He flashed the light- and revealed the hunched, swaying being staring at him with lifeless eyes.
He jumped up and bolted out of the aisle, an unearthly wail rising into the air behind him. He dodged and weaved between the shelves, frantic to escape, only plowing into another of them. They materialized all around him and held him fast. Nothing but lifeless eyes and shrieking mouths, and the death cries of life within him.
The haze was coming back, but he could still fight it. He still managed to make it to- his heart sank. The windows were shattered and doors ripped off their hinges. Inside, shelves were overturned and the books were torn to shreds. He stood in the middle of it and wept. Death had claimed his sanctuary and made it no longer safe.
But after shedding his tears, he recalled something one of his books had said. Only a sentence,
he couldn’t remember the context, but it spoke clear as a bell.
Get out of town.
That was it. Everything around him was dead or dying and not even the things he held dear were safe. And as long as he remained, neither was he. He had to get out, to where death had not taken root.
And he knew where.

Not telling anyone where he was going, he packed his supplies and journeyed outside of the city. Heading into the country, he went straight to the woods. That was his destination, and though he was sure it would be safe, he still prayed
It had been years since he’d been to the cabin. Sure enough, it was untouched. He unlocked the door and the memories flooded his mind. Memories of hiking, swimming, songs by a crackling fire, and being lulled to sleep by crickets at night. A time when death was furthest from anyone’s mind, when life was abundant and yes, taken for granted. But not anymore.
By day, he would reacquaint himself with the land. He would hike the trails beneath the trees and welcome their shade and the occasional shafts of light that pierced it. Sometimes he would swim in the stream, letting the water rejuvenate him. These did strengthen his memories of the happier times, but he knew that memories were all that remained of them and he now had to focus on new times.
At night, his work began. He played the music and read the books that would stimulate and inspire him. And he prayed and sang praises to The Lord of All Life, giving thanks for the life still in his body and the means to enjoy it. Giving praise for the mind he was given and the wondrous imagination that sprang from it, giving birth to stories and poems and songs. Life from life, creation from creation.
The haze was blasted away completely. He was at last free. Words flowed from him like never before and poured themselves onto the paper. Page after page filled so quickly and so easily. Until at last, the book was finished. He climbed into bed feeling wonderfully tired.
He awoke excited and ready for the new day. He marched to the window and threw open the curtains- and choked on a scream at the sea of vacant faces staring at him.
They had found him!
He snatched up the pages and, clutching them to his heart, bolted out the back door. He sped down the trail and didn’t dare look back as shrieks filled the air and footsteps thundered behind him.
Death’s corrupting had taken root here, too. The murky sky flashed and rumbled above him as he struggled along the mud and wet grass. Skeletal branches grasped at him and tried to trip it up. But still he ran for his very life.
How far had he run? There was no telling. But they had stayed right behind him despite his best attempts to lose them. But then the earth slipped out from under him and tumbled headlong down a hillside, his papers flying in all directions. Landing at the bottom, he managed to get to his feet and gather what papers he could.
Then he saw the headstones before him. They had chased him into a graveyard. But he still ran. He ducked and weaved between the headstones and mausoleums, death surrounding him on all sides. He would never surrender.
But they managed to back him up against a statue, its face of featureless granite offering no comfort. He was surrounded, but prepared to fight to the last.
But then maybe he didn’t have to.
The statue was holding an open book. And engraved on its open pages: these words that I speak unto you, they are the words of life.
He knew what he had to do.
He began to read. Soft at first, but he grew louder and bolder. They screeched and shrieked all around him, but it made him even more bold. And he read to them louder than he ever had before.
When he had finally finished, he saw them standing all around them not making a noise. He looked into their faces and saw it. Just the faintest flicker in their eyes, but it was there nonetheless.
Life.