First draft Lives of the dead (1) (1)

There was absolute chaos anarchy and screaming i

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There was absolute chaos. Anarchy and screaming. I thought of that night at my uncle’s farm. I woke up to the sound of my uncle's yells. I jumped out of bed and ran to the source of the cries. My uncle was in front of the barn. It was engulfed in flames, their orange and yellow tongues lapping at the full moon. But worse than the silent sobs of my uncle as he watched his livelihood go up in flames, were the noises of the animals. They were burning, burning alive, they made such awful noises. Their screams striking some primordial and primal part of me, some gray area between humanity and beast was bridged. It spoke of eons of terror and fear and pain and it haunted me. These animals trapped in a womb of fire, giving birth to nothing but ash and charred remains. Womb; the womb and ash. Nine years ago in a hospital. I talked to the doctor, he told me my wife was in that room on the left. I entered quietly. She was holding an empty blanket. She was weeping, her sorrow was inhuman. “Where were you?” I could hear the accusation in her voice. “There was .... traffic.” She just cried harder. “We could..try again” I suggested, it was a lie. I would never touch my wife again, how could I? She produces only death, she is repugnant. The womb is repugnant, a disgusting crushing prison. I whispered “I'm sorry Max; I wasn't here to...see you.” My wife just cried. My entire family died in that hospital room. Bestraff was screaming at her soldiers, but it was useless. They are being slaughtered, the civilians ran, scattered like pigeons. Bestraff turned to me. “This is all your fault, you goddamned
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coward!” “We came here for safety,” I mumbled to no one in particular. “You came here to be subjugated!” She turned her back on me, barking more orders at her soldiers. I felt a fury well up in me, the last protest against the death that was all around me. I reached into my pocket. While Bestraff was distracted by commanding her troops I spun her around and drove the blade of the Swiss army knife into her belly several times. She was a trained soldier though, and I was just some guy with a Swiss Army knife. She broke my arm so swiftly and violently that the bones of my wrist suddenly burst through my forearm, splashing Bestraff in the face with a warm spray of blood. I fell backwards staring at my injury in awe. Bestraff grabbed her bleeding stomach and looked down at me. “Are you satisfied?” The infected were beginning to reach the stage now, the soldiers had fled. Bestraff observed the scene, removed her pistol from its holster placed it under her chin; before she pulled the trigger she made eye contact with me, “Pathetic.” She pulled the trigger, her face was a mask of ecstasy that only self-inflected death could produce. I struggled no longer. I ran no longer. I sought protection no longer. I laid down in the middle of the stage and waited. I was going to be with my family. I was going to be with my son. I was going to be with Max. When the infected climbed onto the stage I greeted them; not with cries of terror but shouts of exultation.
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  • Spring '11
  • Benavides
  • Max, 2007 singles, If You Have to Ask, Private Durey

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