a flash story by David G Shrock

Alistair Monroe sat on the wood floor, his back leaning against the wall. He watched the flame swirl in the lantern beside him. Every once in a while, blue shot up from the center sending the little flame into a flickering frenzy before settling back into its dance. A revolver sat on the floor between his outstretched legs. Dirt and blood stains covered his boots.

Breathing in the musty air, Alistair smelled rotting flesh. The putrid stench stained the air, the drapes, and even his clothes. He missed the smell of horses. His stomach gurgled, and he belched. Running his hand through his hair, he found it slick with blood. Not his blood, not all of it anyway. Marie Dodson had lost so much blood.

Rolling his head against the wall, Alistair gazed over at the parlor. Flooding through the broken window, moonlight bathed Marie’s corpse laying on the rug. Claw marks covered the back of her dress. A gash on her head spilled blood onto the rug. His bride stared back with her dead eyes. The corpse farted. Until recently, he never realized just how much the dead farted and burped.

It was only minutes away.

First it had happened to Jasper the blacksmith. Jasper had fallen dead just after noon three days prior. Everyone had thought it was the heat. That night, Jasper had risen attacking others on sight. The next day, Jasper’s shy mistress, Beth, had fallen ill and died followed by several others.

Soon, Marie Dodson would join the living dead.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes and listened to the quiet. A normal Saturday night meant dancing and singing in town square led by Lester’s fiddle. The gunfire had ceased hours ago. Even the dogs had fallen silent.

Movement caught his eye. He snatched up the revolver and aimed at the window.

The drapes wiggled in the breeze.

Alistair glanced at the corpse on the rug and looked at the revolver in his hand. There was only one thing for it, he thought. He touched the barrel to the side of his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

A swooshing sound broke the stillness, and a warm breeze tussled his hair. A clomp, and the floor shuddered.

Opening his eyes, Alistair found Marie standing on the rug. Her stance appeared awkward, leaning forward, knees bent, and off to the side. Her head lolled as her dead eyes roved around. Like the others, these eyes never really found their target, but he knew. His undead bride peered at him. He cried out her name emptying his lungs.

The thing howled sounding like a cat hissing and coughing a hairball at the same time.

Pushing the barrel hard against his temple, Alistair screamed. Marie reached out and stomped across the floor.

Turning the gun around, Alistair aimed at her skull and pulled the trigger. The snarling face exploded spraying bits and blood, and the corpse collapsed at his feet. Scrambling up, boots clomping, he stumbled out the door. His legs burned sending him into hobble.

Whispering her name repeatedly, he stumbled onto the dusty road. He opened the revolver. Three bullets remained, two for them and one for him. Clicking the revolver closed, he reached for sky and cried out the name of his bride to the moon.

Waiting for the others, he searched the dark buildings along the road. The one that had attacked Marie was still out here somewhere. It was too quiet. The night bugs had abandoned their song to the prairie. Then he heard the familiar shuffling.

Turning around he found two dark figures on the road coming at him. They moved slower than the others, and the big one limped nearly dragging a foot. Holding him in an arm, the small one, a woman, helped him down the road.

Astonished at the sight of other survivors, his jaw fell open.

As they approached, features climbed out of the darkness revealing torn clothing. Tatters of a dress streamed around the woman’s dirt covered legs, her bare feet stomping over the hard clay. Dried blood covered their pale faces, their eyes were clouded over, but Alistair recognized them, Jasper the blacksmith and his mistress, Beth.

Alistair aimed at the large target and fired. The undead blacksmith fell, flopping over onto his side, and Beth collapsed onto her knees. He marched closer for a better shot.

Beth howled. Leaning over, she touched her crusty lips to the blacksmith’s cheek.

Aiming the gun at their skulls, he watched them embrace and kiss each other. They appeared nothing like their former selves, not just the rot, but their deliberate movements out in the open. Could it all be impulses? Some attacked anything that moved, others ate everything including the dogs, and this pair, uninhibited lovers groping and kissing each other. He shook his head wondering how much the living dead remembered of their former lives.

Beth lurched up. There were no tears, but she appeared to cry. She released a hissing moan, unmistakable anguish. Leaning over, she covered the blacksmith with her body. She protected her lover.

Had Marie Dodson remembered anything? He shook, but he held his aim on the skull of the undead woman. His gut rumbled, and he burped, the nastiness filling his mouth.

The living dead moaned.

Alistair Monroe pulled the trigger.

The gunshot crushed the night air.

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• The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like.

• Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.

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