Where We Dead Dogs Lie

This is the first part of a story I'm doing for an English class-

They called me Christian Corrode once. I remember that.

But names don't matter when you're dead. The names disappear. I would say that names rot like the rest of you does... but it's not quite the same. It's like they fade away, like water dripping down a glass pane. And then the water all pools at the floor, and becomes one thing.

We are one being. We are one mind. Or rather, one mindless weapon. A massive mass.

But every once and awhile, when there are no whispered orders being given, nor any of that hunger to sate... every once and awhile I can almost remember what it was like to have wind caress the tangles of my hair, I can remember being content, I can remember being an individual. I remember having a name that was my own. And a woman's voice, caressing even softer than that wind.

That was before the nerves collapsed, and before my eyes rotted, and before my memories devoured themselves.

Sometimes I wish I could see.

The desire, the hope, rises up through layers of stagnant thought and hungry needs, and surfaces. I wish I could see.

I've heard them say that the moon is red now. I heard them talking when on duty, but when I'm alone and when I'm resting and when there is something of being an individual there, then I realize that those strange sounds have meaning, that it is actually a language.... and that they mean what they said; the moon is red. Rumors fly about concerning its origin- that the day the military openly turned was the night that the moon turned red... or that there is so much bloodshed on the earth that it has stained the very sky itself.

They say it with fear. Or disgust. They say it as if the red moon is a thing of evil.

But I always loved red. I remember that.



I bet it's beautiful.



They're calling us now. Stiff, dead limbs start jerking like an army of clockwork toys coming to life. But, maybe that's all we are, after all... My thoughts from a moment before seep back into the forgotten edges of my mind- because when my body is not stagnant, my mind becomes so. Individual thoughts are unnecessary. And I am no longer myself, but become a part of the 'ourself'.

We are one being. We are one weapon. We will feast. And we will follow those whispering orders.

And once... we were Christian.

(Just a story from my new zombie character point of view.)