A Welcome into Darkness

No Rest for the Undead

It had been a couple of months now. He believed the scent was off him for a while. Soon they would return for more. After slaying his sister, then his best friend, whom he stayed with for a while, he had begun to track them more effectively. Darkness swelled in the rankest of places, abandon buildings, empty houses, graveyards, and even sewers. It seemed any place with a hint of death surrounding it was commonplace for these things to dwell. And he knew exactly what they were, the undead. Utterly captivating and demonic they had become, terrorizing his home life then his public one. They had become vile, but there seemed to be no strategy behind their movements. They only seemed to mobilize whenever death was drawing near, they were attracted to the loved ones first. They would demonize the mortal, their killing streak highly effective of the closest ones you would cherish the most. That was how they got you. They would tear apart your soul first, feasting off your closest of kin and friendship. This made you less of a person, less of a mortal being. The building blocks that held your sanity together would start to crumble, that was when they attacked you, when you are at your weakest. He started to recognize this pattern. They slain the ones you held to your heart.

Moving briskly down the parkway, he headed to his hiding place that he had been camping out. Of course it had been abandon but a church was sacred ground. Sanctified territory had been a threat to them. Anything spiritual went against their nature, so he took upon himself to catch up on reading the bible and blessing himself with leftover holy water whoever blessed it last. It had been a humid night, and his duffel bag weighed him down. Over the months his bundle of weapons got bigger, a machete, a dagger, hooks, and even iron stakes that he stole from some old man's garden a while back. His steps were heavy, leaving behind the sound of giants which anyone could hear especially the dead.

He neared the entrance with a sigh of relief, swinging open the double doors. Inside the church it stank of rotten food, the smell of leftovers littered the aisles. He set up a cot in the back vestibule, where he was currently living. Lugging the bag now, he walked in on the dimly lit room. A single lamp stand was the only thing emanating light. His tired feet needed some rest, so he kicked off his Sketchers and landed upright on the cot. His head pounded with streams of nightmarish thoughts, the kind that made an imprint on you forever. He dug out the bible out from the bag, and he opened up to where the ribbon marker had been placed previously. Countless pages stuck together as he continued his reading. Something in this book stirred his thoughts into clarity, it gave him hope, it gave solace to carry on. While he read, his eyes slowly shut as he drifted off to lulled sleep.

The day couldn't have come any sooner. The bible splayed out on his chest, the pages still crisp to the touch. The church had been eerily quiet. But outside he could hear the new morning, birds fluttering and chirping outside the half open window. His eyes adjusted to coming day as he turned off the lamp. As he stood he tripped over the bag, and immediately he cursed. He did not mean to, but with it any mistake some profanity was bound to come out. Rubbing his face with fresh water from a basin, he looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in a long time. He could have sworn that those creases in his forehead had not been there before. His eyes remained flushed and full of countless nights remaining awake. It took a toll on him tracking their movements, noting their behaviors in a handwritten journal that he kept on him at all times. Sometimes he would jot down what he was feeling compared to what was necessarily important. His handwriting had been sloppy as he flipped through the pages, even some drawings that plagued his dreams he drew. Pacing back and forth, he kept the journal at arms length as he re-read his last entry. "Sometimes I can feel them near as if it some sort of defense mechanism rumbles in my stomach for a hunter such as I." Was that what he was now, a hunter, a slayer of the damned? He fit the title almost perfectly. Weapons stashed away, tracking by day, hunting by night, slaying in the late afternoon? This was his life now, and he shuddered and downed a can of warm soda pop that was left out from yesterday. The stale carbonated drink tasted almost like acid going down his throat. It made his head twitch as he gained a sugar high instantly. He hadn't eaten in two days and the hunger was getting to him. He could feel his stomach rumble and turn, it did not feel good.