Waking Up Dead

One

A serpent of fire uncoils from my side and splits into five separate entities, creeping along my limbs, swirling, twisting, burning trails in their wake. A dry scream scratches my throat, like an angry cat clawing it's way past my esophagus.

"I'm on fire!" I shout, although I'm not sure this is exactly what comes out of my mouth. It's more like a groan.

"...no good," I hear someone say.

The flames overtake me again and I howl. Stop, please stop, it has to stop. Makeitstop!

The white-hot flames grow in intensity, until I can't breathe or think, and when I'm certain I can't take it anymore, they peter down to nothing. I just know I must be burned to a crisp.

"Am I dead?" I ask, my voice cracking like kindling.

"Yes and no," someone says. It's a woman. She's wearing an army getup, complete with a helmet. The way she's standing seems stiff. Knees locked, shoulders squared. Her voice is gruff, like pebbles rubbing across concrete.

It's hard to tell if she's telling the truth, because I'm numb.

"Are you sure? I can't feel anything."

Her appearance doesn't alarm me. I'm used to seeing soldiers...I think. How I got here in the middle of a...swamp...is what's confusing me. I'm lying in murky ankle deep water that smells like some port-o-potty.

"Pretty sure. You're talking." I see a gun of some kind in her hand. I've never been good identifying that kind of thing, but I'm pretty sure it's a type of gun I have never seen before. I note that she's pointing it upward and not at me, so I figure there's nothing to fear from it. "The dead don't talk, but when they wake up, they all say it burns like hell."

"What?" This woman talks in riddles. "What happened?"

"I shot you," she says simply.

What do you actually say to someone who tells you they shot you? What is etiquette? I have no clue, so I go with, "Jeez, thanks?"

"—with the treatment for the zombie virus," she adds. "You're not good as new, but you're better than you were."

"No, wait, hold up. Zombie virus?"

"I thought you might have some memory loss. It's common if the brain has been damaged at all. Luckily, yours wasn't damaged completely or you wouldn't be here right now."

The ground beneath me is squishy. I can feel that, but I don't know if it's cold or hot. I don't know if its slimy. All I know is that it gives easily beneath me when I move. I pull myself upright.

Looking down at myself, I just know I'm a nightmare to her. I'm covered in grime, thick black and brown gunk is dried here and there. The parts of me that are wet from the swamp are just wet black and brown gunk. My shirt is torn in several places, as if I've been run over by a lawn mower. My pants are barely hanging on by a few threads. I can tell they're my favorite jeans...or at least they were.

"Damn," I say. I'd had them since I was a junior in high school. No way would I find a new similar pair to replace them.

"You've been dead for six months," the woman says.

Something about her saying that makes me angry. Maybe it's the way she just blurts it out, without any feelings. No I'm sorry. No I don't know how to tell you this but, or even a brace yourself. Especially no, I'm sorry your beloved jeans are ruined. I'll never find another pair that'll make my booty look like that.

"You're insane," I say.

But the scary thing is, I know she's right. I know something has gone very, very wrong. But why?