Gonner, I'm a Zombie

4: When the Best and Worst Possible Outcomes Happen at the Same Time

"Alright! Place each of your hands on the ground at your sides. Remember the age ya want to be in death, close your eyes, and take a deep breath. I'll take care of the rest!"

There was still hesitation with Isis, but her hands met the ground just like Gonner's did. Well, Gonner put his down almost the second he was given the cue.

Vitriol didn't tell them to close their eyes—probably because he forgot in his little "haze"—but both zombies did so. All while said "elder" zombie began slowly murmuring something in a language they couldn't understand but somehow felt familiar with. Had Dixie used it before?

Isis made the connection first. This was the language the necromancers used when creating the Azoth and all other supernatural protections for the residents in the lower lands. It was also the language of the oath Dixie had to take promising to give her afterlife to protecting others.

Gonner only processed—at the last second too—that the specific verse Vitriol was chanting was aimed at him, specifically.

One breath in.

That was all it was.

Then, poof.

Not only was he in a taller body...

But, it was almost like a snapshot. A wide array of images flooding his conscience all at once. Almost bringing him to the point of passing out had it not stopped right at the breaking point.

A sudden recap.

Growing up alone on the streets of Dublin after his parents had abandoned him.

Being found by a small band of pirates after they'd taken pity on him and saw themselves in him.

Training to be like them.

Giving himself a name after being nameless for all his life leading up to it. Something simple and easy to say, but intimidating at the same time.

Gonner.

Training with the slowly growing group to be like them until he reached when he originally died.

Only, instead of drowning, one of the crewmates reached him in time to pull him out of the water and bring him back on board.

He was more wary of the edges of the ship when it wobbled back and forth, from then on.

Beginning to count the years until he finally reached twenty five. Facing everything from storms, dehydration, starvation, and his least favorite, disease. Constantly wondering which one was going to eventually kill him.

Four of his adoptive family members had died within those years. Two were accidents during an especially violent storm, one occurred during a scuffle between themselves and another, larger group. Then the former leader to illness.

Then, finally, meeting his new, rigged end at the broken end of the mast falling and landing on the middle of his back.

Then, he was back in the same spot he was earlier that evening. Just with all these new memories attached.

And...

He stood up, wobbling a bit at first, but then going to look at himself in the mirror Vitriol had kindly braced against a tree.

He was much taller, now. Still lanky, and maintaining a sharper version of his facial structure, but with a short beard covering it.

But now, he had a different hat—which he remembered getting because it was harder to lose, having had his original blown away during the storm that originally took his life.

In addition, his eyes looked slightly more sunken in? Or... No, wait.

He was using black eyeshadow, which a few crew mates joked made him look like a raccoon.