Terror. A dimension mirroring the living one--but morphed to reflect the imagination of its Overseer. And the current Overseer... has refused to relinquish her power for centuries, tormenting her souls--"terrors"--into becoming... zombies.
Arielle f...
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It took Penelope longer than she'd hoped to recompose herself. The zombies had finished their meals, and were wiping their mouths when one of them sniffed at the air, stilled, then swerved around to see her on the ground. She wriggled as far back as she could and touched her fingers to the grass, activating her barrier of fire. And barely in time before the small horde had decided to launch in her direction. The flames flashed upward, scorching one zombie's face off. The creature barreled through but didn't make it far before it collapsed, grabbing at its cheeks as they melted off. Penelope held her breath as it moaned, crawling towards her, but it lost strength while its flesh fell from the bone and its nose plunged into the grass.
The others didn't dare attempt such a move. They remained behind the fiery wall, grunting, muttering who-knew-what under their foul breaths. Minutes later, they'd lost interest—there was no point lusting after someone so protected, so powerful.
For now.
It was a close one. Too close. Once she'd gathered her wits and her heart had stopped racing, Penelope stood and wobbled over to her front door. She pushed into it, slinking inside, and let the semi-darkness envelop her as the door shut and she rested against it.
Her panic attack had been ill-timed. She usually kept such frantic behaviors to herself, cloistered in her room; how undignified to lose her cool in public! How irresponsible and inelegant!
She cringed, pressing her palms to the door, absorbing its fiery warmth. Her nails screeched out, digging into the heavy wood, but not piercing it. She scratched them down then pushed herself off, her stability returned.
"That was stupid, and I need to be more cautious."
The air inside the house was stale, sticky, and sweat grew over her forehead and under her neck. Never did the heat bother her so much, but today, it crept up her limbs and coated her in its intensity, and did nothing but worsen her anxiety.
So despite her embarrassment, and the looming threat—one day, those zombies would breach through her walls and not be charred alive—she returned outside. Sparks flew in the air, and though it was hot out there, too, the fire was farther away, not engulfing her as much. She wasn't caged in, she was free.
Her brain seemed to twist and contort in her skull. Every facial motion hurt, every blink of her eyes worsened the liquid converging there, about to spill over her lashes. The zombies were restless, soon to turn on her—like that one time when they'd almost devoured her. Like that one time she'd lost control, stuck in her morose mood of defeat, thinking she'd ruined her reign; they knew. They knew. Of course, the zombies sensed weakness, so of course, they'd detected hers. She wasn't immune to them, and they wouldn't heed her commands much longer.
Because the balance had toppled, and everything was topsy-turvy. What she needed, instead of sucking in gulps of air, heaving like a fish out of water, was to check her mirror. Had the recent victim she'd witnessed being chowed down on returned things to normal? Or were Arielle and Benny's names still flickering red on the mirror's surface? Had her zombies helped her? Or rendered her situation more delicate?