Writing Prompt – The Mission

Conrad issued another writing prompt, this one with a zombie theme.

“Write a story where for 24 hours anyone that dies rises within an hour or so. And those newly risen dead people aren’t very happy and want to beat anything living to death.”

This was written in about 20 minutes; one re-read and edit.  Normally you can click on the title to read the full prompt and my comment/entry, but due to the nature of the writing, I don’t know if he will approve the entry, so I don’t know if it will appear there.

I hesitated posting it here, but it is something I wrote.

WARNING – – – WARNING – – – WARNING

Not for children, or sensitive adults.

Writing Prompt #62: Stop… zombie time

The Mission

She screamed. Or tried to. Dirt pressed in on her, and something heavy was sitting on her chest. She willed her arm to move, and slowly forced it through the soil.

Slowly, but she got it almost vertical before the dirt gave way fully, and she felt cool air on her hand and wrist. She brought the other arm up as well, and with both free, she pulled herself up, the heavy rocks that were holding her down now rolling to a stop a few feet away. It was nearly dusk, the shadows chasing light away from the treed area surrounding her.

She stood, looked down, and screamed again. Or tried to. An unfamiliar wail rose from somewhere within her. It escaped from her throat, which she grabbed with both hands. She had screamed because of the cut on her chest; a deep cut, showing the bones of her rib-cage, some broken and at odd angles.

Now she wailed again, as a few of her fingers went past the boundaries of her throat, and into the cut that spanned a quarter of her neck.

She remembered. He had grabbed her as she walked home from her friend’s house. He had pushed her into the woods. He . . . she wailed again. She cried, but no tears flowed from her unblinking eyes. Standing there, shaking, she was slowly flooded with anger. Her memory now included a face . . . that of her neighbor, around the block from her house.

She fell to her knees, near the rocks that had held her down, and without realizing it, she picked one up, smashed it onto another rock, shattering both into pieces. She grabbed another, and did the same. And then another.

She stopped, her hand holding a rock high above her. She lowered her arm, and used the other arm to get up. She turned toward the familiar power lines that bordered the edge of the subdivision where she lived. Had lived.

One foot, then another, shuffled toward what used to be home. But that was not her destination. She gripped the rock tighter; she had a mission.

 – – – – – – – – The End- – – – – – – – – – – –

For those interested, the story idea was triggered in part by recent news about a missing girl who was found dead.  It’s difficult for me to describe what I feel when I read those news stories.  It it not an exaggeration to say it puts me in a murderous frame of mind.

Still, for a moment I wondered if I was exploiting the news; it’s not my intent. 

I said before, it’s just fiction.   Sometime it’s fun, sometimes sad, sometime other things.  Sometime I write the scenario I know can’t happen, where victims exact vengeance.

As usual, thanks for visiting and reading my stuff.

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. . .  my FP ward  . . . chieken shit.