Patchwork

You may think that you know good from evil but the very best intent can easily lead to the greatest ruin.

Back in the midsts, when people had more sense, there was a Physic known far and wide as a wise and just man. So compassionate was he that not even the most hardened criminal would thieve from him for he had treated everyone; often accepting no form of payment. He had no vices and to his wife he was oh so faithful,  drank only what was medicinal, and only in good measure. He very rarely gambled; only at Easter (when he always broke even) and Christmas time (when he gave his winnings to the poor.).

No, he was the perfect model of a man if ever there was one. And all would have been perfect if only his son were cut from the same cloth as he. But that was not to be the case. His son, to be fair, had a lot to live up to and from an early age a high expectation was placed upon him; nigh an impossible one... And it wasn't as if he didn't try; but each time he tried and his efforts fell woefully short everyone would tutt and cluck and exclaim “Not as good as his father.”

At first he tried harder but he was not built the same; had not the same apt or skill or art and so more spectacular were his failings. Is it any wonder, then, that he soon gave up even trying? Worse still, he grew to hate those words “Not as good as your dear father.” and thus grew to hate his father.

But his father cared not, his father loved the boy more than life itself and would have done anything for him. Mark this well, for whilst it is true that love can blind, it can also wound or even kill if wielded wrong.

The father could not and would not believe that the flesh of his flesh could do any wrong. And the son played his part very well. Ever the innocent, ever the wronged party no matter who made the accusings.

If the son were accused of thieving by the baker then the father would demand the evidence presented before him and it mattered not that the son had eaten all he had stole; crumbs carefully brushed off before the accuser. It mattered not if the brewer had accused him either. Obviously the son would go up to his father with fragrant breath, however tipsy and tricksy on his feet. 

All who accused his son were jealous, harboring grudges, so the father said and so the father became more of a recluse. And people no longer felt they could trust him; his view was no longer sought out as he only had eyes for his sons justice and no other. His wife, blind to the world, but not to her husbands pain, petitioned him one evening: “I know he is blood of your blood, but he is also of mine and we have not always seen eye to eye. Can you not at least entertain the notion of his guilt; that he is not as perfect as you, dear one?” “I am far from perfect, my sweet.” He would reply, “but my son shall inherit my mantle and surpass it.” And nothing more was said.

It wasn't long before the villagers tired of the sons ill manners and thieving ways. If the father weren't to dispense with things as right, then they should. And so they did. Planned ahead, the son never stood a chance. Blamed on a pack of wolves that still roamed the countryside, when in truth it was their hunting dogs one night when the moon was full and the kill was in their blood. Rent limb from limb, with only the face and torso left (for not only did they want the father to still recognise his precious boy, but also to allow the mother, who had done no wrong, an open coffin) The father buried his son in silence, allowed no one to visit -for no one truly wanted to- and would not even speak to his wife. His son, his spark, the one truth of his life, was dead.

Now Physic's knew many things, not only of that which cure but also that which killed. There was also knowledge of a different kind, one that was almost forgotten, even in his time. Yet he had in his possession books that shared that which no one ought to know. They had been handed down generation to generation to prevent them being given to the wrong minds. And in those weeks following the burial the father, the physic studied the books until he was sure of his next course of action. He could not imagine his life without his son and so it was not possible that he could be dead, not in Spirit. There was still time!

The elemental Alchemists who wrote those books wrote that the soul stayed in the body one week for every year lived, as it did in the womb before birth. By that reckoning he could still re-birth his son. He needed limbs though and for such a rational man -one for one of such a single purpose- that was to be no trouble.

He knew who had killed his son, he was not a naive man, and so it was just that they be the ones that would now supply the arms and legs that his boy lacked. It was right that they suffered as he had suffered, and his boy before him. That their actions were justified and his not never entered his mind any more, so fixated was he.

Digging up the corpse was easy enough for a man of such determination, and it was not long before the boys torso was laid out on the kitchen table, each new limb resting by its side. And when it came to attaching the limbs? Oh, he had no qualms any longer. The lies came easy to him now. His wife, blind though she was, was also a great seamstress and it was child's-play for him: “It's the scarecrow for the village crops.” He lied, “he's been torn apart by dogs and I need to make a new one.” And when she questioned the wetness of the limbs, “Oh, it's been raining out, my sweet.” And because she loved him, never thinking him capable of such a deed, she sewed her son back together again. When this patchwork abomination was finally ready the father said a silent prayer and fed the boy the elixir he had been working on.

Should I tell you what this mixture consisted of? If I did so you may feel compelled to do the same and that I would abhor. Suffice it to say, that for such a potion, such an elixir the ingredients caused the father much and pushed him to much darker places he could never come back from. Such dark magic is realised quick and the boy was awake again with a start, shocking his gather and causing his mother a faint. His father was overjoyed and the boy doubly so for he had loathed his time entombed.

And for a time it seemed as it should. The boy stayed inside and because no one visited no one was any the wiser. Even the mother grew to love her son again and so the ending seemed happy.But everything has a price and such magics are never stable; life is a hard thing to hold on to, doubly so when you've already died once.

And so the boys condition soon worsened. He hungered and nothing the mother fed him made any difference. Other things were noticeable too; at first the boy had a healthy discourse, could chat fluently and then less so until groans and grunts were all he could muster. Since he could no longer be sated by his parents he took journeys alone at night to get his fill, for there was only one that thing that could satisfy him now and that was flesh. This went on for days, maybe weeks before the first of the victims dug themselves up out of their graves, for he had passed on the elixir from his blood into theirs -so potent was the spell cast by the father. And these poor creatures, which were neither truly dead nor alive, would prey on others.

And the villagers soon realised what was happening and who was to blame. Village life was small and the worst news travelled fastest. But for the father, he had happened upon the truth himself. So hungry was the son now that anything or anyone would do so he forced himself on his own mother, who had not the faintest idea anything was wrong until it was too late. It was her screams that alerted the father to the terrible woes that were afflicting them all. Scarcely could he believe his eyes now that the truth was so final.

“Why have you done this to me, boy?” He screamed, to which the boy shouted in finality, closing in on his maker, “Why have you done this to me? Look at what your love has done to me!”

So, know you the difference between good and evil still? If that be love, was it not better then to hate?

And what will inherit?

When the first zombie attack was reported we were ready for it. Those years of zombie films and horror slashers; it was almost a relief when it finally happened, you know?

We were the lucky ones at first, living in one of those high-rise monstrosities; a closed society, which was why it had been built in the first place. Lock all the undesirables in one building, give then all the facilities they need and, apart from work, there was no need to go outside any more.

I remember when Ballard wrote the book “High-Rise” and we all swore it weren’t no science fiction but a fucking documentary on our life. Hell, he actually visited us for research purposes! Course, we got no, what you call ‘em, royalties; just a lot of people laughing at us. Who laughing now?

No one know how the zombie attacks started: radiation / mutation / chemicals / bad sushi? Any of it matter? End result the same; the dead rise and hungry.. and these guys can run –faster than you. Remember that cause they sure will.

Weirdest thing: attacks happened random at first and no one figure out what was happening. At first it was easy to stop the zombies from spreading; shot to the head or burning; just like the films; and there were more of the living to deal with them, but then more appeared and no one could figure it out.

We found out on the news that you could only get zombiefied if you got bit or scratched; or killed by a zombie. You didn’t just become a zombie if you died, so the films got that bit wrong! That made it easier to keep the numbers down, but then outbreaks would start up where none had been before and with no, like, relation to the others.

We figured right then to shut our doors for good; the world had pretty much shut us out so now it was our turn. We had plenty to go round, and enough people to make it work: we were self-sufficient, we had to be. That worked in our favor. We shut the doors and let the world go to hell.

And things were fine for the first few weeks. Strangely enough, this whole zombie thing was enough to bring us all together; despite our difference we found that we had more in common than others figured. Guess it takes armageddon to put things in perspective.

It weren’t because of the food; we rationed everything out and there were no battles for supremacy or hoarding; it was all sorted according to family needs. Everyone pulled together; nothing was wasted. Damn, we had enough to last months!

Somehow though, despite having a complete lockdown, deaths happened; unexplained deaths and worst of all, three hours later the first of them turned. No one was expecting that and we almost lost an entire floor before we could do anything about it. That film, “28 Days Later”? Damn, that was some scary shit, but real life was 100 times scarier. You not used to seeing those things run but before you blink they’ve got you; you’re dead… and they leap at you, man. I don’t even want to think about it; what must it be like to be a zombie; are you aware? Even just a little bit of what you are? Fuck.

We were lucky, we had rifles and handguns then so we didn’t have to fight them hand-to-hand else we’d’ve lost. So, what we do with the bodies? Threw them out the windows; let them rot outside. We never thought about consequences… who does?

We managed to stop it that time, but only just.

By that time all radio and tv had stopped. No one left to broadcast, no one left to listen? We were alright and that was all that mattered.

Then a week later; another outbreak. There was a power cut; something that we all feared would happen but luckily the back-up generator kicked in; all except the 37^th floor. We had to investigate what the problem was. The fire doors had all sealed and the lifts had stopped, so there were people trapped. Now that the world had forgotten about us we had to look out for our own, and I was part of the rescue team.

The floor was in total blackness, but it was thick with silence when we pried the doors open. Torch lights barely cut it through the dark but there was something wrong, we could feel it. I stayed at the back, keeping the fire doors open –last thing we wanted was to become trapped inside as well- so I saw everything happen, every single blood-soaked moment of it. They attacked, a coordinated attack, like a fucking hive; waited for the group to get halfway down the corridor before launching into them. The zombies… tore into them, the poor bastards, they never stood a chance. Me and two others managed to get the fire doors closed before we were noticed; thankfully the doors are thick, toughened glass and it should take them ages to get through, but we knew that those that lived above the 37^th floor were fucked. Sooner or later they would venture down the stairs; there was no communications network now as the power cut had shorted out the telephone and intercom systems; besides, there was no way of us knowing how many other floors had been affected; the building had been compromised and we were now all at risk.

We had to leave, take our chances with the outside world.

A few of us managed to get our shit together, pull some food and provisions and make a break for it. Outside smelt wrong. Maybe we’d been cooped up in the high rise for too long but the air around us tasted funny. Death… all the zombies we’d pushed out the windows were piled up around us now, but the bones had been picked clean; some were dismembered and scattered around.

What the fuck had done that? We saw no other zombies around; were they waiting us out like that had in the corridor? Was it a chance I could take?

There were noises in the distance I couldn’t place; a series of screeches, snarls, growls. It was like being in a fucking zoo. Then we saw it.

A dog, running toward us, tongue hanging out like it was real happy to see us. Now, I love dogs, but there was something about this that didn’t feel right, but I was too slow to act on it. Jane, she loved dogs too, wanted so much to greet this one, got down on her knees as if to propose.

I saw it then. The tongue hung from the dogs mouth, lifeless; the coat mangled and bloody. It lept at her, ripped into her throat; blood splattering it; covering us.

FUCK! Why had none of us thought of this before? All the films; all the fucking films; why had none of them thought of the animals becoming infected as well? Zombies wanted flesh; didn’t care if it was human. That was how it spread; through the birds, the vermin; Christ, even the cats and dogs… rats.

That’s how they got into the high rise. Shit, what about the insects? Sounds laughable, but I was covered in Jane’s blood, who had just been ripped into by a zombie dog. No one was safe.

I snapped; didn’t wait for anyone else to tell me what to do. Inside had to be safer. I locked myself up in my flat, barricaded the door and window and I’ve been like that for god knows how long.

It’s given me time to think: animals spread the disease (if that’s what it is) and that’s why no one picked up on it. We’ve been fucking lied to by the films. I mean, think how bad it  is: bad enough that a bird, cat or dog is infected, but what about the zoo’s we have in the area? The lions, the wolves… snakes! That don’t scare you then you don’t understand the problem.

Maybe the world ain’t infected yet, but it soon will be. We got birds that migrate across whole continents, fish that swim the ocean. The whole world is fucked; there’s no way out of this.

I can hear them outside, they know I’m here and I can tell that they’re almost through. I don’t have much time. I doubt anyone’s going to read this… what would be the point? I got one bullet left. I was smart enough, too many people panicked before realising they hadn’t taken care of themselves and I’m not giving those zombie bastards the satisfaction…..