RRF/Malton Herald & Sun/Text/Text0908right
An inspirational true-to-unlife story begins, as a fresh babah takes his first steps into the city of Malton.
- by RottenImbecile
August 26th, 2008
The mangled, lifeless body slumped onto the street, a frozen expression of surprise on its face. Standing above it was the zedling which just had risen for the first time, catching the prankster in the act of scribbling some words on the undead's clothing. The creature felt satisfied. It was fed. But that feeling wouldn't last long, and with the first taste of human flesh came the hunger for more. All over the city he could hear his brethren groan, calling for him to join them... Join them in their hunt for food.
August 28th, 2008
It had been two days now, and the still inexperienced zombie barely found something to eat. His first victim had been an easy one, but most of the prey he now encountered was too smart to get close enough for an attack. Once during his hunt, he senselessly banged on a closed door for hours, his frustration growing with every minute he didn't get into the building. He knew his prey hid behind that door. He could smell it. He even could hear it. Unfortunately, he didn't remember how to open doors anymore. He knew he'd once entered buildings using them. He knew that this was the way in. In the midst of his mindless rage, he suddenly stopped. The callings of his brethren had changed. From a monotone noise in the background to several outbursts of anger, then rage, then triumph. And he could hear the prey yelling, too. Screams of surprise, of fear and agony flavored the midnight air. This was the place to go. There, he would find what he now was craving for.
August 31st, 2008
And food he got. Plenty of it. Another two days it took him to reach the source of those irresistable sounds. Once there, he found a suburb in chaos. Whole groups of his brethren broke into houses where the prey hid in countless numbers. Screaming in panic, the were dragged onto the street, already bearing lethal wounds, and left outside to be torn apart and eaten. What a rich buffet he found. One of the nearly dead victims had been dragged and left right before him. That was an offer he'd not refuse. He grabbed the prey's head and smashed it to the ground to crack it open and reach for the delicious treat hiding inside. Exhausted from his long march, he fell asleep, right next to the group of elder zombies who let him participate in their feasting. This day, however, had only been a small glimpse of things to come. The next day they broke into one of the houses where the prey hid when it was injured. The house was filled with food - far more then he and even the whole group could eat at once. The air filled with the smell of blood, as they fell into a rampage of tearing, ripping, feeding and devouring. And still - there was enough food left for the feral zombies roaming the streets. Finally, he felt strong enough to keep with the pace of his brethren while hunting. This, he now knew, was his calling.
In a display of cross-life communication, an unnamed (and un-namnamed) harman gives us a glimpse into the psyche of the breathing, rather than directly into the brainpan as we usually do.
- by DJ Deadbeat
"After 3 years in Malton, I had really overcome any belief that this was a zombie 'apocalypse'. I'd become a creature of habit. Each day I killed time by taking a stroll down the streets, tipping my hat to each zombie I passed."
"Usually they'd greet me with a casual groan. We were practically on a first name basis."
"In all honesty, life in Malton really isn't about hiding and outrunning something that's trying to eat you. It's more of a mind-over-matter thing. When you've lived in this kind of a world for as long as I have, it all blurs together."
"It's gotten to a point where the only entertainment I get in this city is sitting in a dark cinema, pondering what the answer to the celebrity trivia question is, if there were previews showing. All the while, a zombie is fumbling around mere feet from me, comically walking in place since it can't get past the debris to where I'm sitting."
"I ask myself, "Is it even possible to feel fear any more?" It's easy to forget when you're in the midst of what most would call chaos, yet it resembles clockwork more than a 9-5 shift in the office."
"Routine. That's all it is. Playing God by the half hour. I get scratched up, shot, stabbed, and before I can manage a rattle, a pimply faced needle-jockey swoops down from a rooftop to hit me with another cocktail."
"After playing on both sides of the fence, there isn't much left to distinguish. Even those who fight to the teeth against "death" know that they really can't consider themselves superior any more. What good does thinking do when you're a slave to routine? Essentially, it's as if time has frozen."
