Silent Partner

The shambler was ripe, dead at least a month. It moved in with a bricklayer and his family a couple days earlier and stayed for dinner. Landlord went to the cops about the smell. Cops came to the door, got one whiff and called us.

There was a uniform waiting for us on the front stoop. He was a skinny kid, about 18, so pale I made him for a corpse and went for my badge. I was set to drop him when he spotted us and started acting like a breather.

He did his best to fill us in, stammering through the shock and hysteria like any teenage boy. Said he'd gone round back earlier and gotten a good look in the kitchen window. Stuck around long enough to lose his lunch across the screen door before figuring he might be better off waiting out front. You ask me, he should be proud he didn’t wet himself.

Sure enough, the shambler was there in the kitchen. It sat at the table, fumbling a fork across the days-old breakfast. A broken coffee cup crunched in the brown stain underfoot, most likely from an earlier effort.

Usually, it's only the new dead that try to remember their rituals. Once, I rested a body sitting on the crapper. Seriously, sat through the whole rite trying to pinch a phantom loaf. But you don't see this so often with the older corpses. Botched or no, the rites that got this thing moving again had some serious juice.

The bricky's wife and their eldest were still alive, but both were missing too many pieces and too much blood. They weren't going to make it. Thankfully, they were both too messed up to know just how messed up they were. Everyone else, the dog included, was picked clean. Never mind what you see in the papers. Brain-eaters may make for good headlines, but shamblers aren't big on reading.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)