Chronicles of The Living

The dead people walk…

The dead people walk.

All the dead bodies crossing the roads,

and flooding the streets.

They are cold and they smell like rotten hearts.

Oh, that’s what they are. 

                               

    ***

I ripped open his throat. 

If my poor father knew what I was using his axe for, he would’ve died. Only if he was alive to begin with. He was one of those now. A stream of blood splashed onto Peter’s face. He stood behind the man who now laid on the ground as a corpse. It still had some movements, however we knew exactly what to do with his cold heart. 

We needed to chop his body and burn all the pieces.

So that he stopped converting people into what he was. A ‘living’ dead body, and now rightfully a‘dead’ dead body. That’s how I looked at the world. In two states: living ‘living’ and living ‘dead’. The look on Peter’s face said that he didn’t mind the blood. In fact he looked like he had dipped his face in the fountain of youth. He was ever so satisfied. We did what we’ve been doing more than most of the people around. (‘Living’ living and ‘living’ dead, both included) …and that was “WE WERE ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING”.

We walked back to our hideout in silence. It was a studio apartment in the North End of the town. I couldn’t help but think that there was not even a single sane person out on the streets. The ‘living ones’ hid themselves. They were scared. Scared of the ‘dead ones’. They wouldn’t come out of their houses. When a ‘dead one’ moaning and groaning came into their house, they pretended as if they were dead too. But the smell and voice of warm blood gushing through their veins gave them away everytime. They were too humane to act like one of those.

We reached the apartment. I locked the door, and turned to face Peter. He was wiping his face with a towel. 

“An hour break, and then we’ve to go and supply all these.”

“Sure mate!” Peter replied.

“I’m on the watch, you can go to sleep,”

“Nah, I’m fine. You lie down, I’ll be on the watch,” Peter was the kind of friend who’d sacrifice his life for you, only if he was in the right mood.

I nodded and threw myself on the bed. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. 

I couldn’t.

It didn’t come to me. It didn’t happen. I haven’t slept for seven days. Six days and fourteen hours, to be precise. Since we’ve been on the hunt, (We called those days The Hunting Days) I wasn’t able to sleep. I saw the world driven by such monsters who were hungry for their own brother’s brain. How they ferociously feasted on another human’s flesh. A human not much different. Only having a beating heart unlike their own. So, naturally it happened every month when we went out. It was not possible for me to doze off ignoring the chaos our race was facing. Since, no one left their houses, we both had to. We supplied people with necessities. Each month, we went out in town and provided each house with whatever they needed. It took us ten to twelve days to find the things, and drop them at respective houses.

I looked at Peter who stood near the window. I would’ve given up on myself and everyone around me, if I hadn’t met Peter. He was a journalist. He was brave unlike any other person I’ve met in my entire life. The world where everyone whispered, Peter had words loud enough to stir the minds. Now more than ever, when every alley, driveway, office, road, and factory was occupied by these brainless walking corpses. Our town needed people like Peter. The world needed people like Peter. 

‘ Look! there’s a ‘dead one’ walking outside.”

“Let them walk,” I said, “that’s their second favourite act,” I added as an afterthought.

“What’s the first favourite?”

“Duh! Consuming other human beings, until there is nothing left of them. Feasting on them!”

Peter gave a laugh and turned around to look outside. It wasn’t my best joke. However, we both knew how true I was. They just walked everyday each day without a break or a pause. I wondered if they ever got tired. They really were ‘dead ones’ after all. Our kind wanted to fly or even run. We just needed to do something that really made us feel ‘alive’, but we were terrified. 

The whole conversation with Peter reminded me of a poem I started writing yesterday. It was still incomplete. I got up and went to the writing table. A notepad filled with verses on every topic, and a pen waited for me. I continued from where I left last night.

 The dead people walk,

 and they are looking for the warm ones. 

The ones who don’t let their blood get cold. 

The dead people walk,

who were once warm themselves,

And now persistent and senseless.

The dead people walk,

and when they find the warm ones,

their touch will turn them into ice.

The dead people walk,

numb and emotionless on the path they once loved,

until they’re the only ones who walk.