Prompts

Prompt: Due to a food shortage, the zombies are captured and eaten by the living

Blackish fluid lubed my fingers as I dug out the stick with my pocketknife. I hadn't expected to catch anything tonight. Especially not one this meaty. It'd taken most of my energy to bring him down, and the rest to drag him back to our campsite. At least I'd been able to catch my breath whilst my sister cleaned my wounds.

I swallowed a wave of nausea as I examined the body. He looked about nineteen, twenty at the most. Hardly older than me. Pity struck my gut as I leaned over to pull slate eyelids over his distant eyes, then I undressed him. Hopefully he hadn't suffered too much. At least this one still had all his limbs.

Flipping my knife back into itself I housed it safely within my jean pocket. My fingers tensed up as I moved in to begin peeling away the rot. No matter how many times I did this, it never got any easier. Soon my nails looked as though I'd been digging through lasagna, and I actually longed for the dark brown crescents that came from making mud-pies.

Dark black curls stuck to my palms as I pulled my hands back. Bits of flesh clung to the roots reminding me of pre-sliced turkey. I turned up my nose in repulsion and threw a glance back at my twelve-year-old sister, Emily drawing pictures in the sand. A mass of red waves concealed her face, and, I rather hoped, a smile.

I hadn't seen her smile in months, not since we lost our bother Tex, but happiness overtook her whenever she drew. I had to burn her sketch pad for warmth back at the plane wreck, along with a bloodied roll of toilet paper from the aircraft lavatory. She'd understood but the upset showed as clear as the dark freckles on her pale face. Perhaps I'll find another one.

Before long I had a three piles before me. One held his clothing and an expensive watch — a huge crack splintered the face and so much blood smeared the glass underside I couldn't read the numbers, or I might've taken it— another, shattered bone pieces, and the third, flesh and muscle — Our dinner. 

Perhaps if I had some cheese I could disguise it as puttanesca. I've only had it once before. Emily had been a baby. Father'd decided he ought to take up cooking. He got bored with it after taking a few classes and we ended up having pasta for weeks. It hadn't been that bad, thought I wouldn't of called it good either. Although, I'd wager anything tasted better than decomposing hipster-teen.

After snatching a cool graphic tee of a wolf attempting to pull down the moon with its angry jaws, and tossing it into the laundry pile, I gathered the pair of too small trousers I'd used to wrap up the hair and carried it to the fire. A little one, nothing special. We couldn't afford to draw attention to ourselves. The moon seemed to be chasing the sun from the sky as it grew steadily darker and more ominous.

"What'cha' draw'n, Emmy?" Emily's icy eyes turned on me, and immediately she wiped away what looked like a rabbit chasing an animate, buggy-eyed carrot.

"Nothing," she said. "D-Dinner ready yet?" She hesitated on referring to my catch as food. I looked to the blackened bushes lining our makeshift camp-site; blackened as if someone had set them aflame. If only I there were berries to offer her instead.

"Almost." Water splashed against her feet. She hadn't noticed. I crouched down to wash the the blood from between my fingers and nails. When I pulled my hands away, I saw skin equally as pale as my sisters. They may have looked clean but  I could never completely clear away what I'd done.