Cover art by Lethorgius - - Look him up on Deviantart!
Dr. Malforni pushed his face closer to the glass while simultaneously smashing his black rimmed glasses further up his face. He knew what the stupid generals told him, "don't get too close," "don't look it in the eyes," "don't stick around too long…" but still the specimen in the glass case amused him. He figured it must have been locked away in Egypt for hundreds, no, thousands of years. It's been just waiting—it could have moved, but it didn't—it could have fought back but really, in light of everything, it didn't.
He mused over the past 48 hours, how it opened its mouth and screamed, sending twelve men to the insane asylum. Before the men went completely insane, before several of them took their own lives he recalled the moaning: hearing the most, horrible, of things. It was like the scream opened their ears to hell itself and drove them mad, oh, and he could never forget the bleeding—how they bled out of their eyes and ears, how the men wobbled around the desert like they were chickens with their heads cut off. But none of that mattered now; it was captured, stuck in a sound-proof glass cage, but even so nothing added up. It let itself get captured, it could have just kept screaming but it didn't—getting cornered in a dusty alleyway, panicking as helicopters flew above and lights beamed down, standing frozen as glass was dropped on its head—fake, all of it—it could have escaped. But why? Why get captured? Now that really fascinated the Doctor.
The living dead, caught by the living, transported thousands of miles, and locked in some underground facility deep under the North American superpower, the USA—that’s what it was now. There has to be reason behind it. The doctor shuffled even closer and tapped the glass as if to get the monsters attention. It moved and quickly, as if instinctual. The doctor glanced down, away from its face—no need to take any risks. He could already hear the spewing insults being prepared in the observation deck above, he just waited for the moment that some voice blew over the intercom dropping words not even he would understand about how "dangerous" the, zombie was, how "suicidal" it was to taunt it, how much it "cost" just to transport it. How the doctor could be the sole reason it escapes. How the entire country could be in danger.
But no voice came and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. Nothing at all happened. So, gathering up his courage, he looked back up at the zombie, which had moved its gaze up, right at the observation deck's black tinted glass about twenty feet above its glass tomb. It stared at the tinted glass, so naturally Dr. Malforni followed the gaze. He wanted to take tests, create a weapon, naturally repeat the process, make people immortal, understand death—he wanted it all, he wanted to figure it all out, but first and foremost he wanted to know what made it tick, what were its emotions? What does it see and feel? How long has it been around? And, now more presently, why was it looking at the observation deck? It's been locked in its glass tomb for two days now, looking nowhere expect right in front of it, why has it picked an interest in the black glass above it? Was it because it's the only black object in such a white room? Is it because it realized it's being watched? Or does it know something more?
The doctor looked harder, trying to see what the zombie did; something was smudged on the glass—something thick. He tried to make out what it was, something red. Blood. "Damn!" the doctor cursed, turning his back on the zombie and running behind his own protective glass and into the data room, even if they look at its eyes through the damn tinted glass. The doctor smashed a small red button on one of his white computer desks, instantly alarms sounded and he heard glass cracking from where the zombie was being held. Frazzled, he spun back around to see what the zombie was doing but was met with two beady bloodshot eyes.
Ten million things rushed through his mind, heads decapitated and posted up on long grim sticks, pools of blood, fire, a broken castle, New York burning bodies strewn across the streets, ghouls and monsters flooding a busy transit station killing all in their path. Himself standing on top of a burning building, an arm missing, his left eye torn out, smashed glasses embedded in his face, and covered with grime and filth. He was commanding an army of demons with a wicked smile his teeth, suddenly sharp and jagged, glistening in the smoke-filled skies. He spun around, a new world order had formed seemingly overnight and he, as grim as it sounded was in charge. The entire army of hell at his bidding.
More images flashed past him. A wall of ships, a massive war, the quarantine of the Americas, millions of brave men going to war, only to get their bodies ripped to shreds, resistance, violence, gore, the earth split in two—humans' vs. monsters, a never ending battle for control of the plant. Hundreds of years pass, his body, slow to age, grows old—his reign grows weak, his army of demons dwindling. The humans, with their "technology" and spacecraft whom abandoned most of the planet leaving only enough brave soldiers to keep the gates of hell back, return years later for their prized lands, still untouched by hell. Untouched by bloody beasts—bringing the war to him once again.
He blinked.
The images vanished just as fast as they appeared, but the one thing that was different was that the zombie was no longer in its glass tomb. His mind raced—did he just see his future in those bloodshot eyes? Was that possible? No—it couldn't happen, he still had his arm, and he rubbed his face, his eye. He staggered backwards, trying to find where the zombie ran off to only to have a grey mushy finger jabbed towards his face missing a grab but connecting with his left eye. Before even a thought could race through his mind gnarly teeth dug into his shoulder. He felt something tear—his bones twist in funny directions. Something grinded and the smell of blood filled the air before his arm tore completely off. The finger removed itself from his eye, pushing him back into the computers which were now covered in his own gore. Then the zombie was gone, taking the arm with it and Dr. Malforni fell to the floor. As his mind faded into unconsciousness he saw a pair of what looked like doctors bending over him. Something whisked by his ears about him "being okay" and that they think he'll pull through.
No, he tried to say but couldn't as everything around him faded into darkness. Don't help me… let me die… I'm, I'm a monster...
Vote? Comment? Is it any good?
I been posting Poetry but tried one of my quick-writes. This was done in ten minutes with the "He mused over the past 48 hours..." I of course added the front paragraph and edited first XD.
