It’s been a long while

It’s been a long while and all the while a long and tumultuous road. There have been ups and there have been downs (mostly downs) and yet, the old adage holds true: life goes on. I’m left to wonder what drives people to go on. There have been times (and please forgive this bit of emo, it’s just an integral part of what makes me work apparently) when I would wonder if this was all worth it; this drive to finish school at any cost, to work myself into an exhaustive wreck, to spend nights by myself in lonely solace. Sometimes I would wonder if there were any ways to end it all that wouldn’t immediately damn my soul to whatever hell is in store for the takers of their own lives. And yet, day after day I continue to get out of bed and perform the daily routine (grind) in a perpetual cycle of boredom and stagnancy. There has to be a purpose. I refuse to believe that the majority of us human beings are simply here to exist, to grow into adulthood and fade away into compost without impacting their surroundings in some profound way. I realize I’m a bit young to actually know what my purpose in this world is but, and this is a stretch of optimism, I’m hoping that one day I’ll figure it out. I’m just hoping that when that day comes, all of my preparation will have been for the right thing.

Or maybe I’m just hoping that there will be a zombie apocalypse sometime in the near future.

And on that note, life goes on.

Creative Exercise 5/5/10

I’ve had this sitting around since last month, before school and everything crushed my creative vibe again.  Anyway, it’s not much, only an exercise, but every little bit helps.  Enjoy!

Song on repeat: Pretty Lights – Total Fascination

The single remaining exo pilot remained still as he surveyed the wreckage of the once proud fleet.  The debris of human machinery intermingled with the invading alien tech.  His failing booster systems no longer had the power to keep him suspended against the earth’s gravitational pull.  More from stubbornness than anything, the pilot fought to keep his machine afloat while replaying the events of the battle that left countless dead in order to ensure the continued survival of the human race.

.    .    .

The battle group knew they were the last line of defense for Mother Earth.  They massed together, forming a wall of exo’s shielding their jumpoff station and the earth behind it.  All faces were turned towards the moon, locked onto the enormous energy signature they knew was going to physically manifest itself.

The first blips appeared on the forward exo’s sensory banks.  The commanders knew it wasn’t the right moment, although they could understand the desire to repel these bloodthirsty invaders.  They were the last, the scant remains of Sol Defense Corps.  If they failed, humanity was doomed.

When the attack came, the speed and ferocity of it nearly overwhelmed the battle group.  There was a massing of heat signatures from behind the moon’s dark side, and then a large, dark wave came crashing into the first line of defenders.  The commanders gave the order to fire at will and the black vacuum of space was lit up by a technicolor storm of plasma and laser bursts.  From the space station viewports, explosions obscured the view of the moon, as the wall of destruction slammed into the invaders and found their marks.

Large scale attacks by themselves were not enough and the enemy force continued to push on.

.     .     .

His onboard computer spouted warnings that his life support system was beginning to fail and that the pressurized atmosphere was leaking out.  He was one of the first of the defenders to meet the invading force head on and he could still remember trying to fight an enemy  that surrounded him.  The first few moments saw his exo battered from all different directions until he managed to orient himself against his attackers.

.     .     .

The front line defenders disengaged from their Orbital Assault attachments and sped towards the growing mass of invaders.  They weaved in and out of their compatriots’ beams as they continued battering the advancing tidal wave.  When the line of defenders slammed into the line of invaders, the commanders were able to hear the battle cries of the pilots over the comm systems.  The pilots pushed their exo’s to the limit as they juked every which way within the chaotic mess that was the battle space.  It was working.  The lack of a cognizant battle plan and the degeneration of the fleet’s battle formation threw the aggressors into disarray.  The melee was working to the advantage of the fleet, as they were more used to the gritty up close fighting that human space battles always degenerated into.

.     .     .

The systems shut down one by one, and as he used up his remaining air, the exo pilot wondered if his sacrifice would be heeded by the human race.  The vibrations in the controls continued to get worse as the boosters’ fuel cells finally ran dry.  In a slow motion pirouette, the exo tilted towards the irresistible pull of the planet’s gravity well.  Atmospheric fire tinged its outer frame as the metal gave way.  The exo, bleeding out its internal machinery, became a shooting star to those looking up from Earth.

Creative Exercise 4/7/10

Sometimes certain songs can burn an image into your head so vivid that it is actually possible to grasp these images and translate them onto (metaphoric) paper.  Well, for me at least.  Case in point: Pretty Lights, what I would probably describe as “electronica with soul”.  Here’s an example, and if anyone is reading this, i hope you enjoy!

Song: Pretty Lights – I Can See It In Your Face

He walks through the sand blasted wasteland.

Sunlight burning down through Earth’s depleted atmosphere, not enough to cook everything on the ground, but enough so that the miles that surround our walking hero begins to look like gritty glass.  In the distance, a sanctuary, a haven.  Blurred to the point of being a mirage, a dark city rises up from the golden desert landscape to glint menacingly(invitingly?) against the harsh blue of the cloudless, dead sky.

He walks with a steady rhythm, a surety of balance.  The wind blows and howls around him, yet only serves as a mockery to the lone figure’s stolid advance.  In the lenses of the dark goggle rests the shivering silhouette of the distant enclave, steadily becoming closer with the figure’s mile eating stride.  His left hand is resting on the scabbard at his side and his head is bowed slightly downward, as if he is concentrating on the sounds around him.  The howling wind pulls at his clothing, causing the loose ends of his cloak and face wrap to trail behind him.  He walks in a state of awareness as he passes by rotting, burned out automobile husks; remnants and shadows reflecting the long gone decadence of a bygone era.

The aural manifestations reach him before the physical, and he is more than prepared and more than a match for the clumsy wastelanders playing at bandits.  As four dark shapes explode in a shower of golden sand and reflected sunlight from among the mummified vehicles, the lone figure has ceased to be where the wastelanders perceived him to be.  Before they’ve even landed two silvery arcs have whistled through the air to dismember two of the attackers one after the other.  Another two lie on the ground writhing in agony and clutching the hilts of the daggers that have magically buried themselves in their chests.

The lone figure waits, head bowed, until the death throes of his attackers have ceased.  He says a prayer for the dead, retrieves his weapons, and continues on.

The wind howls and the sun burns, as if nothing had ever happened.  The sand immediately begins to bury the bodies of the dead.

Nightstalk

I think this’ll be the last of the golden oldies. I figure i have to start writing some new stuff or else i’m really going to fall into an abyss i won’t be able to get out of of. Well, here goes… Enjoy!

Moonlight shone down upon the dark landscape, coloring the world in a silvery hue. The wind rustled through the trees, the leaves singing their endless nocturnal lullaby. The stars were shining brightly in the clear night sky, like white pinpricks on a dark velvet backdrop.

The dark shape hurtled from branch to branch, tree to tree; performing feats that would have been impossible for any normal man. Its blood red eyes scanned the nighttime countryside. It was seeking to feed, and whatever it set out to do, it did. Suddenly the wind shifted and the great beast jerked its head. That scent. So familiar. With rippling muscles it moved fluidly from its hiding place to the source of the scent. It was perfume, with a hint of lavender. The creature stood back behind the tree line, watching with earnest as the young female walked the path not 30 paces from its hiding space. Watching her brought back joyous and ecstatic memories for the beast. It remembered the swell of her breast as the pace of her breathing increased. It remembered the silky smoothness of her skin, and the flawless satin texture of her hair. It remembered her warmth as she invited it into her, and her willingness to complete their act of unity. The memories brought with it a sense of arousal that only served to provoke its hunger even more.

It knew, as it watched her walk down the dark path, that it loved her. It wanted to be with her, to be one with her in every way. It wanted to share in her sorrows and her joys, to spend its moments lying close to her. However, that part of the beast was not in the ascendancy at this particular moment. There was a part of the beast that wanted her to know that she was being hunted. An all consuming and ravenous desire to taste and feel warm blood silkily draining into its throat. It wanted her to know fear right before it killed her. It wanted her heart to beat faster and faster, pumping blood to all parts of her body, making the meat tough and nourishing. This inner lust for savage violence was provoked into a chaotic sense of ascendancy by the beast’s hunger. What thoughts it may have had, what emotions, memories, sensitive inclinations; all were furiously swept away in a tide of desire. It was the desire to rend flesh and snap bones, to sink monstrous teeth into soft and yielding flesh. With effortless strength the beast leapt from its hiding place and landed several feet behind the lonely female figure.

Sensing the new presence behind her, the woman turned and, for a moment, was unable to comprehend what she was seeing in the moonlight. The apparition stood there, seemingly from the depths of her nightmares. Its muscles bulged and rippled with every movement, large hands ending in curved and wickedly sharp talons. Its eyes the crimson of freshly spilled blood, fangs extended and gleaming brightly in the moonlight. Faintly humanoid in appearance, it was anything but. From behind it, she could see a dark shape swishing back and forth, possibly a tail. Her every instinct screamed at her to run, yet she stood rooted to the spot as she watched her death move ever so closer. It was only when the furry clawed hand brushed her cheek and caressed her face that her body was broken from its stupor. Jerking her head back, she let out a scream as she frantically scrambled to get away from the monster. Her foot caught on an exposed tree root and she stumbled and fell. In that instant the monster was upon her, claws pricking through her dress in an effort to get to the flesh underneath. Still screaming, the woman frantically reached under her jacket in a bid to reach the small dagger that she kept for emergencies. Grabbing hold of the leather wrapped handle, she drew the blade and lashed out with all her might. The dagger struck flesh, causing the beast to let her go. Taking advantage of this momentary distraction, the woman fled into the protective canopy of the trees.

When the blade sank down into the skin, the beast roared, more out of surprise than in actual pain. A moment of recognition struck the beast’s mind as it gazed upon the wrapped hilt of the dagger. Another memory flashed through its mind, one where the beast itself had presented the knife to the girl. “Use it for protection,” it had told her. “It is a frightfully dangerous world out there.” How savagely ironic. It reached up and ripped the blade from its chest and, in a blinding burst of speed, bounded after its intended victim. It would enjoy tasting her sweet flesh once again.

With seemingly endless power, the beast surged towards its victim. Now that blood had been drawn, nothing would stop it. It leapt high into the air to land in front of the girl. She stopped, her eyes wide with the terror she felt in her heart. The beast loomed over her, its massive clawed hands clenching with anticipation. Yet it hesitated in striking the killing blow. There was something in the back of its mind that kept it from finishing what it set out to do. Something just kept pushing its way to the surface that the primal mind of the creature was caught unaware. Its victim sensed the changed in the creature’s mood. She also saw something else stirring deep within its crimson orbs. All of a sudden a glimmer of hope, of familiarity flashed through her frightened mind. Somehow, she felt as if her and this beast shared something other than the primal bonds of hunter and prey. She had to follow this feeling. She needed to be sure. Her life depended on it.

“Gabriel…?”

It was barely more than a whisper, but at the sound of her voice a tumultuous change came over the beast. It reared up and roared into the night sky, the sound full of fury and confusion. It seemed lost, unable to realize what it was and where it was. All thoughts of its victim seemed to be forgotten as it rampaged within itself and in the earth around it. Trees were ripped from the ground, deep gouges scored into the earth. And as quickly as it had started, the rampaging stopped. It was as if a switch had been turned off within the monster. Hunched over and breathing rapidly, it slowly turned its head towards the girl. She looked into its eyes and couldn’t see any trace of the cold murderous creature that had, until a minute before, been seeking to kill her. The relief that she felt was total as she stood and quietly approached the sulking behemoth. Its eyes still on her, the beast too slowly started to stand.

. . .

A shrill, piercing scream cut through the silence of the night, only to be abruptly silenced. It was followed by a long howl, its anguish unmistakable.

copyright2009 by Marvin Catarata

Sniper

No zombies or gladiators in this one. Here’s a crack at something a bit more contemporary. Just finding my range(no pun intended… read the story to understand my sad attempt at humor).

I want that pink mist.

I’ve been sitting here for what seems like the better part of an eternity staring out into the dry, unforgiving landscape. All around me in the distance I can hear the sounds of warfare. Muffled gunfire pumps out a steady rhythmic beat, broken only by the deeper, more sporadic thunder of random explosions. Instinct tells me to abandon my position and rush out to aid my comrades. I know better. I have only one target in this whole sorry mess and intelligence tells me that his convoy will be at my position presently. So here I wait, sitting under the scorching sun, dust and rocks forming a particularly uncomfortable platform from which to take my shot.

I see a dust cloud forming at the mouth of the small canyon and the first few units of the convoy make their way closer to my position. They’re nothing but the vanguard of the main force. The temptation is great but I stop myself from taking a shot. Killing one of these grunts wouldn’t be worth giving my position away. The men begin to move, securing the perimeter and making sure there aren’t any snipers overlooking the grounds. They’ll never find me under this ghillie suit. As they work, the main force begins to arrive. The urge to fire is even stronger now. It would be extremely satisfying to switch the selector to full automatic and wreak death into the mass of soldiers below. That it would be wasteful would be an understatement, and doing so wouldn’t accomplish anything other than to unravel all I’ve worked for. No, my target will be at the rear of the column where he’ll no doubt believe in his infallible safety.

Suddenly I see it. The target’s command vehicle. It stops amidst the milling troops and I see the target step out, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight. He stands there overseeing troop deployment blissfully unaware that death has marked him with a 7.62 mm armor piercing round. It’s time for me to prepare for my shot. Distance: 325 yards. Elevation: -42 feet. Wind speed and direction: NW, 5mph. I slowly, deliberately settle the crosshairs over the target’s neck and my finger gently tightens its grip around the trigger.

The relative monotony is violently broken by a single deafening roar. The bullet finds its mark. Through the scope, I see the target’s head snap back, his face showing momentary surprise as the bullet punches through his skull and exits out the back. The exit carries with is the coveted pink mist, the ultimate finality of my deed. In that instant, the troops within the immediate proximity of the now dead officer burst into disciplined action that only military training could instill in a man. An alarm blares somewhere in the camp and a swarm of soldiers begin to ascend to my position.
It’s time for me to leave.

Gathering up my rifle, I turn and begin my trek back to my own camp. Suddenly, my shoulder feels as if the very hand of God has smashed into me. Searing pain erupts and I fall to the ground. I grit my teeth and turn over, bringing my rifle to bear. The pain is becoming unbearable. Flipping the selector to automatic, I begin to fire into the mass of oncoming soldiers. There’s no way I’ll be able to win. One soldier falls. Two. Three. I’m suddenly thrown back as a stray bullet slams into my abdomen. Pain flares up and blankets my brain. All thought begins to disappear as my vision slowly fades to black.

. . .

The cool indoor air conditioning caresses my sweat drenched face as the virtual reality helmet is lifted. I get up and look around the simulation room at the other people slowly detaching themselves from the computer generated battlefield. I see those who I had killed looking at me with smiles on their faces. My team had won again.

copyright2009 by Marvin Catarata

Glory From Blood

Thanks to my readings of David Gemmel novels for the inspiration for this one.

“Honor and glory.”

Those words echoed in Rancor’s mind as he slowly circled his opponent. This was to be his last bout, the one that would immortalize his name in the annals of gladiatorial history. Rancor found that he would be hard pressed to earn his lasting fame. The fight had been going on for the better part of an hour and the continued physical exertion was beginning to take its toll on the veteran gladiator.

“By the gods, this man is proving to be quite a handful,” thought Rancor. In a sudden flash of steel, Rancor’s opponent thrust his sword towards Rancor’s midsection in an attempt at disembowelment. Half stumbling, Rancor brought his own blade up in a side ways block and then attempted to slide the blade down towards his opponent’s face. At the last second, Rancor’s opponent swayed backwards, the blade missing the bridge of the nose by mere centimeters, and countering with a lightning fast downwards cut. Blood sprayed from the wound that opened in Rancor’s side. The crowd roared its enjoyment, the sound rocking the very foundations of the stone arena. The sound seemed to become an almost tangible wall which staggered both fighters to their very bones.

Rancor took time during the momentary lull in fighting to take stock on his current condition. Along with the cut on his side, Rancor had gashes on both arms, his right thigh, and a cut on the left temple. The cut oozed blood and Rancor had to repeatedly blink to clear the blood from his eyes. Rancor’s muscles were screaming in agony over the prolonged beating he was administering on them. His blade had mysteriously tripled in weight. Every swing was taking monstrous effort as if the blade was being swung through molasses. Rancor could feel his life dripping away with every drop of blood his body expelled.

Sensing a moment’s hesitation, Rancor’s opponent lashed out, this time with an attack aimed towards the neck. Rancor had just enough time to parry the blade and attempt a riposte only to have his own blade blocked with apparent ease. Rancor rolled his blade around his opponent’s then stepped in and shoulder charged the man. His opponent staggered back and Rancor took this time to catch a moment’s breath. His muscles felt like gelatin and it was all he could do to keep from pitching forward into the sand. Every breath came in ragged gasps and Rancor knew that he was at last nearing the end of his prodigious strength.

It was now or death.

His opponent lunged forward.

Sunlight glinted on a sure killing stroke.

And the man lay dead, a pool of blood spreading from the gaping wound in his neck and staining the sand.

At the moment of the lunge, Rancor had swept his own blade in a horizontal arc over his opponent’s blade. There was no thought of defense. It was a move borne of desperation and Rancor was the one left standing. It was fully a moment before the victory could sink in. It was only when the crowd exploded in tumultuous applause that Rancor allowed his sword to drop. He raised his hands and roared in triumph, his exultation complete.

Rancor had won. As his vision slowly faded into black, he was only vaguely aware of a falling sensation and the dimming of all perception. With his death, he had finally reached his immortality.

copyright2009 by Marvin Catarata

Careless Observations

Careless Observations

Outbreak.  Still a word I can’t quite get over hearing.  That is, when and if we do hear anything on the radio.  I can’t believe this is happening.

I’m sitting out on my roof watching the night world unfold around me.   Everywhere I can see walkers.   But that can’t be.

They’re supposed to be dead.

Wait, what’s this?

God dammit.  Fucking Fowler from across the street. T hat’s what.  I can’t believe him!  Why has he got his living room light on?  Even I can see clearly through that big, welcoming living room movie screen.  If he’s not careful he and his family are gonna be dead.  For God’s sake he’s got a 6 year old!

Oh. My. God.

I see it but it’s not registering fast enough.  The walkers.  They’re flocking towards the light.  Like moths.  Fowler doesn’t know what he’s just done.

The news reports told us to stay inside.  To barricade our doors and windows.  To move to the highest level of our house and take whatever supplies we could.  The government would handle it.  Well, it’s been a week and still no government.

My head snaps back to reality.

I’m watching with silent, horrified fascination as the walkers converge on Fowler’s home.  No, not converging.  They’re swarming.  It’s like their moans attract more and more of them. It’s disturbing.

The moaning won’t stop.  IT WON’T FUCKING STOP!

They’ve broken the door.  I can hear the screaming now.  You ever realize how, in absolute terror, everyone’s screams sound alike.  I can’t tell if it’s Fowler, his wife, or his kid.

Oh God.  I can see through his window.  It’s his kid.  He’s running.  He trips.  That walker looks a lot like the principal at the nearby high school.  I can see Fowler’s kid, Tommy I think his name is.

Jesus Christ he’s ripping Tommy’s head off with his TEETH.

I’ve never seen so much blood.  And I’ve never seen it spurt so far.  It’s splattering all over the window, but I can still see little Tommy struggling.  The walker lifts him up and slams him onto the window, shattering it.  I can see the limp, 6 year old form flop out onto the grass.  It’s beset on all sides by shambling forms.

They never stood a chance.   THEY NEVER STOOD A CHANCE!

And, oh God help me, I can hear the tearing noises from all the way here.

copyright2009 by Marvin Catarata

Rational Delirium

The heart pumps, the blood boils, my feet and legs are unable to help themselves.  They tap and tap and tap out a rhythm.  My head bobs, my mind is clear and yet, filled (not cluttered, never cluttered) with a sense of frenzied and chaotic order.  There’s a sense of rushing and yet the tempo is regulated and steady.

Images flash through my mind of blurred peripheral vision, the g-forces pushing me further and further into my seat.  Weaving in and out of traffic, the click-click of the blinker in unsteady repetitions, speedometer needle steadily climbing despite the thickening volume of vehicles on an unnamed urban blood vessel.

Flash to a parallel but this time as the needle rises the windows are down and the wind is blowing against your hair.  The rhythm and frenzy pulsing a steady beat into your ears, into your mind.  The road is clear and unending and your worries are futilely trying to catch up, ultimately lagging behind and of no concern.  Ahead is nothing but endless asphalt and clear night sky.  The stars shine overhead and the moon is fat and content above you.

Your hands are dancing across the glowing and prismatic instrument panel in front of you.  Outside the plexiglass viewport is nothing but the blackness of space and the white dots of distant cosmic bodies occasionally blurred by your vessel’s erratic and unpredictable flight through the vacuum.  Your bob and weave and bank and continuously try to circle behind your unrelenting opponent as they mercilessly try to transform you from a solid into a flaming nothingness.  Again your head is filled with a brisk, steady tempo of melodic thumps and softer intricacies woven into the tapestry of the music.  It guides your hand, keeps your motions steady and unpredictable.

A torrential downpour relentlessly batters you as you stare across the clearing at your opponent.  You are both of you tensed and anticipating that unspoken agreement between enemies that will signal the upcoming struggle for supremacy.  Your feet pound against the dampened earth in tandem with the melodic discord that you hear from the back of your mind.  The distance between the two fighters shortens until, suddenly, the falling droplets are interrupted by movements resembling a dance.  You and your opponent manipulate the razor sharp edges of your blades into seeking the others flesh.  The proximity is filled with glittering arcs of barely avoided motions as the two opponents duck and parry, riposte weave.  It is a dance centered around the two finely tempered instruments of metal, of which the sole purpose is to sink into a person’s flesh.  And yet, the rhythm is there keeping tempo; erratic in its constant pace.

Still the beat goes on, the rhythm goes on, the melody goes on.  Different and the same.  Chaotic and contained and beautiful.

Escapist Confrontation?

My experimental drawing professor told us about a class that he had had earlier on in the day.  He said that this particular class was full of younger males, and that these males had an almost fanatical preference to fantasy and comic book media.  When he asked my class why we might have thought it was so, I conjectured that maybe it was their way of escaping from the boring, the mundane, the routine of their lives.  I mean, I could definitely relate because, hell, I love fantasy, science fictions, comics and video games for exactly that reason.  There’s something empowering about imagining that we as people can rise up and match our full potential, and that that potential can be very great indeed.  We’ve always imagined what it would be like to rise up to the occasion and we would all like to think that if faced with an unimaginably horrific zombie apocalypse we would be able to take it by the throat and beat the living hell out of it.  We dream of flying through the stars, traveling instantaneously from location to location, lifting and throwing freight trains and mountains.  The list goes on and on.

Suffice it to say, my professor’s viewpoint is that artists aren’t supposed to escape the drudgery of reality, but to confront it.  I must say that yes, there is a part of me that agrees with this statement.  However, can we also not surmise that by “escaping” from this reality through forms of media or creative interpretation/expression, we are in a way confronting it?  Bear with me if this speculation seems a bit specious.

By leaving this reality behind temporarily, we teleport ourselves to worlds in which the normative rules and mannerisms of the people different.  By reading about these worlds, we can form ideas and postulates on issues that we would not have a chance to address in our daily routine.  I don’t know about you, but the person I am today has been shaped by me from taking ideas and ideals from characters that I have observed in my readings.  They are by no means who I am, but they have helped me to become the person I am today by helping me to pick and choose which characteristics and thought processes I feel would benefit me in the way I live my life.

By creating works of art or writing a piece of literature, aren’t the artists allowing the innermost workings of their subconscious out into the world?  Don’t they leave evidence of their own ideals in the pieces they create?  By doing so these artists and writers are facing their inner demons and are confident in their unveiling.  They are unafraid of the revelations in character that their art serves as a conduit for.  By releasing their pent up energies into their works, people are allowed the privilege of sweeping out the skeletons in their closets and giving it a good dusting.

Just Another One of These

Everyone’s got to have a zombie story. Here’s my horribly cliched version of one. This is one of my incompletes.  There’s something quite disturbing about an enemy who won’t stop, won’t feel pain, won’t give you mercy.  The single mindedness of its hunger disturbs me.

Just Another One of These

The virus laden air pumps through the building’s ventilation ducts, seeping through to all corners and crevices. It kills all inside. Security bars descend over every window, effectively sealing off all points of escape. The scene on the security room monitor is one of chaos. People terrified and screaming almost bestial agony as the very air itself rips their insides apart. Those not yet fully affected struggle vainly to escape; their bodies breaking against the reinforced doors like waves against a beach. They’re dying in there and it’s almost too much to bear. This was supposed to be an experiment on control. The virus was only supposed to pacify people, not kill them. I watch as the last of the bodies finally hit the floor, stunned disbelief on my face. All those months of hard work, wasted.
Wait. What’s this?
Someone inside is stirring. They’re alive! More and more people begin to show signs of awakening. And better yet, there’s not a hint of aggression in their actions. It seems that the experiment was a success after all. Time to send the biosuit boys in. I press the button to unlock the security measures in the building and watch closely as the two dozen members of my cleanup crew begin to swarm into the building towards the passive, milling subjects.

. . .

It was too good to be true. The virus hadn’t pacified the subjects. It turned them into something that walked in a different direction from what the experiment had hoped to achieve. Now an army of walking dead swarmed the streets.
It began when one of the subjects suddenly lashed out at the leading cleanup crew member. The speed was terrifying, like a Venus flytrap ensnaring a fly. The subject grabbed the man around the head and viciously tore a chunk out of his neck. The other members of the crew stood by in shock, painfully unaware that the other subjects had started converging on their position. I slammed my hand down onto the alarm button but it was too late. I could only watch in sick, horrified fascination as the carnage unfolded on the security monitor.
The horror didn’t end there. Those who had been bitten yet not completely devoured came back to life seeking fresh bodies to feed on.

copyright2009 by Marvin Catarata