Undead Evolution: The Reaper's Bell

It's strange, isn't it — the way perception works? One day you see something as evil and another thing as good, and the next... How easily belief can change. It's not all bad, though. I mean, I once believed the dead stayed dead, buried until they were dug up or eroded away. But this is the next day. The day where life is redefined along with death.

Maybe you're wondering what I'm talking about. Maybe you're thinking, "Where is this nut getting these thoughts?" I guess I should explain a few things. Let me begin by telling you about me. Then I can get into my... Well, my condition. But, I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're a survivor, and survivors pick up on things.

Here's a bit to help you understand: I breathe — if you want to call it that. My lungs inflate, but I get nothing from it but the satisfaction of seeing my chest rise; I pull air in and let it loose, but I don't need to. It's important to realize that as you listen to the story of my rising.

I breathe a sigh as I wipe the dirt from my face, picking off the occasional worm or grub as I do, my boney phalanges bending like a front-end loader under an inexperienced operator. It feels like a controlled seizure with the muscles resisting the movement in spasms. I think, "So this is what The Voice meant? Not exactly heaven, if you ask me." After attempting to smell the air, and nearly gagging on the scent of fetid meat that permeated it, I looked around to view a smooth stone face, humped slightly at it's top, with this message written upon its face in worn lettering: "Herbert McNaughlty. 1902-1928. Now developing photos in the dark room of peace."

"Hmph," I chortle, as I think to myself, "Must have been a photographer." The irony of how young Herbert was when he died, but how old his body is now almost caused a laugh. "You're older now," I mused, "but have just been born, so to speak." The stone, however, spoke of the dead man, not the one "rebirthed." It spoke of the soul and not the body. Herb was either in the void now or passed on, and I was granted title to his body.

A noise, like gravel being shifted underfoot, pulled my attention from my musings and I caught sight of a bouncing circle of light in the air above my head from the right.

"Who's there," demanded the light's owner as he scanned the area with his flashlight. He sounded older than he looked from the glimpses I could catch of him. I've got a feeling that the cigarette glowing between his lips had a lot to do with it. God, I haven't had a smoke in — how long has it been? Months? Years? Hours? I feel like I could really enjoy a cigarette right now.

"Vince," I answer, but it sounds like vomit more than words. I clear my throat to try again and force out a ball of mud and grubs from the side of my neck. "That can't be healthy," I think.

The flashlight sways closer and I duck down into my womb of decay as I attempt, again, to speak. "Vince! Vince Bell," I yell, giving my full name to lower his guard. But why? I really did need help out of the hole.

"I seem — I seem to have fallen into this hole!" The footsteps get closer and I see the intermittent aura of the flashlight beam play against the ground as though in a fast-paced game of peek-a-boo. A sensation of thrill comes over me as I'm overtaken by something akin to hunger. With every bounce of the light I hear the man's heartbeat drumming in my ears. The smell of his blood and his sweat dance upon the late hour mist and fill my nostrils. His adrenaline is high with fear, and meanders across the space between us to dance upon my nonexistent tongue. I can taste his fear even as he searches for the owner of the voice that has just answered him.

"You aren't supposed to be here. Trying to rob graves, huh? Serves you right for —"
The crunching of footsteps halts. The man seems uncertain whether to proceed. I imagine him trying to find the source of the voice, hoping it's not from the same direction as the stench, but certain that it is. I envision him taking a moment to gather his courage while attempting to stymie the revulsion beginning to crawl up his esophagus, and glancing again around the graveyard. I'm sure that, normally, the nights are quiet except for the occasional kids trying to sneak off for some strange, morbid romance among the tombstones, or those proving their courage to their friends. Once, he'd caught some kids trying to sneak in with crowbars who had decided that breaking headstones and memorials would be fun. But this was different. Much different. Aside from the ghastly odor permeating the air like a fog, the whole situation brought with it a pervasive fear. Yet, as much as every fiber of his being screamed at him to leave this situation alone — to go away, to run away from here — he found himself stepping toward the open grave that brought to his mind the maw of some giant subterrestrial ant-lion awaiting its prey.

Movement played at the edge of the circle of light and the man's breath caught in his lungs. He had — to his horror — the urge to move forward, but somehow managed to fight it, stopping in his tracks. He had a fleeting urge to run, but it ran away without him before it could be of any use. Something was not right about this. Nothing was right with this.

"M-mister B-bell?" The man fumbled at speaking those words to the voice in the hole. His fear was thick, intoxicating. "W-would you please t-tell me what you're doing there?"

Memories of the Void came to mind. "Ten souls," the Voice had stated with it's irrefutable offer. "Give me ten souls. I will give you life again, but you must first promise me those ten." The Voice was ambiguous; neither male nor female, anxious nor hopeful, deceptive or honest. But it was my only chance to see the vibrant colors of dawn again; to hear the birds, crickets, and even the sounds of industry in progress. If I denied The Voice I would never again taste chocolate or coffee, feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, or smell the scent of rose or cinnamon. The Void was not kind to those who revelled in the sensory pleasures of life. Neither were the other spirits — not all of them human — always willing to help others adjust to the torment of no longer being alive.

"Why me," I had thought to ask The Voice. But, in the end, what did it matter? What choice did I have but to agree? But now? The man reeks of fear and life and reasons to not fulfill my promise. Does he have family? What would he face in The Void? Would he even make it to The Void? And why should my soul have a body, but not his? Because of the hunger. Because of the Oath.

With every ounce of acting ability I possess I feign pain as I respond, "I was walking along, paying my respects to my dearly departed wife, and I fell into this hole!" My voice sounds smoother than before, more natural. "I know I wasn't supposed to be here, but I was only going to stop by for a minute and then leave. I just missed her so much.

"Please, I — I think I've sprained something. Can you help? There's a body in here!"

The man hesitated. I could hear his heart beating like a rabbit in a snake pit. Something was telling him that there was something wrong. But, by his hesitation, I could tell he couldn't quite grasp what it was. It was his thrumming heartbeat that kept him posted to that spot. And it was that same heartbeat that drove me mad with impatience. Finally, the man took a step forward, and relief washed through me like a flood, draining away the tension. Soon it would be over. Soon I would be free. The man looked over the edge of the hole, splaying the light across the scene. In that instant he saw me, and realization sprang to his face like a scared deer springing from the brush. My vacant eye sockets returned his stare, and horror spread over his face at what he saw: A face with bits of skin and muscle peeling away from its bony frame; the remnants of a nose still discernible as the flesh hung loosely from its former canvas; a slack jaw that seemed to smile with its exposed teeth in spite of the barely attached sinew at the mandible. My hands and limbs, also devoid of most of their tissue, remained joined together as if by some eldritch magnetic force. All of this, taken in at a glance, was broadcast across the man's features as he simultaneously released his flashlight, bladder, and motor skills and fell to the ground, then attempted a crab-like escape. Not easy with his bulk.

As for me, the compulsion became unbearable. I kept telling myself it wasn't right; that this wasn't me. I refused to go through with it, straining against the hunger, the impulse. "You promised," I heard The Voice reverberate in my mind, it's whisper moving through it like a wind down a maze of hallways. "You made a Soul Oath. You cannot go back on it now. It's impossible to resist for long." And, as if to prove this, what was left of my resolve dissolved, and with a strength this decrepit body could not have possessed, I pounced into the air. In one quick motion, I cleared the hole and landed atop the other man and had the crown of his head in my grasp. I watched as my grip tightened until it gave a dull "pop," and I felt his warm blood beneath my fingers. (Or, maybe I just imagined feeling it.) His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his skull emitted a slow-rising fog; a spectral smoke that I immediately recognized as the man's soul.

Thirsty; I was so thirsty for that soul. I wanted to capture it for my master. I wanted to devour it for myself. The man's body convulsed and then dropped as though, after death, it had realized the danger it was in and was only now attempting a futile escape. It hung from my fingers like tinsel on a Christmas tree, and I pulled my face closer. Putting my mouth to the vaporous wound, I drank his soul from his lifeless corpse. Power, like electricity, surged through me and coursed into my veinless body, until it reached my own soul. The smell of the man's last thoughts drifted up to me from his cranial chasm and a new impulse struck me. They were like the scent of fresh pumpkin pie, his thoughts. The impulse was to devour the pie. Not knowing if the impulse could be fought or not, I gave in to it. "What harm could it do," I reasoned. "He's already dead." Splitting his skull open wider, I extracted the man's still-warm brain and feasted on the soft, spongy, gray tissue.

Since I wasn't actually hungry, the morbid meal did nothing for my appetite. But, as the warm blood and viscera flowed down what would have been my jaw line and what would have been my esophagus, I felt a tingling sensation prickle its way through me. The man's knowledge and thoughts became accessible at my summoning — and even came unbidden, as new as this phenomenon was to me. The bones which held my meal grew sinew with each new bite. Then muscle began to layer that, creeping across my skeleton like a time lapse video of a growing vine. Finally, as I finished off the brain, I saw that my body looked whole again. It still infused the air with the fetid stench of decay, however, which meant that although I might be mistaken for alive from a distance, closer inspection would reveal the truth. And my withered clothes wouldn't help either.

Searching the man's body, I found a wallet, keys, cigarettes and a lighter, and some loose change. I removed the man's clothes and donned them for myself. They were loose on my frame, but what else could I expect? I was still fairly skeletal.

The man's scent hung on his clothes and I found myself hungry again. I couldn't just keep killing. This was my first time and the impulse was unexpected and, therefore, hard to resist. "But I'll fight it next time — and win," I determined. But the hunger... The man still had flesh. Careful not to get too much blood on my new clothes, I ate his flesh and entrails. The hunger didn't subside, but my frame filled out the clothes a bit more. Finished with my carrion dinner, I wiped my mouth with my old clothes, withdrew a Basic from his nearly full pack, and smoked the first cigarette I'd had in what felt like a century. I didn't feel a thing from it.