Zombie Tales- Testing the Limits chapter 5th w/poem

Where does my soul come from?
from fiery hell, does my soul run
a tortured corpse, my life’s undone
My rotting flesh carries a gun.

Fingers of bone, clench gun of steel
Hands so cold, unable to feel.
Sitting down, for my next meal
Hoping for my mind to heal.

Undead I walk, yet live I be
many things, through dead eyes see
from nought I run, from nought I flee
I stand tall, this decaying tree.

Every day I waste my time
daring fate, to be sublime
all that I meet, I consider slime
But zombie-like, is not a crime.

Zombie Tales:
Testing the limits.
chapter 5th w/ poem

Tagging along behind three well outfitted travelers guaranteed my survival, but did nothing towards enlarging my prospects. They had promised me a fair share of their spoils but thus far, their crime sprees had only yielded more of the crap I already had plenty of. Nothing useful turned up.

I mean really, the whole shitty world is full of bad asses and bandits, but then why do the victims who fall prey to these guys have only petty cash and switch-blades on them? What the hell? As my frustration deepend with each pathetic crime spree not giving me what I wanted, I grew more and more un-zombie-like. I began to plot. I needed bullets damn it!

I got pissed at my comrades for not tossing me a little something when I obviously lacked means. But then again, these three were not the most reputable of kind. They were gypsies, riff-raff, scum. Therefore expendable. Should I kill them, the world would not mind. In fact, I would be doing society a favor.

Fed up by the lack of spoils and the long, long, miles we were covering between marks, I began to manipulate the environment. I started to exaggerate my zombie shuffle. I mean, I was the guy who in the heat of a stealth mission would stub my toe and yell, “oops!” I hoped to bring more action down on their heads. 

But the town was too passive and the pickins seemed too slim.  I was pretty certain at this point that they were not sharing the spoils equally as they said they would. Which was just too bad. I don’t tolerate lack of honor amongst thieves, especially when it is directed at myself. 

I started to get in the way of missions. but fate seemed against me. These three were too close-knit. Bastards! In a final act of recklessness I jogged up ahead of them and stashed my heavy pack into a culvert. Then ranged about a mile in every direction till I located a gang of 5 career criminals. I burst upon them, wasted a bullet into the arm of the 2nd in command who was on guard at the time, and then dashed up to the leader. I bitch slapped him right across the face.

Yeah, that sounds crazy, but such brashness was enough to ensure I kept my skin. I sprinted away fast, but not too fast and led them right back to my pathetic crew of petty gypsies. Now I put on true speed, and promptly disappeared from the field.

I watched in hungry anticipation. Let one or more of these bastards die, and I could resupply from the corpse and be on my way. For by now, I was dying to get the hell away from this horrid routine of waiting on charity from chance.

Alas, the gypsies survived. I was not surprised to find the newest kills had no bullets. “Yeah, right, fucking lying, gypsy bastards!”  The female gypsy had  acquired a serious wound.  She was sure to die if  just one more battle could find her. But then I remembered my reason for being here in the first place. 

I was supposed to be a zombie. I wanted to prove I could survive, even if overmatched, and under-supplied. Minimal effort. That was the rule I had made for myself. So I added an addendum to the rule, direct manipulation of environments was not allowed. Play by the rules, man! You’re a zombie! You wanted a challenge? Heres your challenge.

I settled back into the routine of passive following. Duuuuh. But the wounded Gypsy was now at the back. She could hardly keep up  the pace. 

I could understand these gypsies not showing me loyalty or honesty (I was a stranger after all), still, I was amazed that they treated one of their own number in the same way. There own wounded comrade, fended for herself. It reminded me of the way conquering nations would treat captives on a forced march. I wondered how insane they must be, to behave that way. How stupid.

At that moment I memorised their faces. No, I would not hunt them down, but should they cross my path of their own volition  in the future, when I was not playing zombie? I would most certainly enjoy killing them.

The wounded gypsy kept stopping to double over and catch her breath. I stopped nearby, like a vulture, waiting. But I knew wounds well. Excepting something else got to her, she would likely live for another 24 hours. She hung so far back, I knew it would be a long time before she dropped.

The prospect of waiting was too much for me. So I gathered my zombie self together and shuffled off in the opposite direction, never to return. I now had 2 bullets left.

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