did. It's a true work of art.
"Hello? Anyone home? I have brains." I listened, but the only sound was the hungry guest in the huge dining room. Apart from that it was just me, and the rain going for a strong late morning push to ensure that Cardiff remained as wet and dreary as ever.
Seriously spooked, but knowing I needed to find answers, I began exploring. I kind of wish I hadn't.
The zombie home is large, and I'd never been in more than a few rooms. It's an old place, once used by the rich to relax and unwind, purchased by the Dark Council, renovated, and now a home-cum-prison.
Some of the undead were nice people, amiable, as long as you kept your distance, while others were ancient, little left of their former selves, walking nightmares that would haunt your dreams if you thought about it too long. As I wandered from one large room to another, all empty, I couldn't help thinking about the poor creatures.
It's amazing what people will do to cling to their existence. These men and women were dead, no doubt about it, but their spirits remained. Almost like physical ghosts, that's the closest to an explanation that makes sense you can get. But as they age the virus tightens its grip, and day by day, year by year, sometimes decade after decade, they slip away, automatons with nothing but a primal urge to consume human flesh, definite bias toward brains.
Basically, they are hardcore. You can't get more gangster than that, so you have to give them credit for their persistence. Only problem being, they weren't where they were supposed to be, and that was bad.
After confirming the ground floor was clear of zombies, I headed upstairs, up a sweeping spiral staircase that I have to admit made me a little jealous. The banister was dark and warm, in stark contrast to the freezing building with the stench of death now ingrained into the fabric of the walls.
Along once plush, now rather tatty and grubby red carpet, I checked the rooms. All had locks on the outside, as was part of the rules, all empty. In some there was furniture, in others nothing but mattresses on the floor and not a lot else, all depending on the individual that slept within.
I moved from nice hallways to a more sinister part of the building. I'd never been there so didn't know what to expect, but what I hadn't anticipated was what amounted to a cell block.
A whole corridor had nothing but steel doors, bare walls and floor, with a guard station behind reinforced glass. I guessed it was for the more troublesome or too-far-gone guests. I punched a button beside the door and it slid open. I called, but again it was silent apart from the squeal as the door slid across runners in need of oiling.
Something was amiss, I could tell right away. The cell doors were all ajar, which was a bad idea if the occupiers were that dangerous.
Reaching the first cell, I peered inside. Laid out on a cot were the remains of a human being. The stench of rot and preserving fluids made me gag and I bent double, half my breakfast coming up as I coughed and spluttered.
Little in the way of intact flesh remained. Necrosis was rampant, the effects of being dead for so long surging now the magic was gone and the preservatives had leaked out.
The open chest cavity reminded me of a tree hit by lightning, shards of bone like splinters dull yellow in the weak light. But it was the head that was the worst, and what made me disgorge my breakfast. It was kind of squeezed in, all tight in a ball, somehow still attached to the body, barely.
It was as if somebody had squeezed it like a piece of fruit until all moisture was gone, or a sheet of paper scrunched up, lolling to one side all black and terribly bruised. The zombie was definitely dead, and for real this time.
Once the worst of the nausea passed, I moved on. The next occupant was almost identical—insides torn out, dragged away like they were rotten sausages. Wet and shiny from the fluids that soaked and stained the concrete floor.
"Hello? Anyone home? I have brains." I listened, but the only sound was the hungry guest in the huge dining room. Apart from that it was just me, and the rain going for a strong late morning push to ensure that Cardiff remained as wet and dreary as ever.
Seriously spooked, but knowing I needed to find answers, I began exploring. I kind of wish I hadn't.
The zombie home is large, and I'd never been in more than a few rooms. It's an old place, once used by the rich to relax and unwind, purchased by the Dark Council, renovated, and now a home-cum-prison.
Some of the undead were nice people, amiable, as long as you kept your distance, while others were ancient, little left of their former selves, walking nightmares that would haunt your dreams if you thought about it too long. As I wandered from one large room to another, all empty, I couldn't help thinking about the poor creatures.
It's amazing what people will do to cling to their existence. These men and women were dead, no doubt about it, but their spirits remained. Almost like physical ghosts, that's the closest to an explanation that makes sense you can get. But as they age the virus tightens its grip, and day by day, year by year, sometimes decade after decade, they slip away, automatons with nothing but a primal urge to consume human flesh, definite bias toward brains.
Basically, they are hardcore. You can't get more gangster than that, so you have to give them credit for their persistence. Only problem being, they weren't where they were supposed to be, and that was bad.
After confirming the ground floor was clear of zombies, I headed upstairs, up a sweeping spiral staircase that I have to admit made me a little jealous. The banister was dark and warm, in stark contrast to the freezing building with the stench of death now ingrained into the fabric of the walls.
Along once plush, now rather tatty and grubby red carpet, I checked the rooms. All had locks on the outside, as was part of the rules, all empty. In some there was furniture, in others nothing but mattresses on the floor and not a lot else, all depending on the individual that slept within.
I moved from nice hallways to a more sinister part of the building. I'd never been there so didn't know what to expect, but what I hadn't anticipated was what amounted to a cell block.
A whole corridor had nothing but steel doors, bare walls and floor, with a guard station behind reinforced glass. I guessed it was for the more troublesome or too-far-gone guests. I punched a button beside the door and it slid open. I called, but again it was silent apart from the squeal as the door slid across runners in need of oiling.
Something was amiss, I could tell right away. The cell doors were all ajar, which was a bad idea if the occupiers were that dangerous.
Reaching the first cell, I peered inside. Laid out on a cot were the remains of a human being. The stench of rot and preserving fluids made me gag and I bent double, half my breakfast coming up as I coughed and spluttered.
Little in the way of intact flesh remained. Necrosis was rampant, the effects of being dead for so long surging now the magic was gone and the preservatives had leaked out.
The open chest cavity reminded me of a tree hit by lightning, shards of bone like splinters dull yellow in the weak light. But it was the head that was the worst, and what made me disgorge my breakfast. It was kind of squeezed in, all tight in a ball, somehow still attached to the body, barely.
It was as if somebody had squeezed it like a piece of fruit until all moisture was gone, or a sheet of paper scrunched up, lolling to one side all black and terribly bruised. The zombie was definitely dead, and for real this time.
Once the worst of the nausea passed, I moved on. The next occupant was almost identical—insides torn out, dragged away like they were rotten sausages. Wet and shiny from the fluids that soaked and stained the concrete floor.
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