Soul Survivor: A gripping tale of the living, the dead, and the struggle to survive in an apocalyptic world. by Arthur M Wyatt Page B
Authors: Arthur M Wyatt
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it was no use. Her zombie obviously wasn’t even aware that she was there.
She wondered again about the dead from earlier that morning. And the old lady, the mailman and the zombie in the front yard. She thought someway, somehow, the consciousness or souls of these people were somehow influencing the actions of their dead. Why was she different?
She wished she had become one of them. But she wasn’t. She could tell by the way her zombie walked and acted. Sadly she was just a garden variety zombie.
At least I’m not one of the demon dead, she thought. At least not yet.
At last they set out heading North. Amy’s zombie scanned the streets from side to side occasionally but mostly kept its gaze straight ahead as they plodded along. They headed down the Street and continued until they reached US-180. Then marched steadily on through night and early morning.
They stopped for the day around 11:00 a.m. Amy wasn’t quite sure why, but the zombie sought shade and stood almost as if asleep for five hours. Then they resumed their pointless quest when the sun was no longer high in the sky.
Amy in some strange morbid way wished she could feel what her zombie felt. Was it tired? Did it have a head ache? Could it feel pain? Did it have any thought process at all or did it act purely on instinct like an insect?
She calmly excepted her fate and settled in for the rest of the journey.
They continued on. Always stopping for about five hours during mid day and continuing on around four.
They saw no survivors the first three days. Then one day just after sunrise, as they were making their way through Tusayan Arizona, she noticed a lone zombie standing on the roof of the Holiday Inn. He stood silently on the edge, three stories up, following their progress as they made their way along the street. He was missing his right arm and was dressed in some type of work uniform.
A maintenance man possibly. Amy thought.
Amy’s zombie stepped over to the side of the road near the hotel and stopped. After a few grunts of apparent greeting, they stood there staring at each other for several minutes.
Finally it looked down at the concrete then back at Amy’s zombie. Then it leaned over the edge and fell head first into the pavement below. The zombie disintegrated on impact. His torso split open and his limbs detached and flew out in all directions. Blood, pus, bones and internal organs spread out in a huge stain. It reminded Amy of a bug splattering a windshield.
Her zombie groaned. It gave her the feeling that it thought it was all alone now. The last one.
Amy’s zombie grunted once more then turned and took up the steady gate of a zombie on a mission. What that mission was she had no idea.
They were soon out of town. Still heading North. Judging by the mile markers, Amy thought they were making about one mile an hour.
Pretty much top speed for a zombie, she thought.
One of the disadvantages of being one of the slow ones.
If only my zombie was like the mailman we could make three times that, she thought.
By her best guess they were only about a days walk from the canyon.
They walked on for three more hours before stopping in the shade for the day and then continuing around five in the afternoon.
The next morning when the sun rose she noticed that her zombie’s left arm had fallen off during the night. Evidently more damaged in the encounter with the zombie at the deli than she had thought.
The legs however still seemed strong and their pace had not slowed.
A little further on they passed a sign that read “Grand Canyon National Park South Rim Visitors Center - 6 Miles.” A six hour walk. They were getting close.
What a caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.
The quote flashed through her mind again and again. Giving her some strange sense of comfort.
She
She wondered again about the dead from earlier that morning. And the old lady, the mailman and the zombie in the front yard. She thought someway, somehow, the consciousness or souls of these people were somehow influencing the actions of their dead. Why was she different?
She wished she had become one of them. But she wasn’t. She could tell by the way her zombie walked and acted. Sadly she was just a garden variety zombie.
At least I’m not one of the demon dead, she thought. At least not yet.
At last they set out heading North. Amy’s zombie scanned the streets from side to side occasionally but mostly kept its gaze straight ahead as they plodded along. They headed down the Street and continued until they reached US-180. Then marched steadily on through night and early morning.
They stopped for the day around 11:00 a.m. Amy wasn’t quite sure why, but the zombie sought shade and stood almost as if asleep for five hours. Then they resumed their pointless quest when the sun was no longer high in the sky.
Amy in some strange morbid way wished she could feel what her zombie felt. Was it tired? Did it have a head ache? Could it feel pain? Did it have any thought process at all or did it act purely on instinct like an insect?
She calmly excepted her fate and settled in for the rest of the journey.
They continued on. Always stopping for about five hours during mid day and continuing on around four.
They saw no survivors the first three days. Then one day just after sunrise, as they were making their way through Tusayan Arizona, she noticed a lone zombie standing on the roof of the Holiday Inn. He stood silently on the edge, three stories up, following their progress as they made their way along the street. He was missing his right arm and was dressed in some type of work uniform.
A maintenance man possibly. Amy thought.
Amy’s zombie stepped over to the side of the road near the hotel and stopped. After a few grunts of apparent greeting, they stood there staring at each other for several minutes.
Finally it looked down at the concrete then back at Amy’s zombie. Then it leaned over the edge and fell head first into the pavement below. The zombie disintegrated on impact. His torso split open and his limbs detached and flew out in all directions. Blood, pus, bones and internal organs spread out in a huge stain. It reminded Amy of a bug splattering a windshield.
Her zombie groaned. It gave her the feeling that it thought it was all alone now. The last one.
Amy’s zombie grunted once more then turned and took up the steady gate of a zombie on a mission. What that mission was she had no idea.
They were soon out of town. Still heading North. Judging by the mile markers, Amy thought they were making about one mile an hour.
Pretty much top speed for a zombie, she thought.
One of the disadvantages of being one of the slow ones.
If only my zombie was like the mailman we could make three times that, she thought.
By her best guess they were only about a days walk from the canyon.
They walked on for three more hours before stopping in the shade for the day and then continuing around five in the afternoon.
The next morning when the sun rose she noticed that her zombie’s left arm had fallen off during the night. Evidently more damaged in the encounter with the zombie at the deli than she had thought.
The legs however still seemed strong and their pace had not slowed.
A little further on they passed a sign that read “Grand Canyon National Park South Rim Visitors Center - 6 Miles.” A six hour walk. They were getting close.
What a caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.
The quote flashed through her mind again and again. Giving her some strange sense of comfort.
She
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