Undead Genesis: Zombie (3 page)

“Bring the prisoners and meet at camp,” he
said to the men around him.

He turned and started walking quickly
away.

The younger prisoner was still
uncontrollable, so Birani made the decision to carry him back as
they would a dead animal. A long sturdy branch was found and the
prisoner’s wrists and ankles were lashed to it. Two warriors in
front and two behind carried the prisoner between them. Birani
followed this group leading the older prisoner by a rope tied
around the large man’s neck.

Dangling underneath the branch, the young man
soon started screaming for a different reason. The constant rocking
against the rough branch soon left his forearms and legs raw and
bleeding. Each movement became agony and blood started flowing in
rivers down his arms and legs and falling in large bright red
drops. By the time they reached the camp he was unconscious.

~ Chapter VI
~

Trinty, the captured warrior, was securely
bound hand to foot. He was sitting upright against the substantial
center support of a hut built entirely of sturdy bamboo poles. His
son sat similarly secured facing the opposite direction. A single
pleated rope went around the pole and each of their necks choking
them both if either leaned forward. Near the entrance to the hut
sat the boy responsible for his capture, whose father had been
killed. The boy sat with his head hung low and had not uttered a
word.

As an experienced warrior he was resigned to
his fate. He had seen the ritualistic celebrations his own tribe
conducted when an enemy was captured, and they always ended in
sacrifice. Trinty looked closely at the hut in case the chance for
escape presented itself, but even if it had, he was sure his own
honor would not allow the attempt.

He was more concerned about his son’s life
than his own. The boy was headstrong and stupid, but too young to
be killed. His mother would be devastated losing them both. The
time spent away from their tribe had made him selfish, but he was
still blood and Trinty had strong feelings for the young man. He
knew he would help his son escape if the opportunity presented
itself.

Trinty knew a captive of his own tribe would
have been subjected to extreme torture. The skin of their screaming
sacrifices was carefully flayed in long strips, cooked, and
consumed by all members of his tribe as the bleeding victim
watched. The prisoner was then carefully cared for to insure he did
not die. This ritual was repeated for five nights, until the
suffering man or woman was finally sacrificed and the Feast of the
Fathers was held.

He had heard rumors that his captors were not
cannibals like his own tribe, but he was sure the end result would
be the same. He anxiously awaited his fate, not fearing death, but
instead fearing the unknown suffering he and his son would
face.

Many men showed up just as the heat in the
little hut started to become uncomfortable. They brought in newly
cut leaves as large as the men themselves and wooden buckets full
of what looked like mud. Trinty’s son started yelling obscenities
at the men as they worked, but they just snickered and jovially
returned the boy’s insults.

The men were insuring the little hut was as
airtight as possible. They sewed the leaves together and plastered
over the edges of each leaf with the mud-like mixture. They first
sealed the walls, and then moved to the ceiling. One man was tasked
with digging a deep hole slightly larger in circumference than a
man’s head. His arms had fully disappeared into the hole before he
was finished. A pile of dirt sat just to the side and was not
removed.

When they were done inside, they left, and
Trinty heard the men working on the outside walls as well.

When the preparations were complete, the men
untied Trinty leaving his son secured to the post. His simple
loincloth was removed leaving him completely naked. Trinty was then
secured to the bamboo floor with hands stretched over his head and
legs spread wide apart. All of the men then left. Soon after this
the boy left as well, and the two were alone. Darkness descended
early in the hut.

The sounds from just outside started to
increase. Murmuring turned to laughing, laughing turned to song,
and song turned to shouts. The fire on the other side of the door
soon became so fierce Trinty realized its light was penetrating the
layers of leaves and he could see his trembling son tinted in dark
green. The hut itself trembled as dancing feet stomped forcefully
on the ground just outside the door.

The old warrior struggled against his bonds,
but neither the lashings nor the poles allowed any possibility for
escape. His son struggled as well, but also with no success.

The clamor stopped and a lone voice was
lifted with reverence. The one voice offered prayers to ancestors,
while others outside moaned loudly in sympathetic agreement.

After the prayer, the door to the hut opened.
Trinty watched as the shaman walked in. He was naked except for
many necklaces made of bone, wood and other material which
clattered as he moved. The ancient old man was painted from head to
toe with streaks of white contrasting against many dark colors. He
simply held a stone knife.

Behind the old man the young boy whose father
had been killed again entered the hut. The boy held a simple wooden
box carved with many symbols. Hanging over one shoulder was a large
bag bulging with its contents. He walked over to the opposite side
of the hut and sat silently.

Four other men walked in silently, each with
bowls full of water so large they struggled to lift them. The men
placed these bowls on the ground near the back of the hut and
hurriedly left.

The old shaman stood over Trinty with the
knife, closed his eyes and muttered indecipherable words under his
breath. The warrior lay tied to the ground steeling himself for the
stabbing final blow. He closed his eyes and waited for his last
moments. A sudden pain just below his ribs involuntarily made him
flinch, but he managed to not cry out. He waited quietly for the
end to come.

Trinty was surprised to feel pain again under
one of his arms, and then again on his other arm. He realized now
the pain was not the sting of a stab, but instead was the throbbing
of a slice. He opened his eyes just as two more slices were made to
his inner thighs up near his naked genitals. As the pain started to
become more pronounced and he became conscious of his son’s
uncontrollable flailing and weeping. Two more cuts were made to the
outside of Trinty’s knees. The warrior could feel blood slowly
seeping from each of the wounds.

The shaman took the now bloody knife, carried
it over to the boy, and laid it at his feet. After saying a few
words Trinty could not hear, the old man exited through the door
and closed it. Trinty could hear men outside the door again working
and assumed they were sealing the last of the cracks to the outside
world.

Eventually, the young man tied to the pole
calmed down. He was sobbing silently.

Finally, the boy spoke.

~ Chapter
VII ~

Marik’s voice was only loud enough to be
heard by the three in the hut. “You took my father. When I realized
he was gone, I blamed myself… made myself suffer. I wanted to die.
I thought it should have been me instead. Now, I hope, watching you
both suffer will ease my pain.”

Marik paused, wrestling with his
thoughts.

“You will both be shown the traditional way
we perform our sacrifices. The father will be first. The son and I
will both watch.”

“The father’s anguish will pale in comparison
to what the son will experience.”

Marik stood up and walked over to the still
bleeding warrior. Towering over the constrained man, he opened the
box and poured the contents onto the man’s stomach near the cuts
underneath his ribs.

The larvae had not grown since Marik had
found them. In the wild they lived in and fed on the cotton tree,
but Marik knew there was another source of food they would be
attracted to. The inch long white worms were drawn to the blood and
immediately started feasting on it. The warrior remained stoic with
eyes closed, wordlessly whispering prayers.

Marik picked up the larvae one by one and
placed each directly on top of one of the cuts. When he was done,
seven white worms were spread over the man’s dark body. Each was
attached to flesh and was eagerly devouring. The eighth, and last,
larva was placed back in the box.

Marik walked over to his bag and pulled out a
deep ladle attached to a large handle. He dipped it into the
nearest water bowl and brought it to the warrior lying on the
ground. The man looked up obstinately with hate and fear in his
eyes. When Marik dribbled water onto the man’s lips the warrior
refused to drink.

Marik walked over to the man’s son. The young
man refused to drink as well. Unperturbed, Marik brought the water
to his own lips and drank deeply as both prisoners watched. He then
went back over to his side of the hut.

The boy was exhausted. He had not slept much
since the battle two days prior. He always seemed to be needed. He
had arrangements for his father’s death journey to attend to. His
mother was a wreck without her husband and had required his
presence seemingly every minute. He was now the eldest man of his
family and had to deal with unexpected issues such as finding an
eligible man to take in his mother and younger sister. He also had
expressed the desire to be here in the hut, which was usually the
shaman’s duty. The rituals and instruction required before he was
allowed to participate in the sacrifice were extensive.

Lastly, the celebration he had just come in
from was physically exhausting. He spent the first thirteen years
of his life watching the men dance, but now he was expected to
dance as well. Only the unbelievable amount of energy given from
the special meal the shaman had prepared for the men made it
possible to push his body that far past its normal limit. That
energy had dissipated as soon as the dancing had finished.

Marik lay down and rested his head against
his bag. He was unable to keep his eyes open. His final thought was
spent wondering if the angry men sharing the hut with him would be
able to get loose as he slept, but even this could not keep him
awake.

He slept dreamlessly.

His eyes opened many hours later. He could
tell it was day outside from the green tinted light filtering
through the new leaves.

The man on the ground was moaning softly. His
head lolled to one side and his body seemed to have wasted away
drastically during the night. The larvae were no longer visible on
top of the skin, but near each cut an inch long pulsing welt marked
the progress each had made. The cuts no longer bled. Instead a
luminous foamy discharge oozed slowly from the cut’s lowest point
to pool in a small white puddle on the dirt floor.

The son appeared to be sleeping restlessly.
The bonds kept him from getting comfortable and he constantly
fought to keep the rope around his neck from cutting off his
airway.

Marik got up and drank a few ladles of water.
He relieved himself in the deep hole and threw a handful of dirt in
when he was done.

The activity brought both father and son
around, though each seemed to struggle simply grasping their
surroundings. Marik offered water again to each and both eagerly
drank unable to help themselves.

The day wore on. Occasionally Marik would
move around performing tasks, but mostly he meditated quietly. He
fed the prisoners hard biscuits in the afternoon, and ate when he
felt the need. The hut heated up and started to smell of stale
sweat and urine.

~ Chapter
VIII ~

The first day ended. As night fell the
darkness was as dense with blackness as the intense noonday sun was
with light. The larvae had disappeared from under the skin as they
burrowed into the man’s body. The pain he was enduring was starting
to become more intense and he was unable to resist moans of pain
and sporadic grunts. He had yet to cry out, but Marik knew the pain
would become worse and worse as joints and organs were
penetrated.

His son also had become extremely
uncomfortable and was in his own world of pain. He had been
confined in a kneeling position with now bloodless hands tied
tightly behind his back. He had been unable to lean forward for
days. His leg and arm muscles constantly cramped and daggers of
pain shot up through his spine continuously.

Marik dozed and his prisoners attempted to do
the same. He was awakened occasionally by the moans within the
hut.

The shaman had given Marik instructions on
what to expect as the days went by. The larvae were large and would
soon be ready to pupate. They would work their way out of the body,
search for a place to hide, and form a hard shell to be their home
as their metamorphosis took place. It would take thirty or more
days for them to become flies.

Marik had learned the larvae somehow
sustained whatever they were devouring. The shaman told him
prisoners would live long past the time when their bodies were
nothing but skin and bones. As long as the larvae were present the
body no longer required food, water or even air. Only after months
of being fed upon or when the brain was harmed in some way would
the rest of the body be released from the agony of life.

The shaman gave him a dark brown bottle
containing a cure. The concoction, made partly from the larvae
themselves, caused any of the squirming trespassers in the body to
quickly exit and stopped the body from wasting away. It would
result in a full recovery for about the first full day after the
larvae were introduced, assuming they did not reach any major
organs. Longer than a day and parts of the body would simply no
longer function effectively enough to continue working, even after
the medication was administered and the invaders removed.