Christian Zombie Short Story... Whaaattt?

I was pleased to enter the following short story in the OHC Writer's Guild Short Story Contest back in the fall.  On a dare I decided to write in an unfamiliar genre.  

Zombie.

Specifically, in my case- Christian Zombie since I'm a Christian.  I don't write anything that doesn't have some sort of Christian theme embedded inside so I was sort of at a loss for a while.  

But then God gave me some things to think about... and this is the story that came from those musings.  I hope you enjoy, I hope at least.. It makes you think.

  The Barren Land

I refuse to leave his body.  I stand guard over him because I fear what they will do to his remains if I do not.  I have barricaded myself inside with him.  I hear the scraping footsteps and the moaning outside and I pull my weapon and wait. They dare not enter, even alone they fear me, as well they should.  When the others come to retrieve him, I will go out and there will be no mercy.

We left behind a country where this disease was unknown to come to this barren land, this wretched and cursed place.  He was the best our fair land could offer; the term "Doctor" would not do him justice.  He was a leader, an artist, an innovator, the creator of things beyond our imaginings.  We chose to call him "Healer" and he was revered and beloved by our people.   It was an honor beyond words then, when I was assigned to his security detail.  I was his personal bodyguard and I had vowed to defend him with my own life.

The journey here was difficult and fraught with peril.  It was a long and arduous voyage, so far from any vestige of civilization but he never complained through our travels.  On more than one occasion I begged him to turn back but he would hear none of it.  He would have allowed me to return had I wanted, but I could not leave him.  I was bound not only by my oath to protect him but by my great love for him.

So I stay.

Because he stayed.

And I will not leave him now.

I will wait until the others come and the war begins.

In truth, I don't even know if it could be called a "war".  They will be wiped out, entirely, with very little effort on our part.  Our weapons far exceed their own and as soon as the order is given we will rain down fire on this place until it is utterly obliterated.

I will feel no remorse.  These monsters deserve it.

Because he came to help them. He came to cure them.

And they killed him in return.

His life in exchange for the whole of them? Every last one that draws breath; it was not, it is not a fair trade. He was the brightest and best our land had to offer and he insisted he come himself.  If he could stop the sickness before it spread to other lands... perhaps if we could stop it here, he insisted, there would be hope.  We had to stop it here, before it came to our shores.

He was convinced that there was hope for these things, these savage beasts that now occupy this land.   They once possessed knowledge and goodness.  Now, I shudder to even call them "Human".  Since the sickness turned them, they are closer to death than life.  They are rotting, stinking corpses in a state of constant decay.  They have no intellect compared to us.  They are unthinking, unreasoning, violent brutes.

The living dead. I shudder even now to think of such a thing.

He came to help them! To save the young ones! The unfairness of it hits me again and I grip my weapon until my fingers ache and my body shakes with rage.

The young ones.  That was why he came here, moved as he was by the images of these little ones suffering in such a wretched place.  It would have been better, if the sickness had made the adults barren as well as inhuman, but such is the complexity of the disease they carry.  They are driven by their yearnings, like all living things, to procreate and so the sickness is passed on in the blood.  Though, through our research we have found that the sickness lies dormant for a time, years perhaps, before it strikes and gnaws it's way through their minds and bodies.

The Healer thought that the young ones could be saved.  There was a time after his arrival when his optimism swayed me.  If a cure could be found before the age that the disease took them completely into its grasp... perhaps there would be some hope.

He had still tried his best, however to cure the adults.  I am still not convinced that through his efforts there will prove to be a total cure.  He had a degree of success with a few though they are not what could be considered "totally cured".  Their bodies are still wasted and brutish but not as volatile as those who have not been treated.  In their own way, they were devoted to him until the mob came, thirsty for his blood.

Then they ran like frightened rabbits.

Those he had worked to cure... Even now they are hiding somewhere.  If the order is given I will have no qualms about killing them myself.  They betrayed him.  They don't deserve to live.

None of them.  

He spent his days traveling from one village to another to help them.  Even though I warned against it so many times, touching them, speaking comfort to them as they suffered.  When we arrived they would flock to him, mumbling and moaning and reaching out for him.  I could never recognize their sounds as any sort of language.  Nevertheless he, in his infinite patience, had found a way to communicate with them.  Even though he used the simplest terms he could manage, many still could not understand many of his words.

They did, however understand one thing.

He could help them.  

Even in their diseased condition they could see that he wasn't like them.

He wasn't dying.

Those who hadn't been completely taken by the disease clamored to him, pressing against him, eager to touch him.  They crowded against him, as if by merely being in his presence could save them.  Countless times he was almost  trampled by the careless throngs.  Often I feared for his life and found it necessary to create a diversion for him and in the chaos that ensued he was able to escape.  He would laugh about it then, indefatigably saying that was a close call.  But he would press forward, no matter how close the call, no matter how bad the sickness in the town where we journeyed next.

He never fell ill, though.

No matter the hardships we endured.  Lack of hygiene, and simple comforts of home, lack of food and rest, exposure to disease...he never succumbed to it himself.

As time wore on he became convinced that the cure would be found not by him, but in him.  Perhaps, within his own blood.  He tried to warn me that finding a cure might demand his own life as forfeit.

I promised I would never let that happen.

He never got the chance to find out though.  The crowds called out to him for help that day, and he had compassion on them.  They pressed in on all sides until I was separated for him.  It was then that they turned vicious.  He was swept along by the crowd to a place unknown to me.

They tore into him like the animals they are.  They left him, the Healer, the only one who could help them to suffer and die alone.

It was hours later that I found him.

Or what was left of him.

He was barely recognizable to me.

Some of those that he helped brought him to this small cave and they stayed there with him until the darkness came and their fear drove them away.  I barricaded myself inside with his body and I have been waiting since then.  I do not know for how long, time means nothing in a place of such grief.  I am sure that it is almost morning and I know that the news would have gotten to our country.  Our communications are not hampered by the distance and I know the others will arrive soon.

The sound of commotion outside alerts me and I stand in expectation.  The males scream in fear then there is silence.  Then the blinding light of full morning permeates the darkness of this tomb.  It overtakes me, overwhelming me at first and I am unable to see for several seconds.  I hold my hand in front of my face and when my eyes adjust I look into the face of my commander.

I am ashamed.  I have failed.  I drop my head in defeat.

A smile is not the response I expect.  It is almost as bright as the morning sun and he laughs at me.

"You did not fail, faithful friend.  The mission was, in fact, a success."

A success?  How could it have been a success?  I shake my head.  How can he say that when the body of our beloved lies cold and dead just behind us?  I have a thousand questions but he hasn't given me permission to speak.  He takes his place by my side and we stand at attention.

Two females approach us, trembling with fear.  I recognize them as some that he made well.

Traitors! I want to scream though I know they cannot understand me.  You left him to die! Why have you come back now?

I grind my teeth and reach for my weapon but my commander stops me with a wave of his hand.

"Why do you seek the living among the dead?" He asks and his voice shakes the very stones around us and their eyes grow wide in amazement and fear.   I am equally astounded that he can communicate with them.


He steps aside and holds out his hand.

There is no body.  The grave clothes lie empty behind me.  I look up in amazement as my commander unfurls his wings. The radiance around him grows ever brighter in the darkness.

 "He is not here;" his voice booms all around us.  "He has risen! Come, see the place where they laid him!"



The Lenten Season is winding down.  Take a moment and think about the sacrifice of our Healer. Rejoice in his Resurrection and the joy that is found in the fact that though Him, this sickness of sin has been defeated.  Happy Easter, Y'all... Blessings!