Each Halloween, we seek out the creepy, the unusual, the off....and the the parts of our personalities that we tend to hide for the other, weaker, months of the year come out to play.
Well, seek no further, Weeners. Blaze McRob is here to save the day with some good old-fashioned curse for digging where we don't belong.
Enjoy if you dare, but please...
Beware The Mold
A warm breeze blows across the porch as I sit on a chair, welcoming the relief the movement affords me. There is not much to ease our suffering, our pain, anymore. Even being what we are, it hurts to know there is no redemption.
We are eternally damned.
It wasn’t always
like this: I still remember the good days, those where we worked hard but could
feel the satisfaction at the end of a long day, knowing our families were
better off. None of us are better off anymore. All the residents on the
mountainsides and in the valleys know the curse for what it is.
The mold: it came
when we weren’t looking, even though we should have known something was wrong.
One day we worked
the mines, and the next, the mines were gone, still there, but no longer used.
Strip mining was the thing. Why pay miners to work underground and have to deal
with annoying lawsuits and safety litigation when it was possible to go to the
top of a mountain and just take it apart, one bulldozer load at a time? No more
collapses; no more huge payrolls.
Ah, but the West Virginia mountains
do get rain, and it would roar down from the denuded mountain tops and poison
the aquifers and streams below. Potable water was a thing of the past. Many of
us died. The lucky ones . . .
The caves always
held mold and mushrooms, and their bounty spread above. For those knowledgeable
in the harvesting of the edible ‘rooms, it was a welcome addition to our diets.
But the fungi were changed somehow by the toxins in the water. It was . . . it
was almost as if they had been given a mind, a purpose, a reason for advancing
higher on the evolution chain.
covered with the mushrooms, and the pigs loved them, breaking free from their
pens to seek them out and enjoy their sweet succulence. And of course, we ate
the hogs, and that’s when it started.
We died from
eating the pigs which ate the poisoned mushrooms. But we didn’t really die. We
came back, the fungal monstrosities living within us controlling our bodies.
Most of the undead lost their minds to the ravages of the infection, but not
all of us.
My flesh rots,
pieces falling off constantly, but I am one of those fortunate enough to still
have power over my brain, although fortunate might be the wrong word. The pain
is horrendous in my body, and I envy those roaming around, seemingly oblivious
to anything other than finding food. I need sustenance as well, but I try with
all my might to retain a certain level of humanity.
Yeah, right! As
if I will forever be able to maintain the status quo. I am undead, and as such,
I am not really of this world anymore. I am some kind of forgotten entity not
wanted by God or Satan. If there is a limbo being, I am it.
My wife and
children belong to the mindless ones, and because of this, my mental anguish is
increased to the point where controlling my rage is becoming ever more
difficult. But I must try to maintain some semblance of purposeful brain
activity. The few of us able to reason are responsible for those who can’t.
And yet, I feel
myself going the way of the others, my mind finding it ever more difficult to
sort out fact from fiction, but I fight it. Damn it! I must. My turning must
wait to finish the final transformation. Things must be done, no matter how
much pain I must suffer.
Those I love so
much come out of the house and join me on the porch, not being there for the
sense of family, but more for companionship with others of their kind. Maybe
they think I will give them food. In all actuality, it appears they don’t
recognize me; they see right through me.
My heart is
broken, but I know only too well I will join them soon. Will we have a common
bond again once we are all on the same level? I hope so. If not, perhaps all of
us will be mindless wanderers searching for food to sate our enormous
appetites. The pain should be gone then. I hope so anyway.
The anger builds
inside me, my mind and soul battling for supremacy in the matters of humanity
and retaliation. My soul is losing the battle; my mind tells me who is
responsible for this damnable curse and demands I take action while I still
Yes, as my heart
aches for my family, I realize once more that we have been abandoned by God and
ignored by Satan. We have become lepers in the war between the Light and the
Darkness. What does humanity matter when it has been stripped from you by the
actions of damnable individuals, supposedly human, but without an iota of
decency in their bodies?
The logic is
irrefutable: they are guilty and we are hungry. The undead courts have
condemned them: at least the ones in my mind.
Not bothering to
seek the counsel of others like me who can still reason-for all I know they
might have converted over completely anyway-I assemble an army of my fellow
Zombies and we march en masse to where the mine owners live. They will be first
on our list of those who will suffer for what we have become.
There is no guilt
residing in me any longer, nothing holding me back. What must be done will be
done. The guilty will suffer as we have suffered.
The big money
boys live in a rather exclusive area, a town of its own, really, with iron
gates and security devices meant to keep the rabble away from their immense
stone houses sitting like so many castles, taunting we “lesser” people, saying,
“Look at what we own. You’ll never live like this, you pathetic bottom
The show of
ostensity is about to end for them. How can they hold us back forever? We are
already dead. We can’t be killed.
Our huge numbers
are enough to knock the gates open, and I feel a tinge of excitement as the
alarms sound, the crescendo of the blasts flying through the evening air,
creating the most marvelous symphony to my tortured mind.
looking much like those in a prison complex, flash every which way, creating a
kaleidoscope of colors which make it appear I’m on the dance floor of disco
city. But this is no disco. This is revenge. There will be no survivors.
Locks on the
doors to the majestic houses are activated before we reach them. Whether it is
a part of the alarm/light display, or through some other mechanism, I don’t
know; and I don’t care. Nothing will take this night from us. Nothing.
Fuck the doors!
Windows! Glass! This shit will allow us entry easy enough.
We mount an
attack and slam through the windows, some of us getting cut in the process,
blood flowing onto the floors inside, but it matters not. If anything, the
contagion within us will spread even more now. The mold from our blood will be
absorbed into the bodies of those we attack. Even those who are fortunate
enough to run off will not be saved. Through their eyes, noses, and ears the
disease will spread. And then . . . and then they will become like us, and they
will endure as we do, forced to carry on an existence that is not really
conducive to fostering human relations.
But that is
inconsequential, for now we are hungry and must feed. A smorgasbord of warm flesh
and blood awaits us, trying to escape, but it is to no avail. We herd them
against the walls and tear into them, our teeth cutting huge chunks of flesh
out of them, and their precious life giving blood is lapped up by our eager
Limbs are torn
off and thrown to our brethren behind us so they can join in on the feeding
frenzy. As much as I strived to maintain my humanity for as long as I did, I
bask in the glory of the moment, digging in for all I’m worth, my clean clothes
splattered with blood and gore. The more I eat, the stronger I get.
under our assault, living much longer than I would have expected, but that only
seems to sweeten the taste of dinner. Staring into the eyes of one of the mine
owners, I smile, letting him see me for who I am, and then viciously bite into
his skull, tasting the tender gray matter which will no longer produce any
thought for him.
One last spasm,
and it’s over for him.
No one is spared
in this house. All are found and devoured. Entrails cover the handrails leading
upstairs, Zombies grabbing them by the handful as they search for more victims,
munching on the twisted guts as if they were pretzels, a tasty hors de voirs
prior to the main course.
None will suffer
the fate of the Zombies. After a horrible death of being eaten alive, they will
pass to the next existence, whether that be Heaven or Hell. For them, it is
over. Regeneration will be impossible for them: their flesh has been completely
devoured; there are no entrails remaining; their brains are gone; all that
remains are bones, and even some of them have been eaten.
House after house
is broken into; body after body is devoured, eaten alive, slowly passing to the
next plane of existence as all their body parts are now only food for the
“bottom feeders.” Who is on the bottom now?
My family and I
have teamed up as a fighting force. I, having sharper mental acumen, am able to
find those we seek and lead them to my wife and three sons. The boys are strong
and drag our prey down, and we all eat together.
Ah, yes: the
family that eats together . . .
My wife is
munching away on the brain of our latest victim, when she looks at me, a glint
of recognition in her eyes. With each successive kill, not only her, but my
sons, as well, appear to become sharper, more focused.
Wait! I feel
myself leaving the state of anxiety I was in and returning to my old self. The
reason? What’s going on?
It’s the food!
The struggling humanity being annihilated by our horrific attacks are not only
fueling our bodies, but our minds as well. Brain food! The most powerful source
of rejuvenation seems to come when we eat their brains and hearts. It’s as if
we are part and parcel of the old Zombie movies. Brains! We do want to eat
But there is a
new twist added in with us: we get better. The way I’m starting to feel, I
believe my entire family will be able to function like me. Living, breathing,
thinking, flesh-eating, blood drinking, and brain eating Zombies: ruthless,
unforgetting, and unforgiving.
sweet on my tongue as we capture a man and woman attempting to flee into the
forests surrounding us.
hurt us!” the woman shouts. “We have done nothing to harm you!”
“Oh, but you are
wrong, dear lady,” I say. “It is because of you we are the way we are.”
My wife bites
into her skull and gets the brain matter first this time, sparing her from a
more prolonged, more agonizing death.
I reach for the
man, but he is strong and quick and manages to get up and run away despite the
fact I have already removed part of his skull. But he doesn’t go far: rocking
unsteadily against a tree, and taking his head into his hands, life slips away
from him, and he falls to the ground. By the time I reach him, intent on
finishing my meal, he stirs and stares at me with lifeless eyes.
He has become one
of us, one of the damned.
In a matter of
minutes, he joins the others and attacks his former friends.
Shots ring out
from the far end of this exclusive housing development, and I run off to see
what’s going on, my family in tow. Some of the mine hierarchy and their
families are holed up in the last house. They have weapons: a lot of them; and
they are holding their Zombie antagonists off, hitting them with well placed
shots from their rifles and pistols and
watching them fall.
and an opportunity to escape, they run across the fallen bodies of my comrades
and attempt to escape the confines of the house.
Hands of the
fallen reach up and grab them, keeping them from leaving, pulling them down,
and then doing what we do best.
As the teeth bite
into them, they wail into the night, calling for help that doesn’t exist. Bite
after bite cuts them to shreds, and long fingers with nails like super-strong
talons tear into their stomachs and expose the intestines, which steam once
they come into contact with the evening air blowing in through the open doors
and windows. All here perish, their entire bodies fueling our bodies and minds.
My little army
and I get stronger and stronger . . .
By the time we
leave, there is no one left for us to eat. A few have seemingly escaped, only
to return to the fold because the infestation has rendered them void of any of
the vestiges of humanity. The army of the undead is growing.
We return to our
homes in different stages of our metamorphoses to our new existence. Some of us
have varying levels of co-ordination and brain function. Now that we have eaten
human flesh, we have stronger minds and bodies. It is quite obvious the animals
we subsisted on before were not the proper fare for us to consume. Humans! We
need to eat them to reach the culmination of what we can be. The brass ring is
ours for the taking.
My wife smiles at
me and takes my hand in hers. She still can’t speak: perhaps she never will;
that might be from atrophy or destruction of the vocal cords. I can’t say for
sure. But speech isn’t necessary; I have her back, and that’s what matters.
We lie together
in bed, my arm around her. She is happy for the first time since everything
started to hit the fan. Our sons had succumbed to the infestation. Okay, it was
probably my fault for making certain they had more to eat than me.
The fucking pigs!
After losing my job in the mines, I had to slaughter them for food. What choice
did I have? None! Shit, no one knew about the disease then.
My wife was
tortured. First she was forced to watch them waste away, and then they died.
Heartbreak for both of us. I dug their graves in the back of the house, facing
where the sun would greet them before anyone or anything else when it rose in
the morning. My wife watched my every move, crying the entire time. I had no
more placed the last shovel of dirt on my youngest son’s grave when she let out
one last sob. I was forced to dig one more grave.
The next morning,
I woke and was greeted by the four of them sitting around my bed. At first I
was overjoyed they were there, but then I wondered what the hell had happened.
They were dead! Pieces of flesh were falling from them and they moved
erratically and seemed to have no thinking abilities at all.
They were merely
there . . .
I thought it was
some kind of a weird-ass dream, but it wasn’t. They were dead, but they weren’t
dead; they merely went through the motions of some kind of existence I could
not understand. The troubling part was when I prepared some pork roast for all
of us to eat. They refused to eat it and went out to the pen and killed a big
sow with their hands and teeth, and feasted on her flesh and blood like some
kind of depraved animals.
In shock, there
wasn’t much time for me to worry about it. Within a day or so, I fell in to
some sort of seeming trance and passed away.
But I didn’t
pass, either. I returned, and I know now what had happened to my family. Why I
was still able to think and talk was a mystery, but in all other ways, I was
the same as them: I was undead.
But now: shit, it’s
all different! We’re still Zombies, yet by consuming human flesh, we are
evolving in to something more than that. Much more.
Damn! I don’t
understand why we need to be cannibals in order to exist on any level of
existence that raises us higher than primitive life forms, but so be it. Doing
what we need to do has strengthened my family and me, and I see no reason any
longer for me to take a passive role in the survival of our species.
I fall asleep and
dream for the first time in ages, thinking pleasant thoughts about the future
now that my family has been returned to me.
We sleep ‘til
late afternoon. Our flesh fest has carried us over quite well, but now that we
know the secret to our success as a species, I prepare for our evening, an evening
to be filled with more of the scintillating pleasures we experienced last
night. Our main antagonists on the local level have been pretty much consumed
or converted. So we need to search for fresher meat.
anticipation of the kill, the rapturous excitement of the culinary enticements
afforded us, and extracting more revenge get me more focused and in tune with
my family, as well as my army.
in as preparations are made. It is best we travel at night, not that we can’t
hunt and kill during daylight hours, but we do not exactly fit the “normal”
look of the human residents. Peeling
flesh, open sores, some of us with missing limbs, and a preponderance of gouges
from sharp teeth among our new recruits, are not easy to hide in bright light.
can’t hide us for who we are. We are the damned, but we are powerful, and the
entire planet awaits our conquest. Billions of people reside on this spinning
orb. That’s a lot of food.
The village of
the rich is empty now, no residents are left here for us to pleasure ourselves
with, but vehicles of all kinds await us. Yes! Many of us are now capable of
driving, rejuvenated from our orgy of destruction last night.
Our army piles
into the vehicles, a tight fit perhaps, but not for long: I have plans; big
plans, and we will have more roomy accommodations soon. A couple of my
compatriots have found buses used to transport workers to and from the mountain
top mining sites, and these increase our carrying capacity greatly. Once we
load them up with the weapons they used against us before, we’re ready to go.
Down the mountain
road our convoy rolls, following behind me as I drive a fancy Hummer I would
have never been able to afford when I was grubbing for an existence in the
mines. That I should now be sitting behind the wheel of this stately vehicle
after my death and re-birth to my undead existence is mind shattering. Oh, the
glory of it all!
Destination: Camp Dawson,
a little mountain army outpost in the local mountains. This place is one of
those places that’s hush-hush. The terrain allows for troops to train in harsh,
Their training is
getting ready to escalate. Harsh conditions plus Zombies now.
Our vehicles stop
a mile away from the camp. Time for a little undead pow-wow.
While sneaking in
would be our best option, that’s not going to happen. It wasn’t possible at the
mine owners’ homes because of all the security, and the alarm system is even
stronger here. Next best plan coming up!
convoy, putting the buses in front, we roar down the road and crash through the
gates. The response in the way of lights and alarms puts the mine owners’
display to shame. Troops come after us in various stages of dress and undress,
many having been asleep before our unexpected arrival. Bullets fly everywhere,
mowing down a lot of our militia, but that won’t happen for long: one way or
the other, they will come back from the dead- a perceived state of death from the
soldiers’ viewpoint anyway – and rejoin the battle. Armament wise, we are
vastly outnumbered, but our invincibility gives us an edge the Army doesn’t
have, and it’s one that comes as a complete surprise to them. Standing over
fallen foes, the horror of what we are becomes evident when the fallen ones
fight back once more, chewing and tearing their way to domination. Others in my
army attack them from behind at the same time, and, one by one, they fall to
the ground, their blood-soaked bodies giving strength to my people.
stare at us, and pleading voices shout for mercy, but this is survival. All
those who are not a part of who we are become our enemies. It is that simple.
If it were left to them, we would be mercilessly destroyed, the so-called
humans unable to deal with another species threatening to become greater than
approaches me, automatic rifle in hand, but the sight of me disturbs him long
enough for me to lunge at his head and lock on with my teeth, my jaw strong and
unforgiving. Gray matter is sucked into my mouth, and the sweet, succulent
taste excites me, but I only take enough to kill him. He dies, a gaping wound
in his head. In a few minutes, he comes up from the ground and attacks his
The new master
plan calls for us to create more undead, not enough to foster a huge force yet,
but those who can help us win battles along our road to world domination should
be utilized. Once dead and then undead, they will be loyal to the cause. The
Sergeant is one of those people. Spilled blood, intestinal matter, and dead and
dieing soldiers litter the ground of the compound. Our surprise attack, our
show of force, has won the battle. Now that we are victorious, it is time for
me to eat. My Zombie family shouldn’t have all the fun.
of my feeding methods doesn’t alter the fact I feel more human, more alive now
that I am undead than I have ever felt before. The realization that I am
immortal, as much as I am aware of anyway, fuels my desires to run ram shod
through obstacles which would have held me back before. Even if I am for all
appearances killed once more, I will rise up and face the new challenges head
Blood pours from
the head of the soldier my wife and I are both feeding on. This is not one to
be saved: this man is dinner.
“What now?” my
wife asks, staring at me with love in her eyes.
I smile, so happy
to see she is able to talk to me once more. My sons will be next, I’m certain,
to become in charge of their bodies and minds. “What’s next, sweetie?” I say,
the blood and gore all over my face not mattering. “Washington, D. C. is next.
There are too many fat cats sitting in the hallowed halls who are responsible
for the devastation around us. They must pay.”
She smiles at me
and nods her head. “I’m with you. You know that. I’ll always be by your side.”
We kiss and
return to our meal. All is well: for us it is; not for humanity.
tomorrow. The rest of the world next.
A New World Order
is on the way. This is only the beginning . . .
But there is a new twist added in with us: we get better. The way I’m starting to feel, I believe my entire family will be able to function like me. Living, breathing, thinking, flesh-eating, blood drinking, and brain eating Zombies: ruthless, unforgetting, and unforgiving.
While sneaking in would be our best option, that’s not going to happen. It wasn’t possible at the mine owners’ homes because of all the security, and the alarm system is even stronger here. Next best plan coming up!
Find more of Blaze's work here:
Blaze McRob's Tales of Horror: http://www.blazemcrob.com/or find his books on AMAZON.