Zombie Fades to Dust

Ron Koppelberger

Zombie Fades to Dust

The fathers of substance and the alchemy of growing toward the silhouette of the moon he thought in anticipation of the kill. “Fire Damn!” he said in a whisper to the rose bushes and the plastic pink Flamingos. He was waiting in the side yard for the symbol of his wont, the want to take and dissect and destroy the vestiges of human acclaim.
H3e had killed so many times that the repetition became a kind of De Ja Veu, he felt it in his bones, to the core of his demeanor and soul. The last had been disappointing he had screamed and died of heart failure. He had stood there poised with the knife and ball of yarn. The bag of rock salt in his pocket had seemed heavy. “Zombies, all zombies!” he said aloud to himself. He had killed and killed and still they were, as the day and the night sure and unbidden by his anger. They were all zombies, mindless constructions of flesh. He had his rock salt though, he would palace it under the man’s tongue and sew his mouth shut. To quell the pass of evil he thought. He would then sew his eyes shut for the sake of his eyes, he wouldn’t see to rob him of his soul, no he wouldn’t.
He was filled with the confident mirth of his promise the promise to quell the surging tide of zombies, of hateful devil’s breath. He stood from the depth of the hedgerow and whispered, “Come on, come on out Mr. Monster!”
In the distance a rare summer thunder and dry lightening filled the air with a strobe light glow his face illuminated and pale, crazy, desiring the kill, the intense rush of madmen and shadow. He knew the power of his will and he possessed sleep, the sweet realm of sleep and quiet demise. He would give them sacred havens of sleep, the drama of heaven’s bosom.
The front door on the cottage opened and a man in a three piece suit stepped out. The front porch light shone for an instant illuminating a stout woman in her thirties, she was handing the suit something, a briefcase. She kissed the man on the cheek and he said, “I’ll see you later sweetheart.”
“Have a good day honey.” she replied.
Zombies, both of them zombies, he patted the bag of rock salt in his pocket as he found the inspiration to attack.
In the end he managed nearly half the neighborhood of Suburban Keep. He would live on as the darkness in their lives and until the end of their lives. The end was simple for him and complete. He had stopped in the middle of sewing a zombies mouth shut when a cascade of darkness overwhelmed him and his eyes clouded. The will he thought, the will. He had closed his eyes and groaned as the heart of a greater will overwhelmed him.
When they found him he was assumed to have been a victim of the monster. His eyes were sewn shut as well as his mouth, a chunk of rock salt beneath his tongue. The police wondered about but never questioned the needle and yarn in his own hand.