AWKWARD ZOMBIE

My writing is so contrived that it might as well be some third rate horror author's used toilet paper. :/

Callahan sat on his work stool, his hands resting on his lap, fingers entwined in one another in distracted contemplation. There was the sound of a door opening and closing. Callahan, his brow furrowed by expecting the worst, remembered to breathe as he saw the flap of the preacher's cloak in the entrance. "In here, Father Gilliam."
The preacher entered the narrow corridor, unveiling his face as he did so. "And what, dare I ask, is so important that it needs me to leave my parish under the cloak of night?" His face showed no irritation, nor weariness. The opposite, in fact; the man's face was flushed, as if at a wine party, a mad twinkle in his eye that made Callahan uneasy.
"We have an Invader that shall require you services tonight, Father." Callahan said simply, looking over his shoulder to a closed door that harbored his workplace.
"Well, we shan't dilly-dally then, eh?" Gilliam said, the twinkle becoming a small fire now. Callahan nodded and without hesitation opened the door behind him. Instant cold hit the Reverend, dimming the fire in his eyes just a bit. "It's colder than a witch's bedside, dear boy."
"I am surprised to hear you talk so, Father." Callahan said, not bothering to suppress his smile. In truth, when you worked within this frozen room for hours on end, you tend to forget that you are cold. Callahan removed a lamp from the wall, knowing where it was instantly with long ages of working with it. He pulled out a match from his single vest pocket and struck it across his teeth. Sulfur instantly caressed his tongue and throat, bringing tears to his eyes. He lit the cloth beneath the glass, and in a mere second, the room was alight. Various tools and instruments lined the walls and tables in the room, each of them sleek and clean, as if they had not been touched at all. In the center of the frozen chamber stood a large oak table that had seen many things. It was chipped and stained with old blood, many cut marks engraved within its old sides. On this particular table clearly lay a body wrapped within a linen sheet. Strong horsehair ropes bound this cloth to the person.

Callahan walked forward slowly and quietly, Gilliam at his heels. Upon closer inspection, Gilliam could see there was a minute amount of fog issuing from the body encased in cloth. "Good Lord, man!" Gilliam whispered, trying to catch his breath. He had never been so frightened in all his years... nor so exhilarated. Whether acting upon the light or the sound of the Father's voice, the body began to thrash, a muffled scream issuing forth that did not even carry past Callahan's ears.
"Something you disagree with, Father?" Callahan asked, not turning to him.
Gilliam, listening to the subtle nuance of the mortician's voice made him speak at once, "No, no-no, dear boy." Gilliam insisted, "I simply did not realize that you wanted me to give this Soldier his last rights." Satisfied with the answer, Callahan nodded. Then, stepping aside, he motioned the Reverend closer to the gore-soaked table. Removing his Sacred Tome from his rope-belt, Gilliam began to recite the Last Rights and Testaments to the Departing Souls over the thrashing mummy's head. After the reading was finished, the soldier within the sheets simply stopped trying. A faint whisper could almost be heard issuing from him; frost collected upon the linen could only infer frozen tears seeping through. "I take it that you already have his grave made?"
"Aye." Callahan said, his voice almost serene.

...

Last Breath
The blade pierced the carefully woven cloth that was never intended to protect his fragile body. All the work that the now dead creator* slaved over for years on end was shattered as the cutlass stabbed and sliced the master-craft clothes that he wore. Again and again, the pirate made quick work of the clothes that some called “Art to be worn!”, and the old man’s very skin. The pirate relished the kill, finding pure ecstasy in such dark “recreation” and as he finally let the old man go, releasing his hand from his shoulder and relishing the fall that his victim took on the warm stone pavement; heated by the burning houses on every street. After what seemed like an eternity**, the hapless old man finally hit the pavement, and his fragile and brittle skull shattered as it hit the pavement.

There he lay, withering with pain and trying to speak as the pirate left, only managing to splutter a few coughs and gurgles as his body forced up the phlegm that collected in his throat and the blood that collected in his lungs. His teeth, once white and shimmering were bloodstained, smashed and some taken out all together. He was left there to die. The only thing keeping him alive for the next ten minutes was his constant fretting for his only daughter.




*for lack of a better word
**every book seems to have those 6 lines, no?

Callahan

Are you and paragraphs not on speaking terms here?

I watch them drop
As the guns fire
The bodies smoldering
But I do not weep for my people
I feel the death of every mother
Of every Father
Of every child
And yet, my eyes remain dry
But I am numb
Each unpinning of a grenade
Every firing of a machine gun
Brings me further to my knees
Destroys me
As I watch, unable to do a thing
I pound my fist into the fround
And I curse
I curse the heavens
I curse myself
And as the bombs drop
I weep