Never Really Dead by Jonathan Steitzer

Wet dirt.

Cold and pressing against every inch of my body. Pouring into my mouth. The rough earthiness offends my palate. My atrophied muscles fight against the soil. My hand emerges from the ground. The damp grass gives me a small chill as my other arm punches through the earth. Without strain, my body pulls up to the surface. The thick cover of night spares my eyes as they adjust to the light, limited to the glow of the crescent moon through the autumn cloud cover. A distant street light is the only beacon of civilization. My vision is skewed and blurry, like I’m looking ahead and at the ground beside me at the same time. My body shuffles with the vigor of a palliative patient desperate to use the bathroom by themself. I am not in control.

Where am I? More importantly, how am I? Did I fall asleep here?

My last memory was lying in a hospital bed wrapped in a paper-thin blanket, feeling the metal bars of the frame through the heavily used mattress. My wife and mother were holding my dry hands, aged beyond their years, both of them concealing their sobbing as I unwillingly drifted off to sleep. I had been sick for a long time. I wouldn’t say I feel better today, but no pain pulsing through my body like intermittent electrical shocks of random strength being gone is an experience I’ve been far removed from. My shuffling continues without my consent. As if I were a moth, my body seems drawn to the distant light. My left leg does most of the work while my right leg drags behind, barely balancing me.

The crisp autumn air hits my nostrils with a zest I never thought I would experience again. There is something else. If my mouth could salivate, it would. Wait, why can’t I salivate?

I’m filled with a hunger I’ve never known. Even fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies have never dominated my will like this. The scent is coming from the same place as the light. I want to reach for my pockets to see if I have money for this food that is controlling me, but my arms are as out of my control as my legs are. What has happened to me? Why am I a passenger in this body? I need to gather myself. “SIT DOWN! WAIT A MINUTE!” I’m screaming commands that mean nothing to my body. Is this part of my disease? My doctor never told me about this. At least I don’t think. Did she say something about memory loss? Damned if I was going to remember that. Had I deteriorated to the point where I am an infirm, lost cause roaming the streets, unable to control what’s left of my body?

That should have been the priority, but the hunger I have for that intoxicating aroma was consuming me, and my body must be agreeing. I was getting closer. I had no idea what I’d do when I reached it.

Street lights were no longer a dim glow but allowed a brick wall with overgrown vines and a rusted iron gate to present themselves in front of my forward eye, while the other remained fixated on the black loafer on my right foot.

My body and face crashed into the gate. No pain. No sensation at all. My arms and hands still had little use. It was to my fortune that the gate wasn’t bolted and opened out toward the street. The collision could have left a mark.

The flavourful aroma filled the street. With my wonky eyes, I don’t see any restaurants or even homes where someone could be cooking this most succulent meal. Like a cartoon hobo floating to a cooling pie on a windowsill, my body continues on its course.

A well-dressed young man sits on a bus stop bench. A clean-cut kid, not consumed by trends but rather one who understands the appeal of a timeless haircut and clothes with a proper fit that suits his look.  His headphones on, face buried in a worn-out book. Must be a good song or a page-turner, as he has little awareness of this approaching stranger dragging his body down the street in search of sustenance. The smell must be coming from him. Perhaps there’s some takeout on the other side of him I can’t make out with my flawed vision. Maybe he’ll take pity on me and share. I wonder if I can even form the words to ask. Am I so far gone that I’ll take his bag? There’s no chance I’m going to be able to run away. I’d have to be a pathetic sight that he won’t want to deal with. I’ll find out what my body has in store for me soon enough. I’m right behind him. The smell is overwhelming. My thoughts have never been this intense. A wave of pleasure sweeps over my existence. My limp arms come to life and grasp onto hapless youth as my teeth spread and find their way to the side of his neck before clamping down.

“My stars, this guy is delicious.”

WHAT THE HELL HAVE I JUST DONE? Am I eating someone? Why am I enjoying it? What am I?

I can’t answer these questions as I continue to tear through his flesh, savouring every bite through his screams.

With blood fountaining from his throat, my victim breaks free. He flees while pleading for help and mercy. Even in his weakened state from the blood loss, I am unable to match his speed. My body needs to stop. I don’t want this.

There is no panic breathing. My heart isn’t racing. I can’t sense either part of me. My body has betrayed me in a new way. A life lived filled with remorse over swatting wasps away from picnic tables has been replaced with feasts on oblivious students at bus stops.

There was no retracing my steps. No waiting for answers. My body had picked up its next scent, accompanied by shattering glass and shrieks of grim fates.

My bad eye met a puddle from a recent storm. A glimpse of the monster I’ve become. The loafers I had come to know quite well were joined with dirt-covered pleated pants, what I’m sure was once a crisp white collared shirt, my favourite black paisley tie, and my favourite velvet jacket, now destroyed by the elements. Ruining my best clothes was my second worst crime of the day. Most alarming was the grey skin sliding off my body, parts of my skull visible through my face. Whatever I was, I was no longer fully me. My mind is a passenger in the body it once knew. I continue on autopilot towards its next meal.

If I could cry, I would. My mind was equal parts disgust and hunger. It didn’t matter. My body was all hunger, and from the sound of the screams, it would soon have the chance to feed again.

“STOP! STAY! HEEL!” Internally screaming at my body like it’s a disobedient puppy yielded the same results these commands had on my dog at dinner time. The panicked people trampling each other in a desperate attempt to flee might as well be table scraps.

Gunshot residue was now masking the scent of the sentient humans, but only enough to briefly disorient the advancing herd of recently unearthed corpses. Fighting against us was futile. A survival of the fittest was unfolding in front of me as our meals turned on each other to save themselves. Tripping each other, shoving strangers into the waiting mouths of the exhumed.

Was I alone among these monsters in my conscience experience? Is every one of these lifeless drones filled with a soul trapped inside left to witness the horrors they never would have contemplated? I didn’t want to be experiencing this hell alone, but the thought that I was in a sea of similar despair was a weight crushing whatever was left of me.

“TURN! PLEASE! THIS IS NOT WHO WE ARE.” Anything I could send out into my feeble meat suit to make this end, I pleaded for.

A stumble.

Was I able to do that? Was it the best I could do? It was clear that it didn’t matter. If I were out of the picture, the ravenous feasters would soon devour the city. The outcome here was clear; I couldn’t change it.

At best, I could control my actions. I would not be a party to this mass murder and the fall of humanity. If anything of me is left, I would use it to end my involvement.

I was never exceptional, but I strove to be honourable. Empathy mattered to me. I had to be someone who thought for themselves. If I could be true to myself now, there was hope I might truly rest in peace.

My body was turning through my desperation. The movement looked like a tyke hockey player learning crossovers for the first time. As awkwardly as possible, I could eventually point myself in the right direction. There was enough will in me to change my fate. Could I do with this control?  Could I seek out my family and my friends? Could I continue to grow my abilities within this rotting frame? This brief ambition was decadent. I was meant to be dead, and in death there was peace. There was renewal.

The rattle of weapons fire would be my salvation. As I neared my demise, my limp eye was able to muster one last tear before a bullet from an M7 rifle would once again take me from this plane of existence. I wasn’t the problem, nor was I the solution; I was just in control of my actions.

If I were to see my loved ones again, my head could be held high.