Zombies in Springtime
Vera dared not tell Charles what Duane had done. She was afraid that Charles would kick them out of the house. The Campbell’s were more than their adoptive family, they were their protection, and Charles was like their father. Hmm...Charles… she thought. Charles had a short temper and could be a real jerk. Nevertheless, she still cared about him and was upset that Duane had compromised their position in the Campbell house.
“We were dying Duane…Mr. and Mrs. Campbell saved us, can’t you see that? The only thing they asked in return is that we promise not to attack humans. What do you think Charles is going to do if he finds out?”
“Charlie is a dumbass Vera, and so are you. This is what we’re supposed to do. This is how we sustain ourselves, this is how we survive. We sure as hell can’t live off of beets, or whatever it is you’ve got there. We need to eat humans, and Charlie knows that. You know that.”
Vera sat there thinking, her mind drifted.
It was 1789. Charles Campbell was brooding over a small figure laying on a mat in the middle of the floor. On it was the almost lifeless body of his son Michael. Michael had been sick for years, but no doctor had been able to determine what was wrong with him. His muscles were weak and he struggled to force out every small breath. The disease had also managed to spread to his brainstem, causing severe mental damage, limiting even his most formal of motor functions.
One day, Charles was approached by a man named Dr. Floyd Anderson. Dr. Anderson was a tall, slender man with wild brown hair which flew in all directions. He was the kind of guy who always looked like he was stoned, even though you know he probably wasn’t, but you could never really be sure, and you always acted kinda weird around him because of it. Anyway, he looked like a nut-bar. He told Charles that he had developed the cure for Michael’s condition, and that he would cure him for no charge as long as Charles promised not to tell anyone. Charles, of course accepted Dr. Anderson’s offer in a desperate attempt to save his son’s life.
At first, Michael seemed to get better. He returned to school that fall and quickly became one of the teacher’s favorite students. It was only around spring that his symptoms started returning…His breathing became tight, he started walking slower and with a limp, he started to show decreased brain activity again, and his skin turned a dark shade of gray. His teacher, Mr. Stoker was the first to notice this, and addressed Michael after class one afternoon.
“Michael? Michael, may I speak with you?”
“Gruuuaaah,” Michael moaned.
“Michael, I’ve noticed you’ve been acting rather strange. You haven’t been participating in class recently, and you’re usually the first to respond. Is something the matter at home?”
Michael limped over to Mr. Stoker, arms outstretched, moaning. Mr. Stoker was taken aback.
“Michael, what exactly is going on here?” He asked, taking careful steps backward until he was flush against the wall.
Michael sank his teeth into Mr. Stoker’s neck, ripping out his jugular vein. Some of the other boys in the class grabbed Michael and tried to subdue him. One boy grabbed Michael's arms and spun them around his back like you would do to handcuff a criminal. Michael moaned. There was a loud crisp, and some crackling as the brave young boy twisted the arms of the poor empty soul. Michael's arms snapped off, and he broke free. The other boys stood in disbelief watching the blood of their teacher flow across the floor, his body twitching. Michael limped on home as if nothing had happened. His arms crept behind him, trying to catch up to his body.
Charles met his son at the door. Shocked to see his mouth stained with blood, he shouted “Michael! What in God’s name have you done?”
But the hunger for human flesh overpowered Michael, and he bit into his father’s arm. Charles sat nursing his wound in silence as his son stood over him – out of seemingly nowhere, a shotgun blast ripped through Michael’s body. The boys from the school had alerted the authorities who had arrived at the Campbell house just in time.
Minutes go by; Charles is being looked over by a woman named Dana, who was someone that had just enough medical training to seem barely competent. “How does that feel now?” she asked.
“Mrrmmff…” Charles responded, unable to produce a proper sentence.
The investigators noticed Michael’s body starting to regroup and put itself back together. They looked back to where Charles and Dana had been to warn them – they were gone...
Vera is suddenly stirred back to the present. She had been sitting at the table, mouth agape, staring blankly at nothing for hours, and she looked like an idiot. Her brother Albert had been shooting spitballs at her and was now setting her limbs on fire.
“God damn you, Albert! I lost my train of thought!”
