el_mantis_bushi

Im not religious, this story has more of a philosophical point, and also its not intedned to be sacriligeous, or to put down religion or those who have it in any way.

The Judgment

Two men had recently died, and had just met each other on the astral plane. One man considered himself to be of great faith, while the other considered himself to have none. Their souls, fresh from their bodies, still bore the resemblance of their mortal selves. From where they stood, they could see a brightness in the distance, a brightness so bright it would have hurt their eyes if they still had them. The brightness compelled them towards it, so they walked together on a ground of thick billowy clouds of an indescribable substance.
As they walked, they conversed among themselves regarding their recent lives on earth. The man of no faith sheepishly admits his disbelief of an afterworld during life, at which the man of faith roared with laughter. The man of faith described with delight what wonders awaited him within the kingdom of heaven, as well as the nefarious tortures that were in store for his companion in the fiery depth of hell.
All the while as he listened, the man of no faith became more and more filled with dread and disappointment in himself with every step. His thoughts raced about what un-forgiven sins he must have committed during his mortality. He had always felt he had tried his best to be kind, but at the moment he could only think about which of his shortcoming would be held against him. His traveling partner continued to speak in such a manner until they were nearly upon the brightness, and by then the man of no faith was feeling quite sorry for himself, while his compatriot was visibly feeling quite the opposite.
Even with their proximity to the brightness, they saw before them, yet another brightness; dimmer and certainly smaller, but for some reason not drowned out by its brighter background. On the left of the smaller brightness rested a curved scabbard that also glowed and mysteriously held itself without attachment to the side of the small brightness. Call it instinct, call it intuition, but as the two men approached, they knew that the small brightness that stood between them and the large brightness was a being not unlike themselves.
By then the man of faith fell silent, too overwhelmed with expectation to speak, which gave the man of no faith a small amount of comfort. They stopped several paces ahead of the being, for they felt that it was about to speak.
“I am sorry, but you have both been found wanting, please kneel and bow your heads, so I may have greater ease in severing them.” With that, a glowing arm emerged from the small brightness and gripped exquisite handle of the sword.
Well thought the man of no faith the least I can do, after living a life of sin, is to comply with this last request. And so the man of no faith fell to his knees and hung his head in shame. The man of faith, of the other hand, stood there flabbergasted. He insisted that there must have been some mistake, he demanded his entrance, for he was a pious and god fearing man, and that every ounce of his life was spent enforcing the word of his lord.
The being appeared to pay no attention as he slowly drew the blade from its sheath, the licks of flame peeping out as the perfectly forged metal emerged. The man of faith became desperate; recounting every incident he donated money to his religious institution, every attempt to convert the unfaithful, and his undying support for the war against the non believers.
Still, the being seemed to pay no heed, as the beautiful sword left its place of rest. The fire upon it reflected over the entire surface except the single edge of the blade. Now the man of faith, seeing his pleas were for not, became enraged. He accused the being of being a traitor, and his Deity of being a false one. The man of no faith remained in his position, wishing he still had eyelids and tear ducts, and that his companion would shut up.
By then the blade had been pulled back behind the being entirely and sat poised ready to strike, the flames roaring with anticipation. The man of faith continued to curse the name of the being and his deity, he even tried to spit at the being; although unsuccessfully for he no longer had saliva.
With indescribable speed the being swung the blade in a horizontal arc, the flames following in a shimmering tail. The man of no faith could feel the searing heat as the blade passed over his head, and cut his companion perfectly in two. Before his top half could even fall to touch the cloudy floor, the clouds beneath him opened up. From his position, the man of no faith could see the rivers of fire, and smell a waft of sulfur and brimstone as he witnessed the pieces tumble like stones. Instantly several imps swooped down upon the man of faith and stretched his entrails across the infernal sky with wicked glee. Slowly the clouds squeezed back into place until the demonic landscape escaped his vision. The man of no faith was still unsure what had happened and was still looking down when the being spoke.
“Apologies for the deception, but it had become necessary when all of your sins had been forgiven.”
Still dumbfounded, the man of no faith looked up quizzically at the being, and although he could no see a face within the brightness, he could tell the being smiled at him.
“Arise my brother, and enter.”
And with that, the man of no faith was filled with the all the knowledge of all the universes in every dimension.

It is a peculiar thing that our fancies so often times mimic the nature of our surroundings. What lack of imagination have we, we who concoct hideous beasts only to be hybrids of whatever animal or plant we deem odd or alien. It is a rarity when nature copies the ideas of man.
Influenced by zombies from the Voodoo traditions, movie writers came up with their version as flesh eating undead abominations. It wasn’t until the outbreaks nearly six decades ago, that people realized they actually existed.
Most of the outbreaks were minor and often times quickly contained. At worst a small town would fall victim to a full blown outbreak, however cities were too large and busy to allow an infestation to get completely uncontrollable. The public outcry for an explanation led to the eventual accusation that the government was involved somehow. It seemed like the press didn’t have to twist the Army’s arm too hard to get them to accept responsibility; claiming some soft of viral experiment mishap. That made everyone happy. Happy that it was just a mistake, that it was contained, and most importantly: it won’t happen again. The Army even did a good job of looking like they tried to cover it up, but the busted cover-up was the cover for the real cover-up: That the Army, the CIA, the FBI, or anyone in Washington, in reality had no Idea how any of it started, what caused it, and most importantly: if it was contained or not.
The CDC was founded in 1946, with the apparent intention to combat malaria. Most funding went to the research of the causes, effects, and countermeasures to the mysterious affliction. What we discovered was amazing.
For a long time we believed the symptoms to be caused by a virus. A virus! Indeed! It sounds so ridiculous now, but at first we had to guess, and if the cause was indeed a virus it would have fit nicely with the Army’s confession.
First of all, a virus functions by invading a living cell, and in doing so altering the cells DNA so that all its resources go to duplicating the virus. The cell continues duplicate the copies of the virus until it is full of the copies and ruptures, spreading the copies to invade other cells. Now in order for this to work, a cell has to be living. So then the hypothesis was that the virus invaded the body while it was living, and transformed the living into the abominations. This didn’t fit however with the fact that no survivors of attacks ever transformed, or showed unusual antibodies against foreign invaders.
It was also conjectured that the outbreaks were results of a biological attack either by terrorist or the Soviets, but the projected cost of orchestrating such an attack did not weigh in with the minimal effects it had. Terrorism was also ruled out, since there is little reason to carry out an attack for a cause and not claim responsibility.
By then the theatres were filled with fantastic movies about the outbreaks, usually attributing the cause to an experimental Army chemical or virus leaking into a cemetery. I don’t think too many people heard my laughs amidst the screams of terror.
Immediately after the outbreaks, we took blood samples from several survivors, hoping something would reveal a clue. Their blood showed nothing but the usual levels of benign bacteria. We shadowed them for several years, hoping to see any possible hint to the cause. Most went about their daily lives, trying to forget the horrific experience. When the first of the survivors died due to a stroke, we all held our breath, hoping that we would finally get some answers. Nothing happened when the orderly discovered the body after several hours. Nothing happened as the mortician prepared the body. Nothing happened as the final shovel full of dirt covered his grave. It seemed like it was hopeless.
We tried to find a correlation within the survivors, anything that would suggest they were carriers. It was then that we found a clue. At first it was obscure, and we didn’t think much of it, but it was a clue: it turned out that a slightly higher percentage of the survivors suffered from symptoms similar to a slight anemia.
It was after this discovery, that we also observed yet another anomaly among the survivors. We noticed that many of the survivors, especially the ones with the anemic conditions, rarely or never contracted bacterial infections. It was also observed that these same individuals developed symptoms similar to hemophilia, a genetic disorder.
Realizing this must be the break we were looking for, we tried to obtain as many new samples from survivors as discreetly as possible, especially the ones with the anemic conditions. With the analysis of the new blood samples went every theory. None of us could even have dreamed up what we discovered.
We found within the individuals that exhibited the anemic conditions to have abnormally high volumes of benign bacteria. The severely high bacterial contents reduced the blood count density and were the cause of the anemic conditions within the survivors. Likewise, the lowered blood density also caused the hemophilia tic conditions.
Even though the bacteria were commonly found in humans, it was extremely unusual for any person’s immune system to allow such a large overgrowth to occur. But the blood samples weren’t enough, we had an Idea of what caused the transformations, but we didn’t know how the process of transformation specifically occurred.
We needed subjects to observe how the changes took place in real time. Placing ads for volunteers had too much liability, so we turned to an effective, but shameful practice used before by the CIA, when they wanted to do research on the effects of LSD. From densely populated cities like New York and San Francisco we rounded up hundreds of homeless, runaways, and prostitutes; people that would not be sorely missed by society, and injected them with the infected blood samples.
At first the hard part was finding the catalyst that triggered the “Post-mortem Undead Syndrome”, or PUS. With our difficulty, we discovered why after the initial rash of outbreaks, why the outbreaks rarely occurred afterwards. It turned out there needed to be very specific conditions that triggered the PUS. We found that heart failure, induced by electrical shock consistently produced the PUS.
The syndrome occurred when the individual ceased living. The bacteria that resided within the individual’s blood then underwent a shocking transformation. The syndrome was caused by a single strain of bacteria that mimicked many different types of bacteria that existed within the blood while the host was alive. Frequent but superficial mutations during the mitosis of the bacteria provided this natural obfuscation. The bacteria also attacked and destroyed the naturally occurring as well as malignant bacteria in the bloodstream, which explained why the infected individuals rarely suffered from bacterial infections.
The first phase took several minutes to several hours, depending on temperature and humidity. In the first, or activation phase, the blood becomes stagnant from the heart failure, which triggers the bacteria to come out from their “dormant” state. Once active, the bacteria begin to latch on to nearby muscle, blood, skin, and nerve cells, only attaching to cells within the brain and nervous system that directly pertain to motor, sensory, and organ functions. The relatively antiseptic environment created by the bacteria’s dormant state within the body aids in the prevention of decay.
If the body is not already heavily infested the sub-secondary, or population phase, occurs; in which the bacteria multiply at a highly increased rate until the population becomes sufficient. Not only does this help prevent post-mortem blood clotting, this also creates more bacteria that also attach to the body’s cells.
Once the bacteria reach an appropriate population and attach to a sufficient amount of cells, through chemical signals the bacteria then enter the secondary, or re-activation phase. In the re-activation phase, bacteria attached to the appropriate nerve cells trigger organs like the heart, lungs, stomach, etc. to re-activate. Once active, the cells preserved within the brain and spinal column continues to regulate these systems as if the host were alive. As the host’s system continues to sustain itself with breathing and eating, the bacteria attached to the cells subsequently obtain their nourishment directly from the bonded cells.
Since only certain areas of the cerebellum, cerebral cortex, and cerebrum are preserved, a body with PUS tends to act upon the basic instincts and senses provided by those areas. Laboratory experiments revealed the body retained the senses of smell, sight, hearing and touch. The manner in which the bacteria attach to the nerve cells prevent the neurotransmitters associated with pain from registering, thus giving the body the appearance of being ‘unstoppable’.
The bacteria cannot attach to every cell, and such cells eventually dry up and decompose. This explains the sometimes slightly rotten appearance and odor, as well as the choppy movement of hosts due to dead cells within the nervous system.
While bodies with PUS are indeed relentless when hungry, they are hardly ‘unstoppable’. Much like when they are living, the bodies require oxygen, food, and constant blood flow to maintain the attached bacteria. The condition similar to hemophilia also remains with the body, as the bacterial density within the bloodstream decreases platelet count. Because of this condition, should a body become damaged and begin to bleed, it has no way of recovering and a body will quite literally bleed to death, even from a small wound. However, the speed in which a body ceases to be animated is directly proportional to the speed in which the body loses blood pressure. This also prevents the body from remaining animated for more that a few weeks or months, depending on temperature and humidity, since the natural breakdown of the body eventually causes pulmonary leakage.
Considering these facts, the quickest and best method for ceasing animation is to inflict damage to the brain, either by damaging the brain directly or decapitation, which ceases animation within a few seconds. The second best method is to cause severe blood loss, which can also take several seconds, to a couple of minutes.
While there are many ways to carry out these methods, the safest is to execute them with a firearm or other ranged weapon. The reason being that coming into physical contact with a body or its blood will pass the active bacteria to a living host. Even after a body becomes de-animated, the bacteria simply detach from their host cells and revert to their dormant state. Contact with surfaces the bodies have touched will also infect an individual with dormant bacteria. Once active bacteria enter a living body they activate any dormant bacteria, and begin the sub-secondary phase which, under stressful conditions, can cause heart failure and eventually lead to PUS. It is this phenomenon that creates the outbreak scenarios.
While the bacteria that causes PUS is contagious. Not all individuals react the same way to its presence. The immune systems of some individuals were able to detect and destroy the bacteria, preventing infestation all together. Some subjects were carriers, but over a period of time, were able to natural rid themselves of the bacteria.
PUS only occurs in humans, although animals can be carriers. Despite myth, bodies with PUS will not solely consume living human flesh, as we observed that the bodies will hunt animals and will even eat cooked food, although the bodies tend to prioritize hunting the largest prey possible.
By then a new generation had emerged, believing the tales of undead to be only the works of fictional fantasy, and a previous generation unwilling to speak of a freak occurrence that had yet to resurface. After all, the Army said they had it contained.
Despite the unlikelihood of the extremely specific conditions required for an outbreak to occur, there was still a concern that it could happen again. In fact, some of us were amazed that it didn’t. Work shifted from studying the causes and effects, to creating a cure.
By the time we discovered the contagiousness of the bacteria, even in its dormant state, it was obvious that it must have found it way into every crevice of humanity and it would only be a matter of time before outbreaks occurred again. Once we believed we developed an antibacterial, we began to add the antibacterial to the flu vaccine, hoping that it would eventually decrease the number of carriers. The introduction of antibacterial household cleaning products was also a veiled attempt to combat the bacteria.
Earlier introductions of the antibacterial though other means, like Agent Orange during the Vietnam War and the anthrax vaccinations to troops during operation desert storm were successful, but with serious side effects. The Flu vaccine inoculations and the commercial disinfectant products appeared to work without mishap however, and it seemed that the outbreaks were going to be nothing more than fairy tales in the history books.
We were so certain. Certain that we had stopped it, that funding for PUS research went nearly nonexistent. It wasn’t until now that we obtained enough funding to do a nationwide sampling. It was terrible. The introduction of the antibacterial was a complete failure. In some cases the bacteria mutated into a version immune to the antibacterial. In some instances the antibacterial merely reduced the count of dormant bacteria to appear as nominal levels of regular bacteria.
With this discovery, we had two choices: Destroy all evidence of our work, or come forward with our error and promote awareness and preventative measures to outbreaks. The shame of responsibility weighed too heavily upon my Governments and colleagues shoulders, as they would rather let the world go to hell with their hands clean. I was the only one who voted to come forward.
I have been typing this document nonstop for several hours. Most of the facility has been too busy burning documents to notice me in here, but an officer found me a few minutes ago, and it is only a matter of time until they cut through the heavy door.
I am sending this document via my laptop (thank God for wireless) to several message boards and web blogs, in hopes the someone will find it and bother to read it; much less believe it.
I am so sorry, please forgive me. Take care of the children Audry; I saw that the sports store in the mall has good prices on rifles and ammunition. I love you guys so much. Be alert. Be alert and be safe.

I made this out to be a short story at first, but I thought about how it seemed like in the middle of something, so I started thinking about what happened before and after this, so I tried to make it longer. Heres the first chapter, which was the most recently revised version of this story.

Hotel

The flickering light from the hallway creeps in, revealing the stagnant furniture of this piece of crap hotel: room 38, third floor, two doors to the left of the stairs. Ethan enters and closes the door, subjecting the room to a strobing time lapse lunar cycle. He is engulfed in darkness only until his irises widen and allow melancholy-blue light from the drenched windows to reach into the back of his retinas. Bands of streetlight stenciled straight as arrows by dusty aluminum blinds wrap themselves around the room, wavering with the rain. Ethan pops in the pathetic chain lock; two of its four screws are missing. After a moment of consideration, he slides the decrepit nightstand out from its shadowed corner near the entrance and under the doorknob. Ethan hears the sound of a bottle rolling in the drawer. The *ploonk* of alcoholic liquid resonates from behind the archaic panel.
Hooray!
It looks like there’s at least half left, even though it was nearly full when I left it there this morning. The cleaning lady or the manager must have snooped around here and took a few swigs. I don’t really care right now as long as they didn’t have any diseases. There's enough left to help me sleep. Actually it probably was the manager, if this place had a cleaning lady she’d be fired already.
I can’t remember the brand. The anti-septic aroma tells me its cheap paint-thinner they were passing as vodka.
The room remains in obscurity.
I don’t remember where the switch is. It doesn’t matter, the lights broken. I know this because I tried it earlier. That much I remember.
The room is lit well enough that Ethan can groggily navigate without colliding into any objects with the half drunk vodka bottle in his left hand and his right hand searching his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. He gets to the other side of the room where the spike spring mattress lay draped with several less-than sanitary, napkin-thin sheets. He can only imagine what varieties of vermin have hoarded to take up residence in the bio toxic biosphere multiplying beneath the surface of the soiled cloth dunes.
I’m going to sleep in the chair.
Ethan cautiously sits down, ready for the masterwork of spare lumber to collapse beneath him. The Chair complains loudly but holds. He places the paint-thinner on the small round table. It’s made out of a material one increment thicker than standard cardboard. His right hand finds the slick surface of the shrink-wrapped box of cigarettes and the cold twinge of his stainless steel lighter. He tears off the little red line from the box.
A squad car siren starts up a few blocks away resonating redundantly before fading back to our original programming of the pit-patter of rain off the windowpane.
*Flink*
In two motions the lighter opens and produces a flickering flame pirouetting to the most minute of movements. Ethan burns the cigarette into an orange glow. With the first drag came the acrid taste of ass immediately followed by his lungs expelling the carcinogen with spastic coughs. He immediately reconsiders his decision to start smoking again, although with all the strange things happening he though it would be a good idea to start up again. Ethan promptly extinguished the butt on the table since there was no ashtray, adding to the already numerous amounts of previously existing blemishes that resided upon it.
It’s been about six or seven years since the last time I smoked. I don’t smoke anymore. At least just until now. I can’t stand the taste of tobacco anymore. Before I started smoking I didn’t mind the smell. When I stopped smoking and then tried smoking again, It tasted terrible. I got the pack a few minutes ago from the liquor store across the street. The guy behind the counter was looking at me with a distrustful gaze, like the look they give you when you try to buy cigarettes before your eighteen, only I’m twenty- four. Its like he could tell just by looking at me I’m not the kind of person that smoked. The last time I saw my hook up was three years ago. I figured if I couldn’t smoke a J, a cigarette would have to do. But they don’t.
Ethan lights another cigarette and the soothing sensation barely defeats the taste.
The chair has no headrest, so Ethan leans back until he can only see the ceiling. Almost hoping that the answers he’s been looking for and the question he should be asking were going to be magically written there.
Nothing.
Damn.
The stream of smoke is spilled out over the room, already a thin haze forms revealing the previously invisible paths the light use to traverse the air. Somewhere else in the building a commotion erupts. The sound of stomping or careless movement of furniture found its way through the dampening walls.
Probably some drunk fight’n with his wife.
After a while the sounds subside.
The cap on the bottle comes off and falls to the ground. The liquid sloshes down Ethane’s gullet until the fumes and its corrosive qualities overwhelm his senses. He feels the chemical melting into his innards, and the warmth trickling into each fiber. The substance was beginning to take effect. Ethan can almost feel some of the warmth slowly peter out of the gash in his forehead, seep into the red dots on his white bandages encompassing his knuckles, and crawl under his bruised skin. Almost miraculously the pain within these regions dissipated into numbness. An indefinite amount of time passes in this state before Ethan realizes that the thumping not only had recommenced, but also was coming from a different part of the building. The thumping is distinctly rhythmic and moving.
Sounds like someone walking down the hall. But it seems at an odd pace somehow, not so much someone but…
Ethans dilated eyes widen as his mind scrambles to comprehend the revelation.
SOMETHING!
The steps increased in volume quickly and the sound of a weight hurling itself against the door rouses Ethan from his stupor. The single strike had already tumbled the feeble nightstand from its place of reinforcement.
How did it find me?
Ethan notices the sparse trail of fresh crimson droplets scattered over the area of the room.
No weapons!
All the arms they took down into the place had been lost, and all the objects in the room not of suitable condition for such an improvisation. The cynical voice in his mind conjectures using the malodorous sheets in hopes to at least ensure the eventual destruction of his assailant via infection, however this option would nigh certainly result in doom.
That’s it! The sheets!
Ethan can hear it charge again and the subsequent blow jostles the door open slightly. The chain lock had impossibly held the security of the room. Ethan leaps to the bed, wrapping his fists over the edges of the fabric. He stands poised for the creature to enter. The final slam sunders the chains links and Ethan swoops upon the creature and envelops it. Thanks to the sheet, Ethan never sees the beast, but feels through the cloth the familiar squishy salamander form, and oak tree hided monster not unlike the one he first encountered, or the one that ate Todd. He hopes that it has not been the same one, since he was quite certain that he did each of them in.
The creature is noiseless aside from its breath from its eyeless head hole, and violent thrashing. Its motions beneath the sheet are foreign, like a boneless bag of liquid, shifting its saturation. He knows the animal is remarkably strong, but finds it surprisingly light as he lifts the makeshift sack. The sheet swells as the creature increases its size and Ethan quickly drops the bagged monster as the tide of the struggle turns.
I forgot they could do that.
The vodka bottle, which had unconsciously departed from his hand before the struggle, calmly rolls up to Ethan’s leg. The solution at hand, Ethan seizes the slippery neck and bashes it on the floor. Diamonds of all sizes dance across the floor. Ethan selects a slender sliver and slices the spike at the aberration repeatedly. Its tough hide and unique physiology makes it difficult. Its mass gave with each attempt to puncture. Realizing that this was ineffective, Ethan loosens the beast a little, letting it inflate itself to its full expanded size . Its wedge shaped head emerges from the folds. Ethan quickly wraps his arm around its head and squeezes. The things head bulged with pressure. Before it could try to deflate itself, Ethan jams the blade into its forehead. It finds its place in a soft spot between the thick woody plates that covered the beasts entire body when it was reduced.
A hissing pop spits the horrors vital fluids. The creature twitches erratically, each movement oozing more of the thick yellow-transparent gel from the wound. Covered in the bizarre mucus, Ethan collapses onto his back from exhaustion. The ceiling rotates as the edges of his vision blur to darkness, signaling his departure from consciousness.

I just edited this, this is the somewhat final version.

They looked like mannequins, the way they stood there among them in the store like that. The only difference was the casual sway of the infected as they mingled aimlessly through the clothing boutique. It was almost amusing to see the faceless white women frozen in their confident poses, fortunate to have every sense oblivious the current situation. It was almost amusing.
Almost.
They were cold: My hands, as they fumbled the spent cartridges out from the breech loader. Somehow the warmth of the hot brass in my hand gave me some strange comfort. The comfort passed as I quickly tossed them to the bottom of the pickup bed, where they rolled around with their numerous and equally empty brothers.
I knew it was empty, but I checked anyway. I knew the box was empty because the last hand-full of shells were in my front vest pocket. Perhaps I hoped that through some trick of the darkness I had overlooked a shell or two. But as I glanced down, the empty box of federal ammunition caught the wind and flew out of the truck bed along with any wishful thinking.
I patted my left vest pocket .
Two.
At least I’ll put them to use. I thought as a solid *thock* sealed the last two shells into the chamber.
As if on cue a ravenous figure leapt onto the side of the truck. I could see its shape through the wooden boards as it stood on the rear bumper, its fingers latching it to the top plank that made the makeshift wall around the truck bed. I watched it slowly hoist itself up, its wind whipped locks a prelude to the wide open eyes and dazed look that followed. It tried to get itself over the edge, and amidst its scramble, its hand shot out towards me.
I knew I had to conserve, but I had no choice. I remember feeling the decision to pull the trigger slide down my spine and through my left arm, where it wrapped around my index finger and tightened.
Just one barrel.
At that moment the strangest thing happened. The creature made a noise, an unusual noise. Not the reckless guttural gasps common to the infected, this sound had control and tone, and it was the last sound I heard before the blast.
“Wai*…”
I saw the shot rip into his face and shred his arm. He probably would have said ‘wait’ if the lack of having a lower jaw didn’t stop him. Instead, the end of his statement was a sharp exhale, followed by his quick tumble off the end of the truck as his dead fingers loosened their grip.
He was alive! I couldn’t believe it.
Why didn’t he say anything? I thought, and then I remembered his labored breathing as he must have had to run quickly to leap on. He probably didn’t notice how he must have looked, but how one looks is hardly on ones mind while trying to dodge the infected.
I started wondering what he was like, what was his name, if he could’ve helped. He must have been pretty resilient to have survived out there among the infected without a weapon for so long.
There’s nothing you could’ve done. It was just too late. Said the tiny voice desperately trying to rationalize what happened. I tried to listen, but there was another voice as well, a bigger voice.
You heard him.
No. I thought.
Yes you did. You heard him and you still pulled the trigger.
“No” I whispered.
It was easy to kill the infected, so mindless they were hardly human. But you wanted to know. You wanted to know what it would feel like. What it would feel like to kill someone. Someone alive…
“No” I said again, this time a croak from my suddenly parched throat.
This was your chance, your chance amidst the chaos to do it. Do it and get away with it.
All I could do was shake my head. My eyes welled up with tears. I had to make it stop; I just had to make the voice stop.

Brian had been plowing though the infected nonstop. He was trying to drive as fast as he could, since he knew they were running short on ammo and couldn’t afford to stop. He hears Steve fire a shot.
“Hey! Don’t shoot at them unless you have too!” He shouted back to him. It seemed like he didn’t hear him, so Brian returned his attention to the dirt road peppered with shuffling pedestrians. He thinks he hears Steve say something. Who the hell is he talking to? Brian then hears Steve’s shotgun erupt again.
“Hey, what did I just say man?... Steve?…Hey Steve!”
Brian turns back to check on his companion, only to see him crumpled on the pickup bed. The wide exit wound in the back of Steve’s head explaining everything. Disappointed, Brian shakes his head as he turns back.
“Lucky bastard.”

heres part five of the story

Part 5:
Reprimand

Not surprisingly, the next day when my shift began I saw the note taped to my locker door informing me of my appointment with Dr. E. I had not taken Buckley’s threat seriously, since my first impression of Dr. E was that of a highly intelligent, fair minded nature, and therefore would have seen through her overreaction. I un-hesitantly made my way to Dr. E’s office, assuming he would at least let me give my side of the story.
I knocked on his metal door, the placard panel neatly spelling his name and PhD. A stern “Enter” followed promptly after my rapping, and I twisted the long handle to enter an antiseptic office with the long wooden desk planted firmly before me. Dr. Escobar, PhD. and his desk tag sat directly in the center.
“Have a seat.” he said in a deep methodical voice. I plopped myself onto the hardwood chair.
“Do you know why I requested you here?” He continued after I got as un-uncomfortable in the chair as I could.
“Cuz of Luther.” Instead of asking this I stated it. I wasn’t gonna play dumb with this guy. That’ll probably piss him off more.
“Yes, Zoe told me what happened.”
“Doc, this…”
“Doctor.”
“Doctor, this guy is harmless, he couldn’t even hurt me, He just caught me by surprise. If anything, those two orderlies and Nurse Buckley were over the top, they had no need to sedate him after the orderlies had him.” Dr. E sniffed a chuckle.
“Mr. Blank, you fail to realize that this whole incident was totally avoidable, if it were not for your actions.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, I forgot the rules for that one second ok?”
“And your mistake resulted in the patient’s subsequent pain and discomfort.”
“I’m not the one the slammed him into concrete and pumped his ass full of horse tranq.” I couldn’t believe I was getting blamed for this shit.
“Even though you’re just a student assistant, Mr. Blank, I require all my staff to hold themselves with a certain amount of professionalism.”
“I hardly call Zoe’s, actions professional.”
“You may be in bad terms with her, but she was the one that recommended that you take Mr. Enton, and she expressed to me that she was mistaken.” It was her! That bitch! “I suggest you read up on your patients a bit more closely in the future, because of this incident, I am going to relive you…” I’m gonna get fired! I thought “…of your responsibilities of Mr. Enton.” Oh…ok.
“Oh…ok” Dr. Escobar then pushed a fresh folder in front of me.
“This is your new patient’s information; I hope this time you spend an appropriate amount of time studying it. Go down to records and request your patient’s past medical history as well. Oh, and from now on, report to Nurse Buckley before you meet with any of your patients, ok?.”
“Sure” I nodded. Asshole, why didn’t he just ask her to wipe my ass too? I might as well forget getting any kind of recommendation.
“I’ll get right on it.” I said with enough enthusiasm to cover my resentment for him and Buckley, and waited to be formally dismissed.

finally I forogt to post this awhile ago, but here is one of the latest chapters

Part 4:
The resulting dialogue

“So if you can tell me, what did they say’s wrong with you, Luther?” I said trying to cut right to the bottom of it.
“I told you that’s not my goddamn name.” He said flicking his head towards me and back to his attention to his hands hovering cupped above his thigh, gently holding an invisible object.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You can’t hurt them or they smell it.” He explained. It wasn’t satisfactory.
“And who is they?” I asked. He bobbed his hands gesturing to the invisible object.
“ok…” I was about to say ‘okay, I’m going to need you to give a better explanation than that.’, when I grabbed one of his hands to direct his attention back to me. When my hand grasped his palm, he rose up from his seat with a great fervor, waving his arms and shouting wildly. So sudden was his transformation into this enraged beast, that I still sat in my seat dumbfounded, and was only snapped out of my stunned state when I realized that Luther was attempting to strangle me. It was also at this moment that I started listening to what he was yelling.
“YOU STUPID ASSHOLE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU DID!?! THEY SMELL IT! THEY FUCKING SMELL IT!!”
The two big orderlies rushed in like linemen, at that instant Luther let go of my throat and began raking his arms. That didn’t stop the orderlies from tackling the old man into the carpeted concrete. I was fortunate Luther was not that powerful, and had not really hurt me. As I sat stunned I noticed that he hardly cared that the orderlies were pinning him to the ground, but only sought to rid him self of the invisible attackers.
As I rose from the floor, hypnotized by the spectacle, I noticed Nurse Buckley’s figure fill the doorway. In her chubby latexed fingers was an emptying vial and a filling syringe. She quickly extracted the syringe, and tapped it as she removed any bubbles. She then approached, with stern determination, the pile of orderly covering the loudly protesting individual, who seemed not to anticipate the pain involved in such an injection; only his mysterious assailants seemed to concern him. She plunged the thickly gauged needle into the right cheek of his biggest muscle in his body. He roared as the sedative was pushed into his bloodstream, and his eyes went from blind rage, to a helpless glossy eyed sadness.
As the last of his strength left his body, the orderlies lifted themselves off of him, and one hoisted “Luther’s” limp body over his shoulder like a burlap sack full of dead kittens. As they silently left the room, I noticed that Nurse Buckley glaring motionlessly. She managed to peel her eyes off me for only long enough to call out to the just recently exited orderlies:
“Put him in SC-4 and make sure he’s restrained” She then snapped her eyes back to me and then turned to the door. Somehow I knew this meant she wanted to talk to me about my breakthrough session with “Luther”.
I followed behind her through the door, she didn’t even look back to see if I was following, and approached the “Staff only” room, where all the medical supplies were kept. She slid her keycard, and entered the room, only acknowledging my existence after she snapped of her gloves and threw them, along with the syringe, into the biohazard box.
“What the hell were you thinking? Didn’t you even read his goddamn chart? Violent with Physical contact?” She said not even raising her gaze from the innards of the bag of needles.
“You took my clipboard.” I said sincerely only to realize it came out snide. She then quickly looked up at me, almost caught off balance.
“Well you should have seen it when you first read the patients records.” Damn, she was kinda right. “And you’re not supposed to touch patients as a general rule anyway.” She added.
“But he said those weren’t his records…” I began,
“Are you going to take the word of a paranoid schizophrenic, or plain paper?” she snapped, this time glaring at me.
I held up the clipboard with the blank piece of paper. She scowled with her awesome scowling power, and approached me in a way that made me want to back away.
“Do you have any idea how pissed Dr. E is going to be when he hears about your incident?” She almost purred these words like some fluffy cat ready to smash the poor bastard mouse.
“Well I do now.” Im already In trouble, might as well go all the way
“Keep it up.” She said, and promptly left, no doubt to Dr. E’s.

Part 3:
Nurse Buckley

Very few things made me as uneasy as interacting with Nurse Buckley. A heavy set woman, I would say she had a stocky build if she were short. While she was not tall, her overall massiveness made her loom like a stern monolith. She was as strong as she was large, and I had never witnessed her request assistance with a patient from the towering male orderlies. She was already looking in my direction as I stepped out of the counseling room, I think she foresaw my difficulties with “Luther”, and speculated that she was in some way responsible for assigning “Luther” to me, even though that decision is made solely by the Head Psychologist. Nevertheless, I could feel myself become more reluctant to approach Nurse Buckley with every step I took. She looked down upon me with stoic eyes, her thick forearms wrapped around herself, cradling her oversized breasts. With great hesitation I held up the chart in question and stammered out:
“Is this his information?” For an instant her eye flashed surprise, like that was not the question she was expecting me to ask, and quickly faded into the corners of her eyes as she exhaled a sharp dry chuckle.
“Of course it is.”
“Because he said this wasn’t his name.” I continued, pointing to it on the sheet. She didn’t even look at it.
“It has to be his information; they don’t just make mistakes like that.” She snapped. “And besides, didn’t think it could be one of his other selves?” condecendation dripping from her words.
“It says here though he’s a PS, not multiple or split.” I naively stated
“Well then mark it down as a development and Dr. Escob will add it to his diagnosis.”
“Just like that?”
“What the hell do you mean just like that? You just saw it, and now it’s going in the report…” Like an obese ocelot her arm shot out and seized the clipboard from my grasp. She drew a black pen from her other hand as she unfolded her other arm and began jotting down the diagnosis in hard etched letters.
“…and Ill just give this to Dr. E personally.” She said, turning with a cold stare that read never to ask of this again. I was so astonished I didn’t realize she took the entire clipboard.
“Hi” I said quickly as I slid in through the counseling room door. “Luther” recoiled.
“Don’t let them all in.” He hissed.
“Oh, sorry” I said as if I were absentminded and quickly shut the door after me, after which “Luther” was visibly pacified.
“So there was a little bit of a mix up, but I got your stuff right here, I said, confidently tapping the clipboard with my pen.
“So le’ts being” I said tucking away the pen in my shirt pocket.
“Aren’t you gonna write anything down?”
“Nah, I’ll be fine” I said scanning the stark white sheets held within the boards clip.

Heres the second chapter to the previous story, and One of my first attempts at dialogue within a story. Here ya go folks!

Part 2:
The patient

It was two months prior, and I was just two weeks into my scheduled six-month stay as student staff at the asylum. My duties there at first were menial: aiding a resident staff with laundry, food preparation, garbage disposal and what not. Students were not allowed to do sessions with the patients yet, only fill out daily observations and progress charts. It was within my second week that I received my first three patients to do daily checks upon. I would meet with the patient and report if there was progress, regress, new developments, abnormal behavior etc.
My first patient was a female, Bi-polar disorder. It didn’t take too long to find the right combination and dosage of anti-depressants before she was discharged.
My second was a middle age male, Multiple personalities. Three of them: A kid, a teen and him. He took a little while longer. It was about a month when I finally got him to stop repressing his memories of his grandmother’s abuse. A few more weepy sessions, a bottle full of mood elevators, and he was out the door.
It was with my third charge, so hopelessly bonkers I am fairly certain he was appointed to me as a buffer for any overconfidence I might have had for rehabilitating the other two so quickly. As I have mentioned before, this patients name is not kept in private, but is lost all together. But for ease I will refer to him through my tale as the name which was incorrectly written upon where his was supposed to go.
Luther.
“Luther” was an older man I would say in his late fifties at least. His appearance was grizzly and he trembled much of the time. Daily showers were mandatory, but Luther always seemed to smell a bit ripe. Despite his physical and odorous appearance, it was not his most memorable aspect. I would say it would have been the first time I encountered him.
“Good morning… Luther” I said hoping my pause to check his name on the chart was unnoticed.
“Who the fuck are you talking to?” crept the astounded words from this bedraggled mans lips.
“You” I said without feint. I was not about to have mere language crack my resolve.
“Then why didn’t you just call me by my name?”
“That is your name.”
“Who the fuck told you that?” He said checking me over to see if I was credible. I pointed to the part of the chart that held his name. He took a long hard look at it, meticulously scanning the sheet. After it seemed like he had gone over every detail on the page twice he sat back in his chair with a confident grin and announced with a scoff:
“I can’t read that.”
“You can’t read?”
“Shit, I can read. I can’t read that, that’s private medical information” He said with casual seriousness.
“This is your information.” I insisted. For some reason I pointed to the papers as I said it, to clarify what information I was talking about.
“It can’t be”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t read it.” He said, eyeing me as if to check my sanity. For a moment I was a bit taken back, but I had leaned that madness, however disjointed or abstract, tends have rules. The rules vary between individuals. People normally follow the rules every one else sees. Madness, as I like to put it, is “invisible” rules. Rules only the individual sees. When they follow those rules, everyone else who sees them wonders what possess them to behave in such a way.
“Well then what is your name?” I said, hoping to cut the matter quickly and not be forced into an already degenerating conversation.
“Oh, he won’t tell you.” I shared his expression. I was not in the mindset to argue, but I needed to make sure his records were really his, mostly for my self.
“I’ll be right back”
“Don’t you mean you’ll be leaving again?” I pretended I wasn’t paying attention.

this is the beggining of a story I have several chapters to. an interseting note, all these things in this particular chapter are from actual experiences of mine at the appropriate ages (not all of them are recounted here though) Here ya go, ya hapless populous.

Prologue

What if it was true? We always say our minds play tricks on us. It’s what we always say when we sense something we cannot explain or believe. We say it to the thing we see in the corner of our eyes that vanish when we focus upon them, to the beasts that walk along the shadows pushed by a passing cars headlights. All those “I swore I saw”’s and “didn’t I just see”’s: we tell ourselves these things do not exist, that they couldn’t be real, and so they are not. What if our minds really were “playing tricks on us”?
Part 1:
Recollection

My first experience of this kind was as a child. I was probably six or seven, and still frightened of monsters under my bed. We all remember those sweaty nights burrowed away in the blankets waiting for a guttural growl or telling floorboard to signal doom. I remember one night being so terrified I attempted to keep watch as long as I was able. I even left the light on. I learned that I could drape my blanket over the headboard, so as to make a tent, which was much more comfortable than the body tamale technique. From there I peered out through one of the flaps.
I don’t know how this was supposed to help, I guess I assumed that a monster would always try to sneak up on you, so if I remained un-sneak-up-on able it will have no weakness to attack. It was during this vigil that a perfectly white skeletal arm dropped with great speed across my vision and plop on nightstand inches from my face. Reflexively I dropped the flap. The thick comforter blocked all light except for the shining thread around the edge of the flap. I tried to hold as still as I could, watching for any signs of movement through the crack of light at the edge of the sheet. After what seemed like it was taking too long, I cautiously looked out.
Nothing.
I realized that there was no rush of wind, or clatter when the bone arm fell. Did I imagine it? Did my gripping fear produce the arm I saw as real as any other object? After all, it couldn’t have been real if it didn’t make a noise.
I don’t know how I dismissed such an occurrence as a young child, and it was years later that I recalled the occurrence. Slowly, other memories started to come back. I remembered a night when I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw featureless faces, monsters, heads of wolves, glowing eyes, fangs, limbs all at once like a cloud swirling around me. I grew more frightened when I opened my eyes and in the darkest areas of the room, I could still make them out. I do not remember how that night ended.
I did not have any more experiences as intense as those until I was in college. I was driving a friend home one evening after hanging out at my house after work. I had already gotten dark, but it seemed darker than usual, if there is such a thing. It almost seemed that light was dimmer, and went a shorter distance before diffusing. However, that is hardly why I remember that night.
I was driving down a narrow residential road just recently repaved. The new slick surface reflected strongly within my headlights. As we conversed, I noticed up ahead a solid dark shape lying in the middle of the road. I forgot my driving glasses, so I leaned forward and squinted. It lay somewhat flat on the road, and with the reflection I could only make out the outline of the beast and its wiggling tendrils. The body shaped seemed almost humanoid, and at first it looked like a person having a seizure, but then it looked like the motions of the limbs were too rhythmic to be a seizure, it looked like it was shuffling along but without progressing. I was so busy trying to make out the shape that I was forgetting to slow down. All of a sudden my friend said in calm ‘what-the-hell is wrong-with-you?’ tone
“It’s a Dog”
At that instant the car came close enough to illuminate the creature. From the wobbling horrid shape flashed into being a Great Dane hefting itself up and trotting off the road. I was fortunate that it got out of the way by its own accord since I would have probably rolled right over it. My friend was kind of pissed at me, asking me why I didn’t stop.
I lied and told him I thought it was a dying guy on the road. Honestly I was not certain.
It wasn’t until early adulthood, a psychology intern at the State asylum, that these dreaded memories percolated through my abandoned neural pathways splashing to the surface like submerged balloons. At first they were but a trickle, only a prelude to a flood. Each recollection dragged up along with it another account from the cob-webby mausoleum inside my memory.
It wasn’t until I felt I had reached the end of this sinister tether that I remembered why I chose to pull upon it in the first place. The particular events which had led up to my regretful brainstorm, focused primarily on a patient charged under my supervision, who shall remain nameless. Not for the sake of privacy will this individual be so labeled, but rather that it is more accurate that the patient’s true handle was unknown. How this came about, and how I even came to have such knowledge, lies within yet another story of coincidence and irregularity.

someone told me to post my stories on live journal so people can read them and see if they're any good or not so heres one, its called The Anomaly

Listen carefully dear reader. Listen carefully for I am about to spin the story of the anomaly that occurred to me on that day or night, which I do not know, for time distorts in the darkness of the hole. Please disregard the fact that I am a prisoner when passing judgment on the validity of my words. My reasons for incarceration, as well as the misbehaviors that led to my term of solitary confinement are inconsequential, but I will at least tell you that I cannot deny them. Listen carefully, for I did not survive the occurrence.
How long I was expected to stay, and how long I had already been held, was unknown to me. I had stopped counting after about four hours (at least by my count). My only contact was the wordless guard that every so often banged upon my cell to signal feeding or the disposal of my slop can’s contents through the small sliding portal on the bottom of the steel door. Once for food, twice for the bucket.
I was certain that my jailers took advantage of my temporal disorientation. There sometimes seemed great expanses in which I did not receive food, and my guts gnawed upon themselves in frustration. Other times a meal came when I still had the unpleasant essence of the previous one still lingering inside my jowls. I also assumed then, that the same phenomenon was occurring with the slop bucket. Several times I had to get accustomed to the stench of the overflowing can of filth, and although no sliver of light could penetrate the hollow steel box, the flies were able to find their way.
Along with the aerial vermin came a spider to feast on their abundant supply. I discovered this by ruining its web with my face during one of the pacing exercises I did in attempts to distract myself from the binding knots my intestines worked themselves into. I clawed at my face even after I was sure that I had removed all of the substance. The sensation of the strands was maddening as I pictured in the darkness the countless miniature mummies this arachnid had stocked. My imagination, in its infinite boredom, filled itself with images of the destroyed domicile’s owner crawling somewhere on me undetected. I patted and brushed myself off for a great while, each itch and tickle feeling like the predator’s presence. I stopped ruffling myself more out of exhaustion than assurance that the creature had escaped.
I met the creature several times afterward, skittering by or over my hands or bare feet. I reacted violently with each encounter stomping and slapping. With every futile blow I hoped for the feeling of a gooey, crushed exoskeleton. As I went about in the foolhardy dance I couldn’t help but visualize myself mid tantrum and the pest either mere measurements from my fatal attacks, or scampering safely somewhere in opposite side of the cell. It was after what I assumed several days of these types of skirmishes that I noticed the changes.
As it teased me with its ever persistent presence, I assumed that the increase in size was due to its reaping of the bloated bugs which, I also began to notice, was starting to sound and feel like fewer numbers. It still struck me odd though when my nostrils reminded me that it had been a while since they have cleaned my slop bucket.
I eventually got accustomed to its presence and let it dart across my limbs freely. By now it was too exhausting to flail around wildly, and I figured as long as it never bit me it would be ok. After allowing the creature to traverse freely over me I noticed that I now could feel the animals sizable thorax dragging along with its feet. But now, I realized, that the toes of this being were no longer pinpricks, but seemed to have a greater girth.
I conjectured that “it” was in fact a “she” and the enlarged abdomen was ready to spring fourth the multitude of brood, which would feast upon my hapless succulence. For a great while I seriously fretted over this unlikely, but to my mind, freakishly plausible occurrence.
My fancy was once again set free when I did not encounter the spider, after what seemed like far too long of a period of time. I supposed that it got bored of its career of tormenting me and finally decided to settle down in a quiet ceiling corner and raise her children. A couple feeding and bucket changes passed and I still did not meet my inhuman cellmate. Of my most fondest of dreams was that the creature had left by whatever means it had entered, and finally left me to my appropriate punishment.
It wasn’t until some time later, during an exceptionally long feeding lull that the thing returned. I was doubled over and hacking dry heaves due to my hunger. I had my palm flat on the wall to support myself as I spat bile and flem. The gentle but swift gait of the now monstrous legs landed across my fingers. At first I was so surprised that I almost forgot about my malnourishment, my hand leaping into a sporadic wave from the reflexive jolt. What had touched me, I estimated, was the gauge of a thick pencil. I shuddered at the thought that, somehow, this unchecked spider had no limits in size, and capitalized on her lonesome monopoly.
Overwhelmed with paranoia, I sat myself into one of the corners, so that no ambush could occur, and prepared myself for any of the spiders attempts to consume me. Unsurprisingly, it eventually did, attempting to sneakily advance upon me. The prickly carapace around its leg scraped my bare foot and gave it away. My blind swinging forced it to retreat. I felt the blood ditch my extremities as I realized it must now have been the size of a small dog. There was no way fathomable that the spider could have grown that large in that amount of time on a diet of flies, no matter how numerous.
I would have thought more, but my desperately outstretched hands caught the spider’s body as it lunged with a less subtle approach. I struggled with what energy I had left but I could already feel that in my condition it would be to no avail. As my arms buckled I could almost see the spiders hungering fangs dripping with anticipation. I began to wonder if it was true that everything fades to black when you die, and wondered if I would be able to tell

The guard notices that the prisoner does not return his previous food dish as he slides the fresh one in. He assumes this is an act of defiance, which is going to need some discipline. He inserts the key and the heavy lock grudgingly unlatches. The monolith stands aside to let the blinding rays splash into the cell. The prisoner lays slumped over in a corner, contorted and eyes frozen in a distant gaze. The guard sighs and calls over another to help him with the body’s disposal. They notice the body is exceptionally light, but merely attribute it to the fact that they did not feed him for the past several days. No autopsy is done, since it’s obvious that death was caused by heart failure or starvation. The prisoner’s number and name is noted and is sent off to the prison crematorium. The cell is left gaping with a mouth full of light. No one notices the diminutive spider scuttle out and trek across the floor; the evening sun stretching a long sinister shadow alongside it.