Hollywood Strikes Again by Randall Stone

Just as it did with the Vampire and the Werewolf, Hollywood decided that the Zombie, in itself was not horrific enough and needed, shall we say, some tweaking? Hence, all Zombies now are flesh eaters and the only way to destroy them is to sever, in some way, the neural network of the spine from the brain stem or to obliterate the brain altogether. Although these ideas make for great reading and even better movies for the gory inclined, for me, it takes away the true tragedy of this particular folklore. Consider if you will. . .?

Years ago, you lost a loved one, a brother, sister, mother or father. Maybe a dearly beloved and close friend. You have been placing flowers and paying your respects at the graveside regularly for years. One beautiful, sunny day, you decide to go for a drive in the country. The sun blazes in a cloudless, azure sky and the scent of honeysuckle comes to you through the open car window on a cool, summer breeze. The birds are singing sweetly in the trees and rabbits and sheep gambol playfully in the wide open, green fields where sheep, cattle and horses graze peacefully.

These fields run into agricultural land and, as you pass by one particular field, you see workers picking peas. Something about the way these workers move begins to hit your subconscious and suddenly, though without apparent reason, you begin to feel terribly uneasy. Not sure why, you pull into a quiet lay by and study the workers for a moment. The more you look, the more you realise that their movements are not natural. They appear stiff, jerky, robot like. You alight from the car for a better view. It is then that you notice something faintly familiar.

Among the workers is a figure, a woman. For some reason, you are considering her more than the others. There is a strange familiarity about her that strikes a chord deep within your heart. Your curiosity at an all time high, you climb the low barbed wire fence and make your way into the field. As you wade through the waist high pea plants, your eyes are fixed firmly on the woman. Her mannerisms. The way she moves, albeit jerkily, seem, somehow, memorable.

At first, you don’t notice the scent as you approach the group of workers, so fixated are you on the woman. Then, a sudden change of direction in the breeze has you stopping suddenly in your tracks. The aroma of corruption clogs up your throat, your nasal passages. It is so pungent that it hits you like a slap in the face. Your stomach rebels and you double up involuntarily as your body bucks and heaves. For long minutes you retch, bringing back your pitiful breakfast, the acrid taste of bile on your tongue. Wiping the grease from your mouth, not wanting to breathe in because of the stench but knowing you must, you straighten up.

Amazingly, although you are less than twenty yards from the workers, not one of them has seemed to notice you. None have even looked in your direction, let alone called out or come to see if you need assistance. Instead, they have carried on with their tasks, acting as if you don’t even exist. And there is something else too that you notice. Something that plants a seed of uneasiness into your psyche. Although there are about twenty people, working within close proximity to one another, none of them speak. There is no general chatter. Instead, they work in perfect silence. Fighting the nausea and doing your level best to ignore the stench of putrefaction, you continue on towards the workers.

None of the labourers look up as you pass them and you grimace at the clouds of  flies that seem to lay like a moving blanket among them. So engrossed in their work are they that they don’t appear to notice them. The woman you observed from the roadside is about ten yards away, lifting hampers of peas onto a low loader. You can see that the hampers are heavy and the woman is only slightly built and yet, she appears to show no outward signs of exertion. There is no grunting or groaning as she lifts them. As you stand and watch her, that familiarity begins to bite again. Harder, deeper, this time and finally, with a thrill of horror, recognition eats its way in.

But it can’t be, your mind, your rationale, screams. It just can’t be. And yet, you cannot deny what your eyes, wide with terror, are telling you. Your sister died just under nine years ago. You have visited her graveside every week and placed flowers there on her birthday and on the anniversary of her death every year. An indescribable iciness seems to seep into every pour of your being. As she turns to pick up another hamper, you grab hold of her wrist. Inwardly you recoil at the cold, slimy feel of her flesh. You recognise the dress she is in, tattered and dirtied. It is the dress she was buried in.

You look up into her slack, dead features, the peeling strips of skin that fall away from the blue, mottled, bloated flesh. Her eyes are covered in a yellowish membrane and even though she looks at you, there is no recognition in those features. Aghast and nauseated, you glance around at the other workers and realise, with mounting horror, that these too are dead and in various states of decay. While you hold onto her wrist, the dead, cold flesh sliding beneath your touch, she makes no move to pull away. She stares off into space, seemingly looking straight through you. As you let go of her arm, she turns and picks up her hamper.

Again, you step in front of her and she stops, robot like, as she bumps you with her load. You wave your hand before her face, desperately trying to provoke a reaction from her. A twitch of the eye, a slight nod or shake of the head, the brief, momentary focus of her yellow eyes, anything. There is nothing. As you step to the side, she immediately makes for the trailer with her hamper where, after depositing it, she turns and makes for another, staring dead ahead all the time. In desperation, you step in front of her again and she immediately stops and waits. For long, drawn out minutes, you stand before her, your heart breaking at her pathetic state. You place your hands on her shoulders and shake her, calling her name, over and over again. But she makes not one sound and moves again only when you let go and step away once more.

Tears staining your eyes, you take hold of her wrist again and attempt to pull her towards your car. You intend to take her home and get help, if indeed she is not beyond it. But she doesn’t budge. No matter how hard you pull at her, she refuses to move. Forgetting yourself, you pull for all your worth until an ominous and sickly popping sound assails your ears. Letting go of her wrist, you watch in horror as it hangs limply and uselessly by her side. You realise that the sound was that of her shoulder dislocating from it shoulder socket, the tender, decomposing flesh parting like damp paper mache. Your sister turns and bends to pick up another hamper but only one arm will work. Tirelessly, she attempts to pick up her load but to no avail and you watch, sobbing loudly, as she continues her attempts, never tiring, never ceasing, like some automaton with a short circuit. Dread and frustration along with a crushing sadness and heart break take their toll on you and you sink slowly to your knees. Hopelessness and the sheer horror of the situation envelopes you. . . . .

For me, this is the true horror and tragedy behind this woeful figure. It is as pathetic as it is terrible. The very thought that we or our loved ones could be subjected to something as cruel and evil as this should be enough to make our very blood run cold. But it is the thought surely, that even in death, we are not safe or at peace from our enemies. That we can be forcibly snatched from our eternal slumber and forced to perform degrading and menial tasks at the hands and will of our oppressors. When one considers all this and the belief that, although the Zombie is subject to the iron will of its Bokor, somewhere deep within its psyche it is painfully and woefully aware of its grim fate, there is little need to add the horror of a flesh hungry appetite.