Thirteen Weeks Ago
Pain. But there was always pain. What was the pain of this, next to the constant pain of having to survive in a body that was already dead? It could be borne. It would be borne.
Shame. But there was always shame. Shame at still being to walk and talk, when all who had mattered were dead and rotted. Shame at eating the fallen, even when it was necessary to survive. What was the shame of this, next to the shame of surviving? It could be borne. It would be borne.
Tears. There were no tears. There were never tears. How could there be, when there were no eyes?
"You wanna have a go, Drug?"
"Oh hells, Corporal. It's cold."
"Yeah, but still wrigglin'." Laughter. "Well, the Sargeant said ta teach this thing some manners, an' fer ta remember its place. I reckon' we done got that covered. What do you say, deader?" More laughter.
"What should we do with it, Corporal?"
"Buggered if I know. Just chuck it outside, I guess. Ain't like it'll freeze or nuthin'."
Bright light. Falling. Cold, biting snow on naked flesh. Door slams. Muffled laughing behind it.
There was always laughter.
Until, someday, the dead girl promised, it turns to screams.
