It was the year the scribes called '42
when they came.
They came.
They came; oh God, the horror!
They came.
Like a wall of sand in a storm
blanketing everything, everyone
in their path. Nothing, no one safe.
Hiding places were not to be found.
No weapon could stand against them.
No alliance, no strategy, no pacifying, no talking. Nothing.
These creatures, this pestilence that stalked and hunted us,
were...
the Dead.
Those that had gone before; wronged by us, by society and government.
Failed, let down. We all now had to pay the price, the extreme, brutal, exacting price. The high price of complete devastion, savage death in ways I still scream about in the day when it's dwelled upon.
These skeletons, somehow animated back to a horrid existence with only the thought of destroying all who lived as they once did.
I survive, somehow, to muddle through this wretched life; to remember the bloodbath; only wishing I was destroyed, decimated; anything but to endure these maddening thoughts that dance about my head like flies around garbage. All I can do is try to sleep. Sleep and hope it all goes away.