City of Dead

I'm sitting high atop the city. In the distance, the blue black sea stretches out across the horizon. A ball of tie dyed colors stretches up from the water, reds, oranges and yellows bleeding out from a fiery white center.

It's a gorgeous view.

Of course, I'm not looking at it. I'm looking down. 20 floors down. At the concrete below.

The dead are walking the earth. They don't see out human flesh. They aren't after brains. They shuffle along, feet dragging, as they move about the city. They mumble and moan, their stare, glassy and lifeless. They might say something to you. They might not. Their arms leaden and limp at their sides. Their legs feel like 500 pound sacks of grain. Moving them, walking, is a chore. Their eyelids droop, their black, dilated pupils, stare down at the pavement as they slowly wend their way through the crowded, shuffling throngs of people.

If you bump into the walking dead, their body will absorb the hit, turning them, spinning them but that's about it. They won't turn on you, shredding your skin, tearing your limbs off. If anything, they might utter a muffled complaint. They have no energy. They are dead.

I know this because I have become one of the walking dead. Movement is a chore. Rational thinking no longer exists. This is why I sit and stare at the pavement instead of the gorgeous day dawning on a dead city.

This is why I contemplate the wind in my hair, the feeling of flying, the feeling of life as I plummet.....

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