Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

He used his enhanced strength to pull corpses away from the gate, making them tumble backward. The desire to smash their heads open and grow was bubbling inside of him. Sunday couldn’t lie to himself. He felt nothing but heartfelt excitement at the prospect. Metaphorically. He wasn’t sure he had a heart.

Am I a monster now? He thought. Subject to some form of strangely twisted evolution? Old Rud spoke about that once. He told us people can turn into monsters in the blink of an eye for power. I don’t think he meant it literally. A zombie of all things…

If killing his brethren was what made him stronger, there would be time for that later. He didn’t know what was waiting for them in the direction of the strange beckoning, but he wasn’t going to be the first beyond the cemetery gates and into the unknown. It never hurt to let the others test the waters, especially if the voice claimed that thousands had fallen before.

Removing all the corpses from the gate took some time. Most had an empty glassy gaze that reminded Sunday of some people he’d known. Those let themselves be thrown backward without protest. Few stepped back of their own volition or tried to help. Those were the ones that made him wary; they had that glint in the eye, a terrifying thing – a sign of rational thought. If they were like him, then it was a matter of time until things devolved.

Be it dumb luck or a joke of fate, he was currently stronger, so he didn’t worry too much. Sunday had nothing against handouts. Who knew that touching a tree would have such a profound effect on one’s well-being? Nature sure was amazing. Nature and murder.

The wing of the gate finally moved as he was assisted by a few of the other corpses. The hinges creaked ominously, just like old cemetery gate hinges should – a sound of perfect creepiness that tickled the brain and promised a good story.

As soon as it was open just enough for them to pass, Sunday walked through and moved to the side. His back was toward the fence, but not too close. It was moments before others followed. Like a herd of sheep, one by one they exited the graveyard and continued down the sloping path.

Sunday let a good number take the lead and then followed to the side. A rock caught his attention and he used all of his willpower to slowly bend and pick it up. It took about a minute. The good news was that even the flexibility of his fingers had improved after the kill. Since they were following his example with the gates, who was to say they wouldn’t follow his example with the murder once they realized it made them stronger?

No one had time for backstabbing or fights yet, as the muddy path down the hill was enough of a challenge in itself. A few of the corpses tumbled and rolled head-first, disappearing into the mists below. Sunday walked slowly and carefully, digging each foot into the soggy soil for support. Putting an early end to his rebirth as an undead abomination by tripping down a hill and breaking his head would be a shame. He had already done that once as a human.

What was he supposed to do anyway?

He didn’t feel much apart from the calling of what waited in the mists. He didn’t need food or water, at least for now. It was silly to even consider money in his current state, but the desire for it was deeply ingrained in Sunday’s psyche.

The hill finally came to an end, and the mist was gracious enough to allow Sunday to see the beginnings of paved roads and tall buildings of stone, black wood, and iron that were anything but modern. On the contrary.

Soon he was threading on solid streets that seemed ancient, yet preserved as if built yesterday. The sights of the city, if this was a city and not a fever dream, started a kindling of something like awe deep inside his dead chest.

Most residences were surrounded by tall walls decorated with sculptures and carved to depict grotesque images. Each offered a story unlike any Sunday had seen in his previous life. A peek into a diary of dark dreams and twisted thoughts.

Devil-like creatures with spread wings took women out of the fields while snakes curled around sleeping children and whispered truths in their ears. Many-headed monsters demanded tributes from cities before bathing them in fire and death. Knights with swords and armor followed their kings against winged things with fangs like daggers and eyes that popped out of the stone. Monks held their praying beads and knelt as angry spirits rose around them. Priests had their faces turned toward the skies where their gods lay slain and defiled by a great evil.

There were long dried-out fountains erected in the middle of intersecting roads, each unique in their make. Some were made to look like weeping devas, as thousands of demons clawed and bit at their feet. Others were carved into forms of dwellers of the deep mid-jump. Sea serpents of black iron circled the base of old wells, while gargoyles of all sizes were looking at the corpse march from ledges and high corners.

The buildings were tall and imposing, made with sharp edges and many arches. The few windows Sunday managed to peek into greeted him with inky darkness that made him turn away lest the abyss swallowed him. There was a gnawing warning that came from the depths of his soul that he should not enter any home. He listened.

A few times it seemed like stone eyes were following him, but he wrote it off as a trick of the mind. Then he decided that the beings in the images were judging him, weighing his soul against something unknown. Memories of things he had done in the past, of violence, lies, and theft, were bubbling to the surface as if his story was being forcibly revealed. They were hazy, seemingly foreign to the dead body he was inhabiting. Sunday was certain that if he had living flesh, he would be curled up and crying at the very least. Even now, as a walking corpse dead on the outside and the inside, he felt the tingling of fear. He felt small.

As Sunday was lost in thought his foot caught at something and he fell face down on the cold and damp stones. A crack and a pop sounded almost simultaneously. As soon as he tried to get up, he realized his left arm was not obeying him. The forearm was bent weirdly and the rest of the arm hung useless toward the ground no matter how he turned or tried to use it. The stone he had carried was still clutched in the stiff fingers of his right hand but he let go, using the hand to push himself up.

Something prevented him.

An unexpected but familiar force made him roll to the side and barely catch himself before he lost his other arm to an awkward bend. He turned his head slowly and saw from the corner of his eye a pair of lively dark eyes amid a frozen and dead face. Another bastard corpse. It was easy to tell it was a ‘he’ from Sunday’s current position.

Righteous anger drove Sunday as he pushed again with all the force he could muster, forcing his legs to bend underneath him and help. He managed to raise a bit before a push made him sway to the side and toward one of the nearby stone walls. A turn was enough to save his right shoulder as his back hit the wall instead with a nasty crack. The assailant was moving slowly toward him, careful in his step.

Sunday knew he was stronger now. The corpse paused near the stone Sunday had dropped and started slowly bending over.

Sunday righted himself and took a few moments to test his limbs. His eyes caught sight of the mural he was leaning on. It depicted a youngish man in flowing robes, sitting cross-legged before a large mountain. His palm was raised in an arrogant and carefree gesture that for some reason held his attention. For a brief moment, the young man’s hand looked like it could hold the universe. That it was the universe. Infinite and deep.

The next part of the mural showed the same picture, but the hand was slapping lazily toward the distant mountain as if he was an executioner who had already seen enough.

In the third part, the mountain was gone and the young man was drinking from a gourd.

Time stood still as Sunday gazed at the pictures. He moved just as the corpse was done picking up the rock. Two steps brought him close enough. His hand rose in a copy of the gesture in the mural, dry flesh straining under his orders. It just made sense.

It descended like a judgment from the heavens. The corpse seemed to move into the perfect position and the palm greeted its face. There was a strange sound as if dry leather hit something hollow. It was less than satisfying and all Sunday felt was the force behind his slap, which was more than any he had been able to produce so far. The corpse reeled under the fearsome might and dropped the rock it had expended so much effort to pick up.

That was all Sunday needed. Again, his slap inspired by the simple carving struck his enemy. The corpse swayed once more and stepped backward. For a second Sunday imagined what it looked like from the side. Two skinny naked corpses, with their little dried-out worms dangling for the world to laugh at, fighting on the street like geriatrics. It was comical, but lost in the moment, he felt like a true warrior.

He had the upper hand. Quite literally.

The next slap gave him time to pick up the dropped stone. He was much faster than the corpse had been, but it still took time. By the time he was up and swinging the corpse had started retreating.

Sunday grinned. Oh, no. There is no running for you.

Grandpa Rud had told him ‘If you start something you better finish it or I’ll beat your ass.’ He planned to do just that. He swung and hit the back of the corpse’s head. There was a dull sound as a spiderweb of cracks appeared on the corpse’s skull. It fell and Sunday moved to stand above it. The stone dropped right unto the nape with a sickening sound.

The inflow of warm energy this time around was much more noticeable than he had been expecting it to be. It rushed through Sunday’s body and there was a loud pop as his arm reconnected with the shoulder socket. The forearm was still slightly bent, but not as much as before, and some motor control had been restored. Was it thicker as well?

Killing is making me grow at a rapid pace. How many corpses do I have to slay to reach a normal human’s capabilities? Twenty? Thirty? I don’t think it would be possible without the healing but with it… Whoever designed this knew what they were doing, although it becomes much harder to fight someone who has an advantage. Thankfully, that someone is me.

The arm was not at a hundred percent, but it would do as long as he was careful. Sunday threw one last look toward the mural of the young man and for some reason lightly bowed his head – as much as his neck safely allowed. He didn’t give any thought to his strange actions.

No more corpses were nearby, and those who had watched from a distance continued marching, deciding that this was not a fight they wanted. The slain corpse rapidly degraded behind him, until it turned into flecks that became one with the mists, leaving them just a bit darker.

Sunday kept his distance and made sure to be more vigilant, his last experience still fresh in his mind. However, he was also looking for opportunities. Lone corpses that would pose no challenge would be the best. There was always a danger of a few banding together, but he found it highly unlikely. It was good to keep it in mind though. Unlikely didn’t mean it was impossible. He knew nothing.

He took another corner, having lost track of how many that made, and saw the opportunity right in front of him. Three corpses were tangled in a mess of skinny limbs and slow strikes. He watched as fingers and arms crackled like dry branches, in a constant symphony of breaking bones.

Their movements were dull, without thought or strategy. Were they mindless or like him? There was no time to observe as one of the corpses fell backward toward Sunday, its head remaining free for the picking. Without thinking Sunday dropped the stone and watched it as it sank into the face and the corpse stopped moving. There was warmth. He cringed at the idea of being as easy to kill.

We’re the undead equivalent of human babies. Just not as whiny and possibly a bit cuter. And much more murderous. I’ve read about birds that do that, killing one another so there are more resources for the one that lives. Conveniently, I don’t feel shit toward them other than anger and desire for growth.

The two struggling corpses remained blissfully unaware that one had fallen, still locked in their pointless fight. Sunday picked up the stone and stepped closer.

It was then that another corpse appeared on the other side of the fighting duo, and all of Sunday’s attention went toward it.

Its body was fuller than any he had seen, and there was a short piece of iron in its hand. However, the eyes were the scariest – pale blue, with tiny pupils like the tip of a needle, staring straight at Sunday.

Sunday met the gaze for a brief moment, then rushed forward. He was closer and letting the newcomer reap the strength of the two would only spell trouble for him. The blue eyes started moving at the same time. He was a bit faster, but it didn’t matter.

The stone found the first skull with a crack, and then as an afterthought, Sunday finished the second one too. The strength flowed into him as he got ready to meet his new enemy who was almost upon him. The anger was there, comforting and steady, although it seemed a bit hollower now. Artificial.

The iron rod met Sunday’s ribs with a crunch just as he swung with the stone.

The narrating voice echoed as if someone was talking just above and the world slowed down.

A young master sips from his wine and smiles in arrogance at all of existence. Rules do not apply to him and his gifts cannot be delayed. He pities the foolish beings living their lives at the bottom of a dry well, hoping the stars and the moon would come to them. His hand raises and makes the heavens shudder in fear. For what else would one need to oppose all, other than an open palm? His gift is yours. Do not waste it.