Young Writers Society

The chapel bells tolled beside the hospital. The two collapsed buildings held onto each other for support, completing their other dilapidated halves. Where the hospital’s broken windows had been nailed up, save for the few at the top floors, the chapel was a spectacle under the setting sun, stained glass windows shimmering with myth.

“Can you imagine the next civilization?” His brother had once asked, long before he came here. “Our buildings will be their shelters. Our corpses will fertilize their land. Our memories will be legends.”

And we’ll be their monsters if we don’t get rid of these hell beasts, Carrion had thought. But Charlie was too young to know, even in this world. Charlie had been an infant when hell broke loose. Carrion had been twelve, still too bullheaded and juvenile to realize that these things weren’t like the zombies he’d seen on the Walking Dead. His youth had taken his father. He thought his adolescence could save his brother.

That was ten years ago.

The dead and dying were stumbling towards the chapel gates, flooding the aisles. He struggled not to lick the ketchup off his lips, or rub the grime and powder from his face. It was itchy. It was ridiculous.

But the disguise was essential to the plan. It was his key to earning the Commanders’ trust.

“Some lunatic doctor down at Quarantine, he’s been healing the dead,” The Commander had said, the week before Carrion’s deployment. He had been rolling up a cigar of salvaged tobacco, concerned. “We found out ‘bout him when one of ours started to notice old devils with stitched wounds. We sent a greenie and a lieutenant down there, once. We found ‘em dragging bodies to church eight weeks later. Blind converts. Told us these things were sentient.”

The Commander had shaken his head, then, scowling as he lit his cigar. He looked Carrion in the eye. “Three years ago, our president was possessed by this monstrosity. Ever since then, each military state has been on their own. No government, no order, no nothing. But this isn’t the end of times, son—it’s easier to die than fight.” He leaned in. The smell of his handmade cigar burnt in Carrion’s nostrils. “People can start thinking some strange things, once they’re in battle. I need soldiers, not madmen.”

Carrion had only nodded.

A man appeared from the front of the church, ringing a dull bell. “Hurry now, hurry now,” he screamed into the air. It must’ve been the setting sun, but Carrion swore the man looked more like a bipedal hound in a lab coat. “We ain’t got all day, and Dr. Shelleydon’ttake nighttime patients no more.”

Doves flew out of the chapel, disappearing into the night sky as the two bells rang. He entered, trying not to breathe. Carrion studied at the dead around him. One was leaning on his shoulder, one of their arms missing. It was a boy. No older than Charlie was.

He barfed in his mouth.

The Dogman looked back, as if he had noticed something odd. Carrion tried to swallow his vomit, but soon a realization struck him. He’s possessed. The demons affected people in different ways, he remembered—he’d seen the Dogman kind before. He'd shot at them before, many times. But they didn’t talk. They never talked. They were supposed to be dead.

The vomit started spilling out from his teeth.

“Hey,” The Dogman narrowed his brow, putting away his bells. “Hey, you--”

Carrion barfed, then, ketchup and powder falling off his face as it spilled. The Dogman jumped at him, grabbing him by the collar. “Who are you?” he screamed into his ear, shaking him further. His mouth was open, but his fangs were cut short. “Where did you come from?”

“You can’t talk.” Carrion insisted, trying to control his breathing, “You’re not supposed to talk--”

The Dogman sniffed at him. His face reminded him of the Commander’s, except animal. “Yer one of them military boys, ain’t ya?” he nudged his face intoCarrions'. “I don’t take kindly with you hurting mah folk--”

“That’s enough, Cornelius,” another voice said. In his hazy vision, Carrion caught a glimpse of a small black man holding the Dogman back by the sleeve. The Dogman was at least twice the small one’s size, and Carrion was a head taller as well. The Dogman hesitated. “We mean no harm.”

Cornelius growled. Then, he obeyed, putting Carrion down. Carrion fell to his knees, staring up at the small black man in a matching lab coat. The man smiled at him, but Carrion wasn’t looking at his smile. He was looking at his gray eyes. He was looking at the bites on his neck. He was looking at a walking corpse.

A dove flew down, perching on the black man’s shoulder.

When Charlie had turned eleven, Carrion gave him their fathers' old shotgun. The idea was to pass the torch, to lend it to the next generation. Another era of shooting between the eyes. Another era of exorcising demons. He remembered the campaigns his father once joined, back when the living didn’t need the undead to kill itself. Guns don’t kill people. Guns never killed people.

A gun didn’t kill his brother.

A dark figure in the darkness did. A thing with eyes pouring regret as it sunk its teeth into the last of his family’s neck. It didn’t speak. It shouldn’t have spoken, because animals don’t talk. Deers running away from hunters don’t scream, and neither did that dark figure, regardless of how many bullets Carrion wasted on him.

It was just a scrape, he assured himself as he carried Charlie back to their shelter in an abandoned barn. Charlie wasn’t going to turn. Charlie wasn’t going to become one of them. Charlie’s eyes were still blue, see? His cheeks weren’t covered in powder and grime. His mouth wasn’t dripping ketchup. He wasn’t going to die.

See?

“The militia needn’t disguise themselves among the ill if they need our help.” the small black doctor said, pouring a boiling cup of tea. “We’ve left some first aid kits nearby the gate, so that your people don’t need to search too far to find medicine. We’ve tried sending more, but there isn’t much communication beyond the walls.”

The doctor told him he was Thomas Shelley. He was aware of his reputation, but he thought he was doing good business, at least. He didn’t try to force his ways onto people—only persuade. “Two of your people were here, some time ago.” he confessed, “If you’d like them back, I’d happily give them to you. But it depends on whether they want to leave, as well.”

There were two cubes of sugar in Carrion’s tea.

Shelley told him the hospital’s fluorescent lights were lit by the nearby Chickamauga Dam, shut down and quarantined along with the rest of the Lenoir City. “Back before we had Mr. Blunt there to restart the entire the dam,” Shelley gestured to the hound sitting outside the ward window, “My colleagues and I were forced to work with nothing more than scalpels, stitches, and the like. Luckily, the afflicted aren’t exactly fragile. Justpained.”

Carrion shook his head. The tea steamed his face, making his forehead sweat. “They’re not afflicted.”

The doctor paused. He sat down beside the hospital bed Carrion laid on. He smiled. “Pardon?”

“The afflicted,” Carrion repeated, avoiding the doctors’ eyes, just like he avoided Charlie’s eyes. “They’re dead. They’ve been brought to life by God-knows-what. They’re monsters.”

Shelley’s smile fell somewhat before he tried to pick it back up. “I guess you’re more of a coffee person,” he chuckled, “Sorry about that. We’re still growing the beans.”

Charlie was wrong. Corpses wouldn’t fertilize the next civilization; the next civilization would be corpses. At least, mutated corpses. And the occasional Dogman or pale-faced bloodsucker. After Carrion was sure he wouldn’t spew out his intestines, Shelley showed him about the hospital, introducing him to various characters. Cornelius Blunt, civil engineer and former soldier. A man mutated while swimming in the dam, giving him amphibious skin. An ordinary member of the undead who remembered nothing about her past other than two hundred thirty-one digits of pi. The Converted Lieutenant.

“The chapel’s one of our pride and joys,” Shelley told him, as he brought him down to the shattered remains of a worship. “I remember back when I was younger, visiting this place. My mother was a hypochondriac, so she often went to the hospital afterward. Needless to say, most of my childhood consisted of Latin hymns and Greek illnesses.”

He laughed. His hands were in his pockets, clutching something Carrion couldn’t see. “My life wouldn’t make sense without this. My afterlife—if you could call it that, really—doesn’t exist without it.”

Carrion was about to speak, when the doves flew back in from the gates, followed by the mourning sun. Shelley smiled, pulling out bird seeds from his pockets. He stretched out his hand at first, letting one peck at his fingers. Before long, he threw it back down, watching the rest eat from cracked marble floors. “Would you like to feed them?” he offered, forwarding another handful of seeds. “I bring it around with me every day. We always have an excess from last years’ harvest, and the doves could always use it.”

Carrion stared down at the birds. “I don’t see doves anymore,” he said. “Even in the wild.”

Shelley nodded. “Occasionally, the parasites in the afflicted's head eat away at their brain stem. Their motor skills are rendered useless, and they'll lay still. Like cadavers." he said. "A banquet for scavengers."

“What does that have to do with doves?”

The doctor paused. “The only ones who win in war are the rooks. Never more.” He tossed another handful of seeds out. “They are as clever as they are ruthless. They will eat any cadaver, whether it’s a frog or a sparrow or a lion or a bear or even another rook, as is often rumored. Rooks will eat dead doves.” He paused. “But doves do not eat deadrooks. They aren’t as opportunistic.”

Carrion nodded. “They’ll fly to greener pastures,” he said. “They always do.”

Shelley stared at the birds, concerned. “They’ll fly where the other doves are."

Charlie would’ve loved Shelley. Shelley’s words were personal and public, selfish and altruistic, deathly and immortal. He talked about his patients, and it was as if he was talking about mankind. He talked about the chipped walls, and it was as if he was talking about the history of architecture. He talked about himself, and it was as if he was talking about the universe.

Carrion remembered Charlie’s face as he was fading away, the last conversation he ever had with him. “Why aren’t there any doves left, Carrion?” he had asked him, his voice rasp. “And pigeons, too. There used to be so many, back when pa was still shooting at them.”

The stars were shining outside the barn. The incandescent light had flickered above them, coloring the hay that made their beds. “Must be scared,” Carrion said, in the most casual way possible. Charlie didn’t deserve to be treated like a cancer patient on his deathbed. “The dead, they scare them.”

Charlie stared at him, then, his eyes dull. No longer blue. “Weren’t they scared by pa?”

“That’s—different.” Carrion justified. “They were eating pa’s cornstalks. They had to come back if they wanted food.”

“But therooks,” Charlie said, “They ate pa’s cornstalks too, right?”

“Yeah?”

Charlie froze. The statement hung in mid-air, like the incandescent light above their heads. They had to come back, it said. They wanted food.

“Carrion,” Charlie said, smiling. “I’d like to feed a dove, one day.” He considered his request. “And a pigeon. And a sparrow. And a wren.”

Carrion laughed. It was the last genuine laugh he remembered having. “We’ll find some seeds one day,” he said, “I promise.”

There was another bout of silence, and just when Carrion thought his brother was done, he piped up again. “Carrion?” He asked. “Don’t feed the rooks no more. Feed any bird, but don’t feed no rook.”

Carrion had arched a brow, curious. “Why?”

Charlie looked at him with the widest smile he could’ve managed at the time, and said, “I’ve already fed ‘em.”

Three weeks after being found in his disguise, Carrion was still in the chapel. He had wiped off the ketchup and the powder, but he wasn’t ready to leave. He wasn’t ready to go through with what the Commander told him to do--he wasn’t sure he remembered what the Commander told him to do. The two cubes of sugar had tainted his thoughts, left him more peaceful than he’d been in decades. And the doves. The seeds in his hand.

It should’ve been Charlie who was tossing them on the marble floors.

Cornelius Blunt sat by his side, at some point, glaring down at him. He had felt the Dogman’s watchful gaze for days, though he hadn’t approached him. Not until now. “You’re in shock,” Cornelius stated. “You don’t want to think about how we might not be just a painted target that can kill you.”

Carrion was silent.

The Dogman crossed his arms, silent on the pews. Carrion knew where his eyes were, even though the Dogman pretended to look elsewhere. They were on his belt. They were on his brothers'—his fathers'—his shotgun. “I don’t blameyou.” he said. “Back before I turned, I thought the same thing. It’s easy to dehumanize the dying. Ain’t like we don’t deserve what we get, either.”

Cornelius shrugged. “I remember the things I did back before Shelley found me. The people I--” he stopped. The crass persona peeled away a little, before rolling back into place. Somewhat colder. “I think I killed a kid, once.”

It was then that Carrion woke up from his loll, eyes wide and burning. “No older than ten?” he asked, stammering.

Cornelius paused. “Yes.”

Carrion looked him in the eye. Remembering. “Blond?”

Cornelius paused, again. He looked down at the doves. “Yes.”

Eyes. His eyes. The Dogman’s eyes said it all. “Blue eyes?”

The Dogman’s chest deflated, and he seemed somewhat relieved. Carrion felt the area of his belt, veins bulging on his knuckles. “Green.”

And that was when Carrion pulled out his shotgun.

“You’re lying.” He screamed at the Dogman, knocking the side of his gun against the Dogman’s temple. “You’re lying."

The doves had flown away, then, replaced by the writhing body of the worst beast of all. “It was ten years ago,” Carrion shouted, “His name was Charlie, Charlie Blanche. His father was Scott Blanche. His brother was Carrion Blanche. You bit my brother. You made me--” he hesitated, his words slurring in his frenzy. “You made me--”

And then Shelley dropped in, like the heroic fool he was. Standing between the two. Shotgun near his eyes. “Mr. Carrion,” he yelled. “Mr. Carrion, please. You mustn’t--”

“He killed my brother,” he screamed, nudging his gun to the other man. “He killed my brother!”

But his brother was never dead. The Dogman wounded him, sure, but he didn’t kill him. Charlie could’ve come here. Charlie could’ve stayed here, behind chapel walls, feeding doves. The bite didn’t mean death. The possessed weren’t dead. The possessed weren’t dead. The possessed weren’t—

“I didn’t kill my brother,” he defended, meekly. “I swear to God, I didn’t.”

“No.” Shelley started. Carrion stopped, then, his eyes growing wider by the second. “I did.”

And in that moment, the regret flooded back in Shelley’s eyes. He was frowning, but Carrion wasn’t staring at his lips. He was staring at the dark figure that had taken his brother from him. He was staring at the man who could’ve brought his brother back, if Carrion had only waited. “You’re lying,” Carrion insisted. “You’re only lying.”

Shelley held his arm out, touching the shotgun by the barrel. “Would it please you any less if I were?” He asked. “Would it not feed you all the same? Would it stop you from hovering over your dead brother?” There was a silence. “Would killing me bring you peace?”

Carrion stopped. He looked down at the corpse—the afflicted, before him. It was only a few moments later that he realized he was crying. “Yes.”

Cornelius was reaching out in the back, trying to stop Shelley. But the small man, the defenseless man, he was the most powerful person in the chapel. He was the man who knew his purpose. “I am not a dove. I have never been a dove. I am arookwith white wings, like everyone else here. But if you’ll be the rook,” he pulled the barrel of the gun to his forehead, “I will feed you, all the same.”

The burning heat was on Carrion's face. The doves were flocking back in, reassured by the silence of two figures on the verge of violence. It was then that he remembered what the Commander told him to do, why he had been sent there in the first place. The trigger was set. The gun was comfortable in his grip.

But Charlie wouldn’t have wanted to scare the doves away.

Carrion pulled the gun back, settling it in his belt. “My Commander will have your head, Thomas Shelley,” he assured, backing away. “You best leave the premise as soon as you can.”

Shelley didn’t say a word. If he did, Carrion didn’t need to hear it. He turned away, then, his face flushed, his gun hanging off his belt. Where he passed the doves, they didn’t move.