The Quivering Zombie

By W.F. Gigliotti

During the zombie apocalypse of November 2051, it was discovered that a select few zombies retained much of their intelligence. Charlie Nivell was one such zombie... This is his story.

Charlie awakens in a graveyard. He discovers that he is dead, a zombie, spawned from the graveyard where he was buried. He has few memories, his wife is missing, and he finds himself under someone else's control and unable to stop himself from doing their nefarious bidding.

He dreams of an object, a red silk scarf, the last gift that he had given to his beloved wife when they were alive. He believes that it holds the key to freedom from those who have enslaved him, and freedom from his own ultimate fears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.F. Gigliotti
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310078699

Book preview

Chapter 1 – THE AWAKENING

I have done horrible things and I have sinned against myself. What follows are my confessions, and my thoughts, as I remembered them.

It began with the color white. I stood upon the ground, with my eyes closed, yet I still saw white, like a flash from an explosion, but more persistent. There was no sound. There was just white.

Decisions are always made from the information that is available. I had no information, thus my ultimate decision was doomed from the beginning. This was the beginning as I remembered it, when everything went to hell.

The white fog was thick, like water, and like water, it seemed like one could swim through it. I looked around. Everything was the same shade of white, save for the dull shadow of the ground. I looked upon the ground and saw that there was a hole, a large one. Odd. The dirt surrounding the hole could have been thrown up from someone digging into the ground with a shovel. But it could also have been done by something – or someone - digging its way out. I did not want to think about that possibility. Then I looked a few feet farther away. There stood a headstone. Some of the thrown dirt covered it, but it was quite recognizable.

The fog seemed to snuff out any sound, as if it was a warm blanket. This blanket was not warm but quite cold. I was shivering and damp. What was I doing here? What happened? The fog did not have the smell of normal fog, unless I was mistaken. My sense of smell had never been the best; not by a long shot. If something was on fire I would just as likely think that dinner was ready, though it could have been a house burning to the ground, for all I knew. It was a strange taste, this fog. Like death.

This was a graveyard. That much was certain, unless I was in someone’s back yard. Were there people that buried loved ones in their backyards, or at least built little memorials or such to that effect? (Probably not, at least, not in today’s world.) I had to find help. I was not supposed to be here. I felt tired.

I began to walk. Morning frost had made the grass extra crispy, though it was starting to melt. The sound of it was strange. Sure enough, I came upon more gravestones and headstones. This was, indeed, a graveyard. The big question was: what am I doing here? That hole. I did not want to think of that hole, but the thought was nailing itself within my brain. Did something crawl out of that hole? Was it human, perhaps? Was it still around? Was it going to harm me, or kill me? Help, I called out. The fog, thick as it was, prevented me from seeing where I was going. Every ten steps was another grave site. They had packed them in like sardines in this place, didn’t they, the proprietors of this place? Usually plots are bigger for each of the dead, or should be. Not that the dead would care.

My head felt like something was nailing into it. It was the same feeling I always got when I didn’t have my morning coffee and cream. My leg was bothering me as well. It didn’t want to work all the way; at least, not the way it should.

There was a fence up ahead, chain link, with a gate, ornate in decoration. If a chain link fence could look fancy, this was how it would look. Who would put a chain-link fence inside a graveyard? It looked out of place to me. I limped closer to the fence. There was something within but I saw no shadow, nothing that would imply what was within. I walked along the outside of it, until I reached the gate. It was latched. I reached for the latch, swung it up, and opened the gate.

When I entered I beheld that which was within: a pool of water. I could see it now. It was rectangular in shape. It was roughly fifty feet long by twenty feet wide. At one end was a small building, a crypt. At the other end was a dais, upon which rested a torch. The torch was not lit. The pool was still. It was so still that it looked like a giant mirror, reflecting everything. I walked to the edge and looked down.

It reflected me. The reflection was in perfect color. There were bruises beneath my eyes. My hair was two shades greyer than I remembered. My clothes were torn and stained with dirt. I was a miserable sight. I looked over my shoulder to where I had come from. The grave, that hole in the ground, was easily human sized. So, was I dead? Had I been buried in that plot in the ground? Did I dig my way out? I brought my arm up and sniffed. I smelled of moist dirt, perhaps moist from this incessant fog. I took a breath. I was still breathing. I put my right hand over my heart. It was still beating. These physical things, breathing and heart-beating, did not happen when you were dead, as far as I knew.

Something was happening here. I stared into the mirrored pool of water. There was a little bit of steam rising from it, looking like smoke, as if the mirror had been recently forged in a vile pit from hell itself. I looked into my own eyes in the reflective surface. My eyes were tired, and looked like they were bearing the weight of the world. So, I said to myself. Am I alive, or am I dead? My voice was ragged and weak. As I looked at myself I noted how I seemed to be shivering. I was shaking quite a bit. You had to be in order to see yourself shaking in a reflection, especially a reflection borne of water. I got down on my knees, my left knee rebelling against me. I had doubts that it was a pool of water, so still it was. I put my hand close to it. There were sores on my hand, like I’d been burned somehow. I half-expected to touch a solid surface.

It was water, after all. As my fingers touched the surface, small waves spread out in all directions, ruining the mirage of solidity. This was a waste of time, I thought. I had to find answers. I struggled to my feet and walked around the pool to the exit on the other side. I walked between more graves and other crypts, until I caught site of something odd.

Sitting on a headstone, directly in front of me, were three black crows. They were all looking at me. There was something about them that bothered me. The two on the sides started pecking at the one in the middle, as if they wanted something from the center bird. The one on the left had a strange strand of yellow in its feathers. The one on the right had a red mark on the top of its head. It was reminding me of something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. In a fleeting moment, I wondered if the two on the sides were female. And maybe the one in the center was a male. Maybe the two females were fighting for the approval of the male, or for dominance, or for the male’s attention. I wasn’t sure. One thing I was sure of: It bothered me, like a bad memory that won’t go away, no matter how hard you try.

The three of them pecked at each other, the male suddenly becoming active. It was a strange three-way battle for dominance. I drew closer to them. Upon seeing my advance, all three of them cawed at me and flew off, almost becoming invisible as they disappeared into the fog. Their caws echoed through the surrounding area.

I felt a light breeze on my partially exposed shoulder. I looked about. In the distance, the fog parted for a short time. I could see far away now. I saw the outline of the city, perhaps ten miles away. The breeze moved the fog. It covered the sky again and the view of the city was gone, just like the three crows.

I looked up and for a moment I could see the moon. It was huge and red, partially covered by distant clouds. Soon though, it too disappeared into the fog.

I walked on. My left leg was bothering me again, not wanting to work. I limped, and then tripped. I fell to the ground. My mouth was agape at what I beheld. Sticking out of the ground was a hand, half-decayed. It was half-collapsed into a fist, but perhaps didn’t have the strength to be fully closed. It looked burned, just like my hands. There were bits of dirt around it, as if it just pushed itself up out of the ground on its own. I could only imagine the state of the body that the hand belonged to. Was there a body belonging to that hand? I chuckled a bit at the strange thought.

This was strait out of some horror movie, Attack of the Walking Dead, or something.

Was I dead? Again the question occurred to me. I did not want to give in to the affirmative answer. I did not want to give in to despair. Again, I breathed in deep and placed my hand over my heart. Yes, it was still beating. Was I buried alive, then? Did someone think I was dead, and so buried me?

The three crows landed beside me and the hand that was sticking out of the ground. I sat cross-legged. They seemed mighty tame for crows, I thought. They started pecking each other on their heads again. Were they playing or fighting? I couldn’t tell. Then they started pecking at the hand sticking up out of the ground. The hand began to twitch. I could swear it moved. I stood up with a start. Was this but a dream? These things were not possible. The hand twitched again. There, I saw it for sure that time. It was still again, until one of the crows pecked at it. Was it twitching out of pain? Can the dead even feel pain? I am very much alive. Thus, I feel pain. If I was dead, then the age-old question of whether or not the dead can feel pain is now answered. Maybe the brain has some receptors still alive and firing off impulses after the body dies. If death is not an instant end then maybe it is a slow meandering slip into oblivion as those last remaining receptors keep working, at least for a little while. The crows left the hand alone. It was still twitching.

I felt an undeniable urge to help the poor soul out. What would happen if I grabbed that hand and pulled? Would there be some animated dead person attached to the twitching hand? It was a dangerous thought. Can the dead be animated? Something in the back of my mind screamed, yes. Maybe I was one of those animated dead, undead. The question would not leave me. It nagged at me. It was an automatic negative thought that refused to go away. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to deal with the possibility of me being dead. If I was alive, and I grabbed this filthy burned hand and it was attached to some monster, then was I dooming myself to being attacked? Too much worry. It wastes too much energy.

Visions started playing in my head.

In my mind’s eye, I saw a priest giving communion to his congregation. Why was I thinking of this? It was an old style priest, of the Roman Catholic variety. His hand reached out and blessed those who partook of the bread and the wine. Something about it angered me. It wasn’t the faith, or lack thereof. It wasn’t the religion. It wasn’t the man, though he looked familiar. Maybe it was power, but I couldn’t be sure. But what kind of power was it that I was concerned about? Then the vision was gone, replaced by another.

I saw a man in a restaurant, ordering people about, trying to take and fulfill orders for his customers. People were eating pizza. They were calm and smiling as they watched the frantic man who was creating their food. Maybe they were smiling for another reason. This manager of the restaurant meant something. But I could not see the answer. The second vision ended just as fast as the first.

I saw a very pale, little, middle-aged woman wearing a strange dress, covered with printed-on flowers. She sat down at a round table. On the round table was a ball made of glass. She was motioning to me. She saw me, in my vision! Or maybe it was my imagination. Either way, my heart skipped a beat. And that vision, too, disappeared into nothingness, like smoke in the wind.

I saw a doctor. He looked like a doctor, wearing the tell-tale uniform of one, with a stethoscope around his neck. This was no ordinary doctor. In the left pocket of his lab coat was what looked like a doll with pins sticking out of it. He was carrying a book. The title was visible but I could not read it. He had an assistant with him. She was dark skinned just like him but had bright eyes – there were no contact lenses to make her look like that. Her eyes were naturally bright. She looked directly at me in the vision. Then, that vision, too, dissolved into nothing.

The visions ended.

I stood and began to walk again, leaving the emerged hand behind. I saw a shadow up ahead, two shadows actually. One was large and hulking, while the other was human-sized.

I stopped. I looked at my arms, at my torso, and at my legs. I looked just like I had crawled my way out of a grave. If someone encountered me, they would - very likely - freak out about my appearance. I had to be careful here. If it was a security guard, with a gun, up ahead, approaching him could very well be fatal.

The fog parted a ways and I saw the man. He had sandy bleached hair, long. He wore bib overalls. He looked the part of a stereotypical hillbilly. I hate stereotypes and rebel against them, for they lead to unfair judgments on the innocent. But he so embodied the stereotype that I could not forsake it. He had a shovel in his hand. He was facing away from me. There was a smoldering cigarette in his other hand. The big hulking shadow turned out to be a backhoe. Beside the backhoe was a large mound of dirt. There was a huge gaping hole between me and the man.

My left leg was bothering me again. I limped closer to him, moving about the large hole in the ground. He turned around and looked square into my eyes. For a time, he didn’t say a word. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something. Regardless, he stood still, the ash tip of his cigarette growing longer, its smoke adding to the fog, disappearing into it.

I heard the caw of the crows in the distance.

He was the caretaker of this graveyard. Calmly, he brought his hand up and took a deep

Reviews for The Quivering Zombie

[Julie Price · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

it was entertaining.
a little bit different type of zombie in story but still worth a read.