Talking
They were talking. Not just some blurred, exasperated, staccato voiced, electric tinged sound coming out of their throats. No, they were talking. Their voices were normal, as they were when they themselves were alive. Most were already torn apart, their entrails dragging behind them, blood coating their hands and face, caking pale white skin with a morbid sort of makeup. They never screamed. They never yelled. They merely talked with a calm demeanor. Even with bullets and grenades riddling their bodies; their decomposing, putrid bodies, they still talked with that soft tone. I had never expected this. They were normal people, they acted normal. The only thing that truly did give them away were the prolonged cuts and scratches that never seemed to heal for weeks. They never showed signs of being what they truly were. Never did show anything until that glowing blue eye cracked open the front of their forehead.
Then they started feeding.
They ate with such disgusting vigour, ripping apart muscle and tissue, blood dripping from their mouths. They didn't care much for it, though…
And even through it all, they still talked.
My father walked into the house, a smile upon his face as per usual. He had his normal demeanor as he announced to his wife, my mother, that he had just received a raise. She greeted him with open arms. He greeted her with another smile and plunged his mouth into her throat and started to rip her apart, that metallic appendage growing on his forehead in a small burst of brain fluids and blood. I was on the couch, staring at the scene in front of me. I gagged, trying to move quickly. I ran. He noticed. Then I felt nothing, of course. I didn't feel him breaking my neck. I didn't know he was ripping me apart. I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm behind you. It won't hurt for much longer.