I don't know how it happened, I don't know when it happened but I realized just now that I don't have a name anymore. It's very odd, even for my dead mind, to think that I'm no longer a person. I am dead. That thought scares me, one thing I can still feel since dying is fear. Raw, primal fear, as real as the hunger that comes with my condition. When I was first dead, I remember thinking it felt so odd to be hungry. I don't remember the old hunger anymore though. I do remember fear, and feel it now to the furthest extent a dead amygdala will let me. There's no quickening pulse though, just a feeling deep in my cells that screams out for my name.
I think I'm scared because in losing my name I lose my identity, and I suspect it to be the last step in becoming a zombie. I am dead but nameless, therefore I am no one. I can remember that even the truly dead have names. I remember the stones, the angels, the hearts, the carvings all with names on them and the dead beneath them. I don't want my last memory of humanity to be graves though. I know it shouldn't matter, but I don't like what I'm becoming. Especially if I lose my name, names are important. I dig through graying tissues of my own brain, through cobwebs of intricate thought and somehow I find myself outside.
We don't like the outside. We hate the sky, a gaping maw of blue or black waiting for us to let go of the ground and fall down it's throat. Mountains in the distance are its teeth. It's a creature with no eyes, like many zombies, it is just there to eat. I'm uncomfortable under it and stagger to find a way back into the safety of the airport. The sky is a god without eyes, but it can see me wandering and therefore wants to eat me. The sky god is a zombie too, only a breed that eats its own. A cannibal who gained power by eating its own kind, the sky is a wendigo.
As I'm shambling along to free the cannibal sky a sound seems to blow through my ears into my brain. A blaring noise, like a horn accompanied by a buzzing sort of hum, groans rise and I see that church is in service just a small distance away from me. It's where the dead gather and listen, waving their arms in the air and wailing along with wordless sermons given by the longer dead. They're called boneys, because they are simply skeletons, with clinging jerky like skin. Something in them is still alive though and that places them in a position of authority over us. They decided when and who we marry, they give us children and they are our priests. Speaking to the sky monster in a hideous wordless cry.
I find comfort in it though, more comfort than I would feel inside. Yes. Let me gather with my dead kin and dare the sky to feast. The tuneless music of the dead bids me near with a hum that I believe I can feel singing from my own bones. Addictive, sickeningly sweet, like the taste of a brain between my teeth soft and squishy, warm and delightful. I have not been dead long but I have tasted fresh meat. I stumble towards the sound, suddenly starving to be one of a mass waving my arms at the sky.
Not a person, not a name, just something dead.
On my quest to join the congregation I find myself passing the bloated bodies of airplanes. I know one of us, an odd one, lives inside one of the airplanes. I know him because his tie is red and remarkably clean. It's one bright spot in a world of mucking fashion. As I pass the plane he lives inside a very strange but familiar sound tickles at me. I know the sound is closer but it seems to only be a whisper in comparison to the buzzing in my bones.
It is a whisper I can hear though and that is what's important. The fact I can hear it gives me pause and I hear it clearer. It's music, living music, instruments and a voice from ages past. I'm unable to find the words, I hear a voice but it's all I hear. It's all I need to hear, a spasm ripples through my body and I no longer pay attention to the cries for boneys. I stand in silent bliss listening. I can remember music, I can remember the feelings it would shake into my form. I remember nervously giggling. I remember his arms around me, his hand holding mine, and then a pang of pain. Sharp and real, in my foot..
We were dancing-no. I was teaching him to dance. We were in a house, our safe haven, and music played from a record. I wanted to dance. I asked him to dance but he didn't know how. I decided to teach him and pulled him along after me. He tried to hold me close but I squirmed to make him move after me-and then he stepped on my foot.
I look down to the foot that's bare and see a bruise, black and ugly. When we die, truly die, our blood pools towards the ground. However, I am a new kind of dead, so I suppose I am an exception to that. I suppose blood is still flowing-but I know that the bruise across my toes is from teaching Callum to dance.
Suddenly I have a name again, I have a whisper across my lips as he apologizes, mumbling my name.
'Detta' Air hisses from the hole in my throat as I mouth the name, my name. I continue to hiss as I continue to try and say it. Put my own voice in place of his-but why? I stop trying and instead cling to the memory, sitting beneath the plane where the music comes from. His name is Callum, he's tall, his hair is curly, and he still can't dance. I repeat it, unable to speak but moving my lips. I think it's what I'm saying at least.
I lean back against a flattened tire that once helped the massive creature of metal slow and stop. I myself slow and clinging to nothing more than a faded out memory. I fall asleep for the first time since I've died.