Читать книгу The Zombie and his Existential Crisis - Chantal Spies - Страница 1

Salty. Fredrick’s mouth was filled with something that was definitely salty. As far as he could tell, it was crunchy too. But more like toasted earthworms than peanut butter. Wait, how would he even know what earthworms tasted like?

As it happened, Frederick woke up to found himself in total darkness and a mouth filled with sand. He coughed and inhaled deeply but nothing happened. Nothing! His lungs didn’t expand! Air passed straight through him!

Fred started panicking, to be more accurate he started to freak out. “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” he screamed. True, he wasn’t breathing, but he wasn’t suffocating either.How was he even able to scream? Sound waves need air to travel, right? He patted himself all over, looking for something that would help shed some light on the matter.

He reached for the matches he always carried in his pocket. He managed to light one. He looked around and discovered that he was in some sort of wooden confined space. Tapping all around him, he tried to get a feel for his surroundings. Then it hit him. A coffin? He was in a freaking coffin!

Frederick punched his way through the top of the coffin and hit nothing but soil. The supernatural strength behind his punches surprised him. Like a wild animal he started tearing the box apart and pushed his way through the loose sand until he reached the surface. He crawled out of the dirt and discovered that it was a quiet, moonlit night. The whole setting would have been quite beautiful if it wasn’t a graveyard. Frederick leaned against the tombstone behind him to catch his breath, even though there was no breath to catch. Suddenly he realized that he wasn’t tired. Not even after all that digging and punching. What was happening to him? What had happened to him?

Slowly tracing his fingertips over the engraved lettering on the tombstone, he found the answer: “Prince Frederick III ~ 1620-1641”. Now why did that name sound so familiar, he wondered. Was it his name? Was he dead? Frederick checked his neck for a pulse. Nothing. He took a sharp rock and cut the tip of his finger. No blood. Royalty or not, one thing was certain: he was a zombie.