literature

ZOMBIES OF THE VICTORIAN AGE

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We are 600 strong, crammed into a damp, dark, and sordid ship that smelt of death. We are chained to our bunks at night and chained to each other during the day, force to work for those who sentenced us to Hell. I am an innocent man, my only crime being that I didn’t want my children to starve. Now, they are most likely dead and I will die here, in a place that knows no mercy or kindness.

The doors spring open, blinding us with a pale light, and the guards steam in, unchaining us from our beds, and forcefully binding us to each other. We are marched outside in two columns and I am pulled and jerked around like a bone being pulled by two dogs. I am one of the weakest prisoners and have suffered bitterly for it. A new prison on my left, a damn wog, tumbles to a severe stop and throws up. The guards shout at him and the other prisoners beat him to his knees, demanding that he rise. He coughs up blood as a prison picks him up by the collar of his shirt and pushes him forward. I realize he will not survive the day.

After a day of tremendous labor, we are dragged back to the hulk, the wog about to lay down the knife and fork. As we are brought into the ship, a large prisoner slips something into the guard’s hand and he and three of his fellow criminals are unchained and allowed to move freely along the ship. They take the wog and drag him to the stern. As I lay in my hard cot and the guards wrap the cold, metal chains around my waist and wrists, I hear the muted and pathetic cries of the wog. The guards leave, not even glancing at the bloody affair, and close the door, plunging us into cold, wet darkness. The few prisoners that are free guffaw and wander the ship, looking for their hidden collect of goods. One can rule the world for the right price and understanding of one’s place. I close my eyes as the chill eats into my lower back and shoulder blades, the pain like sharp needles. I count the muddled plinks as water drips from the ceiling and onto someone’s shackles and I drift into a fitful sleep.

A scream from the very bowels of Hell startles me awake and I strain against my binds. Prisoners who had withstood the most bitter of lashes cry out to God in broken voices and I cannot help but think of Lucifer and his fallen horde begging for readmittance to Eden. I pull against my chains, foolishly expecting that they will break when they have never broken before.
“What is it?” I cry in vain, knowing I’ll never be heard over the screams, “What is happening?”
“Oh, Mother of Jesus, help me!”
I hold my breath as the screams grow frantic and, for the first time, I hear the snorting of someone feasting. But feasting on what?
“Help me! Someone! Please! Oh Lord!”
The voice is broken and choked, but I know it. It belongs to the prisoner four bunks below me. Chains rattle the other two men below attempt to escape, but I know the chains will not break. I have one hope. I shift and twist my wrists, frantically attempting to pull my hand through the chain loops. If I can get my hands free, I might be able to unchain my waist. The creature below me is hastily gnawing on a wet and raw substance and my hand is bruising as I pull harder and harder. I cannot be trapped in here with that creature. I must get out.
“HELP!”
That was the man directly below me.
“HELP! You blasted peelers! Help!”
I jerk my head up, straining to see above my head as the man next to me screams with unholy terror and that horrendous glop, glop, glop. Dear Lord above…My hand begins to bleed as I pull and tug at the chains. I have to get out. I pull and pull and the chains will not give and the men below me gags. I have to get out. There is a shuffle and something grabs my bunk. No, no, no. I must get out. I toss and turn against my binds and scream as sharp teeth pierce into my bicep, tearing muscle from bone, the pain throbbing up and down the remains of my arm. No. Must get out. A hand rips into my stomach, blood coating my mouth as another hand wraps around my shoulder and sharp teeth tear off my cheek.
This is for the Gauntlet. The first prompt was to write a zombie story in Victorian England without using any obvious references to alert the reader that it was set in Victorian England. As soon as I saw that first prompt I was inspired and so we have this, haha. It's not as terrifying as I wanted it to be, but hopefully it's creepy. This is my first ever zombie story, so it was hard, but fun.

Also, please forgive the use of derogatory word. It was a popular word during Victorian England and I figured using sparse slang would be the most effective way of setting the story in its proper time period. And, yes, the English used to shove their prisoners in ships on the Thames. Lovely people, right?

Enjoy!

(C) me
© 2017 - 2024 Pepper-the-phoenix
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