The Job

The Job

The gravel crunched under my tires as I approached my destination. I pulled to a stop a good distance from the dilapidated farmhouse. The faded and peeling grey paint and broken-down porch made it look as though it had been abandoned decades ago. Knowing better, I got out of my Jeep. Grabbing my large work bag out of the back seat, I shut the driver's side door softly to keep the loud bang from echoing around me. The sharp contrast between my red vehicle and the washed out house reminded me of a bad Technicolor film.

The new owners had contacted me two weeks ago. Their aunt Matilda had died here and then risen as a zombie. Not an uncommon occurrence, but an annoying one. I suggested they burn down the house, fire was an excellent way to deal with reanimation issues, but they declined the solution and then told me that I wasn't to damage the property. Looking at the ramshackle of a house I huffed, they'd have done better to torch the place and start over.

As I approached the house, a fetid odor assaulted my nose. Sickly sweet and rotten, I spat out the fluid filling my mouth as I fought the urge to vomit. I knew the source, it was why I was here.

I eyed the veranda, unsure of its ability to hold my weight. Several planks were missing and nails were sticking out of the weathered boards that were left. Spiders had built webs that spanned the distance from the railing to the window sill. Layers of corpse-grey silt covered every flat surface and the remains of dead dandelions littered the areas where the structure still connected with the house.

I tested the first and second step before proceeding up to the porch. The moment my foot hit the neglected wood, a loud crack reverberated. I stood as still as I could, listening. Sure enough, moans came from the house.

"Damn it!" I hissed, looking down at the splintered board. I could only pray that the noise hadn't startled her into hiding.

Sighing, I continued to the entrance. By the time I got to the handle, the sighs were softer. She had probably been in the front room of the house and retreated when the noise alerted her to my presence. Setting my pack down, I removed my crossbow and sheathed machete from the bag. Strapping the sheath over my back, I opened the front door and went inside, leaving my bag by the entrance for easy retrieval.

I thought the outside of the house had deteriorated since its owner's passing, but glancing around, I realized that this house had probably never been properly cared for. Piles of stuff were stacked against the walls. Newspapers, boxes, books, containers, clothes - there were heaps of things everywhere with paths through the mountains of detritus. Aunt Matilda had obviously been a hoarder. I took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. Acrid and stale, the tang of rot and mildew flooded my mouth. I was barely able to stop the heaving sensation as I gagged on the rancid flavors, swallowing the rush of bile that had risen up.

I pulled a small mag light out of my cargo pocket to combat the dusty gloom. As I shown the light through doorways, the light bounced back from a pair of dilated eyes. A piercing yowl, echoed around me as a cat darted from the room and out of the front door. I laughed lightly but abruptly stopped when I realized what had really startled the feline.

Her hair was a mass of matted grey tangles and her skin was mottled in shades of jaundice yellow and mold green. Her eyes were covered with cataracts and her jaw looked misshaped. She watched me as I leveled my crossbow in her direction. Opening her mouth as if to scream, maggots tumbled out.

I fired the loaded bolt and retched, throwing myself off balance and causing my bolt to go wide. Falling, I landed hard, jarring my elbow and landing in my own vomit. Wet and sticky, I frowned at the hot, slimy goo covering my hand. Groaning in disgust, I wiped my hand on the leg of my pants and got up.

Aunt Matilda had disappeared, no doubt retreating farther into the chaotic house. I scanned the room she had been standing in, shining my flashlight around before entering. This room was worse than the other with only a small standing area in the center.

I took the path out of the room and found myself in the kitchen. Aunt Matilda was standing in the corner with her back to me. I wished there were another solution, it wasn't her fault she had reanimated. Removing my machete, I swiftly performed the decapitation.

As soon as I had, a rush of warm wind circled me, prickling my skin and invading my senses. Relief, joy, and gratitude flooded me as her soul expressed its appreciation at being freed to continue its journey. This was the only thing that made this job palatable. I didn't bother to wipe the tears that streaked down my face as I left the house to call the owners. I would let them deal with the corpse.

The movies had misrepresented zombies, they weren't rampaging mindless beasts trying to infect the world. Zombies were what happened when a person's soul was trapped inside their deceased body. We don't know why some people reanimate and others don't, hopefully someday they'll figure it out and I will be out of a job.

Word Count: 935

Written for the Writer's Cramp July 7, 2015
Write a story or poem that includes the following senses: sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing
And... You may not use the word or root word of: see/saw/sight, smell, touch, taste, or sound/hear/heard anywhere in your story or poem.
And...Bold each of the five sentences in your story or poem you use to interpret these senses