New Flash Fiction: What if the Undead - were not?

We're all familiar with the "walking dead" aka zombies but what if it the undead were just another minority group within society? This is the angle today's contributor Blake Johnson explores in this story. Blake Johnson is a poet and novelist with a passion for all things speculative. He says "It is my firm belief that through fiction, we can make sense of reality." His poetry has appeared in Ancient Paths Literary Magazine.  

The Walk
by Blake Johnson

I used to be able to only go out once, maybe twice a year – but at the turn of the millennium something changed. It was largely due to the media that society became more accepting of guys like me. The movies, the books, the video games: they were the series of sparks that birthed a fiery, though misinformed, sub-culture who embraced the idea of the undead. It wasn’t long until I had more opportunities to walk the streets in broad daylight without having to hide my gray flesh. 

Today was my favorite day, the day of the Walk. 

I had a quick snack (I’m not very pleasant when I’m hungry) then shambled as fast as my gimpy legs could carry me to the corner of Tabitha Street. When I got there, it felt as if I had reunited with a long lost love. The street was overflowing with them: men and women in tattered clothing, faces colored in elaborate makeup depicting gashes and jutting bones and grim expressions. At the front of the parade a row of people held a banner that read: TENTH ANNUAL ZOMBIE WALK: UNDYING FOR A CAUSE. 

I spent some time mingling. People who were astounded at how authentic I looked wanted pictures with me. A few asked me if a professional did my makeup; usually I’d just smile and say I did it myself, which wasn’t too far from the truth. 

Listening was my favorite part. It didn’t matter if I was part of the conversation or not. There was something about the speech of the living, with all of their exaggerated inflections and giggles and gripes over silly things that sent a palpable joy through my hollow body. I never knew what to say myself, though. The concept of small talk, even after two lifetimes, was lost on me.

The Walk began. 

Shoulder to shoulder we ambled along, feigning groans and occasionally moaning brainzzz. I noticed that a few of the Walkers were like me. We ignored each other. Best not to draw attention. 

I found myself walking next to a girl who may have been twenty. She had red streaks in her hair, and her gray makeup was starting to run under the beating sun. Her icy blue eyes looked like beacons against her drab clothing.  

In her hand she held a book. One that I recognized immediately.  
    
“It’s not accurate, you know,” I said. “Frederick’s Guide to the Undead.”
    
She glanced at me and raised a thin eyebrow. 
    
“Oh?” she finally said, laughing a little. “Care to explain?”
  
 I did. The book was satirical, but its discrepancies still bugged me. I explained that a blow to the brain wouldn’t always do us (er, them) in, and that some undead still possessed intelligence – especially the ones with the will to live. 
    
She giggled during my lecture. A lot. I knew she thought I was joking, but I didn’t care. It was nice to be the one talking for once. Not that I dominated the conversation. She often put in her own two cents about zombies, not realizing she was talking to the unliving article. 
    
Finally, we marched into the center of downtown. The Walk had ended. We prepared to part ways. 
    
“Hey,” she said. “I know this is, uh, ya know…but…can I see you again?”
    
I thought about it, weighing the pros and cons of another rendezvous with the living girl. I had to make the decision quickly, though, so I could get home. It was getting late, and I was getting hungry. 
    
“October,” I eventually said. “Meet me here on October 31st.” 
    
​That wasn’t for another three months. The waiting would be hard, but with it would come anticipation. A hope that, through the passage of time, I would reach a horizon made up of better days. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that I was willing to wait that long; after all, isn’t it hope that keeps us alive?