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  • Short Story - 'The Dead Party' and a weekend blog hop.
Short Story - 'The Dead Party' and a weekend blog hop.
Written by
Shah Wharton
July 2011
Written by
Shah Wharton
July 2011

Weekend Creation Blog Hop: The Dead Party - A Scary Dream

What follows is a dream I had a while back. I wrote it down like this for a writing challenge. Thought I'd share it with you and get your thoughts on it ;D


The Dead Party



Standing here I can see for miles. In the distance is our nearest town, and only three doors up is my little house. Although it’s not strictly mine any more. They take everything.


 It’s eerily quiet around here recently, though it used to be so vibrant. What a terrible waste; cars burned out, houses deserted. It makes me miserable and furious.


 I'm sat on the roof-top of the former Mrs. Whelms - a consultant of some sort, no less - searching out the vile Dead, who in their armies swiftly took control of our district one month ago.


Strange to concede that 90% of my living allies in District 8 supposedly voted for the Dead Party to rule the roost! Even the Green Party would seem like a better option in the absence of our Conservative, Liberal Democrat and Labour councillors, who all bizarrely disappeared only a week before voting began.


“The democratic process has proved a positive one,” they said. Of course, the living demanded a re-count, but it wasn’t allowed as with all investigations into their dubious habits: It’s Political Correctness’ gone mad!


Besides, there was never enough proof of fixing the vote to use against them, and without evidence there was nothing to investigate.


With power came numbers. They were popping up everywhere. Their pong began to loiter ubiquitously, even in cafes and restaurants. We couldn’t enjoy a bag of chips without their death hanging around, polluting our noses. Their yellow eyes - encircled with red rims - are the worst, however. Man they’re ugly, especially when they weep a pus-like substance when hungry. I feel sickened just thinking of them.


And yet they seem oblivious to their condition, as though they had forgotten about vanity along with breathing.


 How did it come to this? I have no clue, quite simply. I fell to sleep one evening - as one does - and when I woke up it was all over the news: “The Dead Rise Again!” I had to ask myself, ‘When did they rise the first time?’ I thought it to be some stunt by a flagging media mogul, or a clever ruse by some saddo, alone on his computer with too much time on his hands.


Ah, no. Actually my very first thoughts were that it must be the residue of a nightmare, which I’d not fully shaken off.


Sadly, as the day moved on and the news came in, it became clear that none of the above was true. The Dead were indeed walking around in my town, and then pretty soon, in my street. My doctor, my news agent and the till girl at Tesco’s: All Dead! Of course, they didn’t continue their former professions once the change came. At first I thought they’d lost their jobs due to some kind of understandable work-placed prejudice. Well, I wouldn’t like to buy food from the Dead either. Who would? But I found out that it was actually so the growing legions of the Dead could be trained to perform as foot-soldiers for their elite. They do a good line in recruitment, apparently. Though what the incentives are, I can not imagine.


Crime in the form of murder and looting became a big problem around then, and continues to be. So much for the ‘Dead Party’ making ‘positive changes.’ They’ll never get my vote.


When I originally heard the news of their invasion, the first thing I did was call Spain. My dear mother lives there alone. I needlessly feared all sorts of things. She explained that mostly ‘these things’ only occurred in big cities and that as she lived in a ‘quaint little village’ she would mercifully remain untouched by ‘such things.’ She’s a strict agnostic and doesn’t believe in zombies or vampires or ‘whatever else they’re calling themselves lately.’ She doesn’t believe in global warming, so I don’t know what I was expecting.


Convinced of her safety, I then called my husband who’s a pilot for Emirates. Thankfully though, they don’t have the ‘Dead Party’ in Dubai, so that’s good. Perhaps becoming a Muslim is the way to go, after all? I committed myself to giving it serious thought just as soon as I could fly my ass out of the U.K, away from this wicked contamination.


Dubai looked incredibly like heaven at this point.


Then the government closed all airports, but because they are so bloody ‘precious’ – and far more important than their subjects, it seems - they were flown out quick-sharp, way before their quarantine was imposed. It seems remarkably unfair under the circumstances. I never voted for them, but here they are – or rather were, before they ditched their electorate – deciding that the survivors of this plague would have to pretty much ‘deal with it’ until they decided what to do next - if anything.


We wanted to fly away to safety too, but that was no longer an option for us. We had to ‘understand’ and ‘be reasonable’ about it. I will be writing a stern letter to my local coun.... Or perhaps not. My local councillor is now Dead and I assume he’d be unsympathetic to our cause.


You may wonder why I began discussing such things, while sitting on the roof of Mrs. Whelms. Well, I’m ashamed to admit that I'm hiding. After ‘the Dead’ took over our district it all got antsy. Their guise of ‘reasonable behaviour’ began to slip sharply. The People began to say ‘No!’ too often. They began banging on doors, screaming about human rights and the like. They barricaded themselves into airports demanding to be flown to humanity. The People were indignant, armed with abusive mouths and the occasional rounder’s bat. It was a sight to behold. However, all protests landed on Dead ears. It got us all nowhere.


I am more lady than lout, so I hid. I decided to wait it out at home, figuring naively that our government or some neighbouring country might send in the troops.


Also, communication was stopped within a few days, so we had no idea what was happening to the rest of the world. There was no post-person to deliver my EBay purchases, no letters of comfort from my mum or husband. No phone or internet or T.V. Nothing but political propaganda leaflets telling me that if I support the ‘Dead Party,’ my own death would be quicker and relatively painless, and when I woke up I’d be a fully-fledged, badge wearing party member, ‘...with all the privileges that would entailed,’ whatever they were.

 “Hurrah, bring it on. Not!” 


Naturally, the Dead didn’t like our rebellion and began revealing their true natures: The Death Contract became obligatory. “Join us willingly or painfully,” became the only options afforded us.


Thousands had surprisingly chosen Death rather than to fight; something about the allure of immortality. I blame ‘Twilight’. Thousands more had had the choice taken from them barbarically. Their blood looked like the main contender for a paint party.  I’m one of the minority ‘problem people’ - who wouldn’t conform to political requirements for the so called, ‘Betterment of the populous as a whole,’ - who escaped.


To think; I was once a shy conformist who rarely voted, who preferred to remain invisible within society. Now I’m a reluctant ‘political reformist,’ an ‘agitator’ and a ‘rebel on the run.’ Unprepared for such titles, I feared that very soon I’d be simply... ‘Dead.’ Not a title I will ever desire. So I hid... until they found me. Then I ran. I’m still running.


From my lofty view, I see them creeping toward me. The officer in charge is Jessica. She’d been a weak-willed woman with three children with different fathers, and a drink problem. I liked her. The pressure to be successful was a paralysing feminism issue, yet Jessica provoked no rivalry in me, making friendship easy. Her dress sense hadn’t changed much; she must have owned every item in her ample size, made from leopard print. Today was a great example. I wondered where her children were now and what the Dead did with the vulnerable in general: children, disabled, the elderly and sick. After all, you’d think the biggest disability would be... death. Wouldn’t they empathise? Yet, they were absent in all propaganda literature and on streets, and hospitals were heavily guarded so I have no idea what occurs within them. ‘Have they all been ‘terminated’ in an act of genocide?’ I wondered, shuddering.


Jessica crept through the damp street at sundown, with yellow, weeping eyes, grey rotting skin, and a stench which reached my guts. I wondered if she still had her drink problem. Their diet was meat and/or blood, so I doubted she needed a bottle of Merlot in quite the same way. ‘What do they intend to do for food when we’re all dead? Turn to their stash of vulnerable people?’ Answers on a postcard please!


I remained as quiet as a mouse, but without the squeaking.

O, the less depressing part to all this is that I’ve become increasingly aware of changes in myself. You may - for instance - wonder how I got on to this roof. Well, I sprinted from Jessica and her troops faster than I’d ever done so, in fact, and the further I ran, the quicker I became. ‘Superb,’ I thought. ‘This is going to come in handy.’ 


Speed wasn’t all powerful, however. The many Dead had surrounded me, leaving my options stolen. Each direction I chose quickly filled with Pesky Pongsters! Then I looked up, I don’t know why. My history hadn’t told me that if I looked up, it would provide an alternative escape route. But I looked up anyway. And hey-presto, I flew through the sky like I’d been propelled by a super-large sling, landing on this roof.

Problem is, now I don’t know what to do. Does this mean I can fly or not? Well, I can’t think of what else it could mean: that I can target myself to a desired location? God knows, but he’s forsaken this world. And where could this talent have ‘sprung’ from? See what I did? Well it made me smile, and there’re precious few of those.


For the rest of this short story and the hop to link up your own creations, visit the link! 


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