The stench from the trash heap reeks. A consequence of government overreach and industrial collapse. It stinks for blocks, it sends a message of total compliance and reminds the public who their overlords are. An example, a threat to those that oppose the dystopian regime. Drones hum through the atmosphere, curtains twitch and the streets are mostly empty. The cameras watch and the digital algorithm dictates. Crime is rife and corruption is anchored into the hearts of once great men and women. No one is trustworthy, no one is sincere. Fake smiles plastered across faces and a weak acceptance is hated but commonplace now due to the threat of ostracism or even death.
A once great species reduced to meek compliance. The ruling class play with their puppets and dictate policy amongst the shadows. Armoured guards surround the pile of bodies of those who opposed the oppression. The heap is a reminder for anyone who questions or steps out of line. As the rain drenches the rotting flesh, the guards joke amongst themselves. Little do they know that this regime’s inhumane wrongdoings will be their undoing. Neither bullet nor blade will save them.
The establishment has such disdain and disregard for their people and homeland that they arrogantly pollute their rivers and air. It is not their drinking water anyway, it is the socially and ideologically engineered underclass’s tasty refreshment. A trail of deadly, toxic radioactive waste streams into the footing of the trash heap, soaking into the decaying flesh as if it were a sponge. Squelching and unbearable stench. A cocktail of death, maggots and vengeful souls. Suddenly a bolt of lightning strikes the heap.
A corpse twitches, mutates and slowly reanimates. Hideous, tortured and resurrected. A once protester stares at the guards. They are confused, fearful but still arrogant, always arrogant. They jeer, they threaten with their humongous machine guns. However, little do they know it is all useless, their man-made fighting tools rendered worthless. They cannot comprehend the world of instant agony they are about to endure. A guard approaches the corpse man. From a distance they laughed, but now face to face they realise what they comprehend. They see that this is no person but an undead manifestation of undying resilience. The corpse man lets out a primal battle cry as maggots thread through his rotting teeth.
The first guard shoots, then the others follow. The corpse barely stumbles. Emotionless with vengeance in his cold dead eyes. As the bullets deplete, the realisation kicks in. They are seriously in for a universe of eternal agony. Acid ejects from the corpse man and melts the guard’s face, disgustingly dissolving it away until a skeleton featureless vessel is all that is left. Some guards run, some attack. The guns out, the knives out. The penetrating blades do nothing to the corpse. They are just a slight inconvenience, almost a tickle to him. He punches a hole straight through one and into another.
Breaks a neck or two. Then removes a head clean from a body. The nerve endings twitch as a lake of blood trickles down the street. Guts are ripped out, organs are effortlessly plucked from torn flesh. Chewed and spat back onto their owner. One guard is left, his last bullet bounces off the corpse man’s rotting chest and hits the ground. He tries to run but the undead protester’s mutated arm expands and efficiently removes the guard’s skeleton straight from his own body. Somewhere the ruling class sip overly expensive champagne, unaware that an undead army is on the way, any day, any time. The forgotten, the disregarded and now their fate. Nothing can stop it, not even the most advanced weaponry on the planet. Once a corpse on the trash heap, now an ungodly killing machine. Cold, instinctive and forever defiant. Sirens blaze as the undead army marches towards the elite’s gated communities. A new trash heap is on the horizon.