The Mortal Burden
Book I
Chapter III
Part XIII: Zombie or Zombi?
Clayden gulped down the last of his drink while he sat alone in a booth at the front of an old, musty tavern. Stale beer and smoke had been thriving for hundreds of years in the interstitial spaces not visible in the human spectrum of vision.
The lights had been dimmed for the customers, most of whom could see in the dark anyway. The music was a disjointed jazz—heavy and haunting, with depression woven in for extra effect.
May had been gone for about an hour now, somewhere farther into the recesses of the bar. For his safety, she had asked him to remain in the front. Most of the “us predators,” as she labeled herself, were deep within the crypts and hoary caverns of the ancient catacombs beneath the tavern.
“Would you like another?” a cocktail waitress asked him, as he grinned in recognition. Before he could respond…
“Hey, you’re that Commander guy who saved the city,” she said, smiling as she sat next to him, pushing him farther into the booth, pushing her breasts against his side, hard nipples rubbing his left arm.
“I’m afraid you must be joking,” he answered her, looking away down at his empty glass.
“You must be. Your face has been on the news for days,” she smiled, putting her hand on his knee and squeezing.
“You have the wrong person. Just get me another drink!” Clayden pulled out a twenty and gave it to her. She pulled away coldly and left him in silence. She returned with his drink a few minutes later. “Thank you,” Clayden said. She shrugged him off and walked away angrily.
A few minutes later, May finally returned. She was carrying her jacket in one hand and a glass of thick red liquid in the other.
“Did you find a victim?” Clayden asked her cynically, sipping his drink.
“Keep your voice down. There might be Inquisition here,” May whispered. “Come with me; I’ve found someone who can help us.”
May took his hand into cool pale hand, slender fungers tipped with long sharp nails, pushing into his flesh, but not drawing blood; leading him farther into the bar, past tables and more booths.
The Light was nearly useless, making sight almost impossible. Finally, she led him to the second-to-last booth. May quickly rapped on the wall, and it opened. They both stepped through. Clayden found himself in a dimly lit corridor.
“Did you bring me a snack?” a brutish man—seven feet tall, covered in holed, decaying skin with deteriorating muscles popping out into the open air—chuckled.
“Sorry, he’s my dessert,” she laughed back, pulling Clayden with her as she led them deeper into the corridor.
“That guy wasn’t a vampire, was he?” Clayden whispered to her.
“Correct, he was a ghoul. He would have eaten you alive,” May answered.
“Are there more zombies than him down here?” he asked, more curious than scared, like he should be.
“For one thing, Franklin is not a zombie.”
“I don’t understand,” he replied, following closely behind her.
“When someone dies, given the right conditions, they’ll turn into ghouls. Ghouls are less deteriorated and keep most of their motor control and intelligence. The only way that they can keep from deteriorating is by eating raw flesh; human flesh is the best. Sooner or later, ghouls can’t halt this process and putrefaction begins, then they become a zombie,” May paused, keeping Clayden close to her.
“What’s the difference?”
“Zombies have lost most, if not all, of their intelligence and free will. They can simply be controlled by a master, but they still have the drive to eat. Until they deteriorate to the point where all they have left is the drive to eat, we call these the living dead, and we destroy them as soon as possible,” she finished.
“Interesting,” Clayden replied as they walked up to a door where the sound of dance music and strange aromas pierced through the dim light.
“Don’t say a word until I say it is safe. Speak only when I tell you to. Until we leave here, you are my slave and you must act like one. There are vampires and other creatures inside who are more ruthless than any mortals,” she whispered to him. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Clayden replied with a new sense of fear gripping him more powerfully than his first battle as a young, inexperienced warrior.
Written ~ 1997. © Jacob A. Pickard 2025. All rights reserved. This work is protected by copyright and may not be reproduced, republished, excerpted, or used for academic, commercial, or derivative purposes without written permission.
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