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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A fake historical zombie myth.

Submitted: August 23, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 23, 2016





Little Rock had not seen a Tepee like it before.  It was enormous.  His tribe were from the South.  Apache.  It was his grandfather who had told him to visit his distant cousins.  This was a tribe that been lost in a mountainous land.  The white man had never been there at that time.  The boy would soon become a man, if he lived long enough.  The small Indian was on a pony beside his sick brother.  A bad gash in his side had turned green.  His vomit was black.  Grandfather, Big Rock, prayed and danced many miles away.


Walking River clung to his mottled pony.  Sucking on a leaf.  It was said to be a stimulant of some magic.  The pain though grew.  The older Apache arrived in the camp.  A people of no name.  Yet known to have great dark powers.  Five wigwams encircled the black centrepiece.  This was the best hope for Walking River.  Yet an onerous stench came from the veiled entrance.


The northeast of all Indian nations was cold.  High up in snowy peaks.  It was nothing like the hot cruel deserts many miles south.  Little Rock had tried many other witch doctors from other tribes to save his brother.  Both were due to become Chief and Head Warrior of one settlement of Apache.  A vision of white sent them to the black tepee.  Outside it, was a strange wooden tree.  Bunt and carved with head of animals.  Wolf, Bear and Eagle.  The braves cowered as they hobbled into the conical tent of buffalo hides.



After many moons of travel, the scenario seemed to come about fast, to the mind of Little Rock.  A very old man in red powder beckoned the sick man in.  Inside was a hole at the peak of the tepee.  It allowed in the Midday sunlight.  The beam bounced off a rock that had crystallised through time.  It directed the sun to a corner of the chamber.  It was there that Walking River was tied up like a chicken.  There a Cockerel was sacrificed by cutting its head off.  Blood sprayed in the face of the warrior.  Then onto the very discoloured wound.


Although he was in sheer agony.  The pain increased so much, it felt less.  The side pulsated and changed into red.  The brave began to convulse.  Little Rock looked on.  He could see his brother transforming into some thing else.  Apaches had heard of shape shifters of the North.  But this was more dark and scary.  The lame Indian bled out from within.  Adorned in his buffalo skins, the man became a lost soul.  A zombie.  Trapped in the Dead Corner.  Even men of the red dawn were monsters.


The white thing moved from the corner towards the old man and Little Rock.  Hands flailing.  Ever searching to scratch them.  Blood drooped from a very wide opened mouth.  Eyes became bloodshot.  The tanned face became black and blue.  Fingernails grew into talons.  Hair became fur.  The torso twitched as it walked.  The rope was fixed to the corner.  It allowed the creature to get to the centre of the black tepee.  Yellow puss and vomit spewed onto the white diamond.  As the old red Indian danced more and more, impulsively.  To him the spell was working.  For Little Rock, death had been born from his sibling.  Both were trapped in the Dead Corner.



Red Lake, Minnesota, USA was the area that the first noted zombie was seen.  Indian Culture hid the story among myth, legends and fabled stories.  It was so long ago.  Before white man ruled North America.  Yet the event was still deemed to have occurred by some historians.  When spirit hunters of the present day, dared to search for lost souls, the presence of death was felt.  Some were sure they too had found the Dead Corner of the black tepee.  The ending of the tale was unsure.  Yet some tribes believed in the walking dead.  And of Walking River.


Little Rock stared in disbelief at his own brother.  Flesh fell from his side.  Guts could be seen gestating blood.  Wild teeth grinned and sniggered.  Spat and grinded.  Legs gyrated as yellowing arms reached even more.  True his brother was no full of life.  The life of a dead soul.  The old man danced a bit too close.  The rest of the small tribe outside in their wigwams chanted then wailed also.  The spell had gone wrong.  Pleading aged eyes of the witch doctor warned Little Rock.  Suddenly the rope snapped.  Freeing the raging zombie.


Blue fingernails ripped the chest off the dying holy man.  Teeth bit his neck.  Causing more red stuff to erupt out of the man volcano.  The afternoon darkened.  The cold snowy peaks tried to hide in the descending mist.  The other braves also walked and groaned.  All there had been previously saved by the old man and crystal.  Now the crows from above witnessed the human horde become one nightmare.  A pack of zombies.  Frothing and foaming at the mouth.  Little Rock was the only brave remaining.  He was trapped by the Dead Corner.



Cawing of crows echoed throughout the mountains around Red Lake.  Every beast heard the shaken cries.  Some of its natural giants came out of the woodlands to view the badness of zombies.  They found a single human hunched over on his knees.  In the middle of a large nest made of some of their animal friends.  From all around.  Approached half a dozen groaning snot blowing things.  The doomed brave peeped and prayed to the wood gods for help. 


A growl found two or three moving wretches.  Huge bear paws tore the ribs of man apart.  Pulp of heads and innards fell around the crystal.  The night had come.  A full moon now shone.  Watching the war between the wild and the dead.  Next to hear for the boy man, cold staring canines, wolves packed and picked off more zombies.  Clawing arms were no match for gnashing teeth.  Even the dead were petrified at this point.  The gaunt swaying bipeds passed through the veil of the black tepee.  In to the path of swooping eagles.  Some awesomely strong talons picked up some zombies, then dropped them into the freezing Red Lake.  To a new certain death.



Little Rock crawled out of the big tepee.  Finding the tree sized Totem Pole of the Ghost Indian tribe.  The tears and cries of his grandfather could be sensed many miles away.  Fear had turned the boy into a man.  His brother had gone.  As well as the zombies.  Splintered and torn into smithereens, by the grace of god.  Or from the most natural kind.  The bears, wolves and eagles.  They all trooped away into the forests and mountains.  Nobody, man or beast turned to look at the tepee.  All wanted to forget the Dead Corner.


Some Apache tribes claimed that Little Rock, returned home.  To be a man.  To be the Chief of his tribe.  Some mused that his brother was the boy in him, being taken out of him.  Others believed this was the fear of the white man, tarnishing their vast empire.  Few dared to think that the dead still walk the Earth.  Stirring from the thawing deep of Red Lake.  Limping and groaning the way back to the Dead Corner.  Jaws ripped white by the beasts of the wild.  Blind to the truth that zombies still roam all lands. 


Yet in certain parts of North America, some Indians are afraid to step out of their Reservations.  Mostly when they see the Red Dawn of day.  Was it superstition or some thing else?  Who knows?  Or perhaps it was the fear of wandering zombies.  Some where out there, in the wild, Walking River, still treads this mortal world.  Ever searching for the way home.  Or back to the beginning.  To that black tepee.  To the white crystal.  Just to step back, into the Dead Corner.



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