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feotakahariThe Savior burned hot. At first, I didn’t understand what that meant.
A few days after our disastrous first infiltration, I asked Allie why she didn’t seem to care about the zombies. “It’s like they’re not people to you,” I told her.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Of course they’re not people. They’re dead.”
“But everyone else still reacts to them like people,” I explained. “Tuwotahl can’t handle the child zombies. She pretends she can, but she can’t. And twice now, I’ve seen Nina panic about a zombie woman who was around forty and had hair like hers. You never react to anything.”
We hadn’t seen a necromancer since the first infiltration. We weren’t looking for trouble, in those early days. All we did was poke around in the zombie zones and look for survivors. I had no idea yet what Allie reacted to.
“It’s like. . . what if someone took a dead body, and they ripped out the spine? And they put a blade on the end and made it a weapon? That’s not a person.”
“That’s still pretty gross,” I said.
“But it’s not a person,” she said. “The zombies are the same way. They’re just weapons. I can’t hate them for that.”
“It’s not about hate. It’s about respect--”
“Fuck off with that,” she told me. “You guys are the ones who think people aren’t their bodies. You think those guys are all singing choir or getting poked with pitchforks right now. I’m the one who says people are bodies and bodies are people. And then you’re dead, and you’re not either of those things. You’re meat! And I’m not gonna let you try and make me feel guilty for not caring about meat.”
“I apologize,” I said stiffly, because it seemed like a better choice than saying what I thought of her. I assumed there wasn’t anything that could make her care.
-- -- -- --
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” Allie slammed her metal staff into what was left of the necromancer’s face.
He was thin, pale, and shockingly young, with the barest beginnings of a mustache. We thought he was a survivor, until he tried to take off Tuwotahl’s head with some kind of shadowy disc. One of our gun-users shot him twice in the chest, but it was Allie who kept hitting him when he was on the ground.
He’s dead, Tuwotahl confirmed.
Allie rested her staff on his bloody chest. “Fuck you,” she panted.
Allie didn’t hate the dead for hurting people, and she didn’t love them for the people they used to be. But more than anything, she hated the living for making the dead into weapons.
A few days after our disastrous first infiltration, I asked Allie why she didn’t seem to care about the zombies. “It’s like they’re not people to you,” I told her.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Of course they’re not people. They’re dead.”
“But everyone else still reacts to them like people,” I explained. “Tuwotahl can’t handle the child zombies. She pretends she can, but she can’t. And twice now, I’ve seen Nina panic about a zombie woman who was around forty and had hair like hers. You never react to anything.”
We hadn’t seen a necromancer since the first infiltration. We weren’t looking for trouble, in those early days. All we did was poke around in the zombie zones and look for survivors. I had no idea yet what Allie reacted to.
“It’s like. . . what if someone took a dead body, and they ripped out the spine? And they put a blade on the end and made it a weapon? That’s not a person.”
“That’s still pretty gross,” I said.
“But it’s not a person,” she said. “The zombies are the same way. They’re just weapons. I can’t hate them for that.”
“It’s not about hate. It’s about respect--”
“Fuck off with that,” she told me. “You guys are the ones who think people aren’t their bodies. You think those guys are all singing choir or getting poked with pitchforks right now. I’m the one who says people are bodies and bodies are people. And then you’re dead, and you’re not either of those things. You’re meat! And I’m not gonna let you try and make me feel guilty for not caring about meat.”
“I apologize,” I said stiffly, because it seemed like a better choice than saying what I thought of her. I assumed there wasn’t anything that could make her care.
-- -- -- --
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” Allie slammed her metal staff into what was left of the necromancer’s face.
He was thin, pale, and shockingly young, with the barest beginnings of a mustache. We thought he was a survivor, until he tried to take off Tuwotahl’s head with some kind of shadowy disc. One of our gun-users shot him twice in the chest, but it was Allie who kept hitting him when he was on the ground.
He’s dead, Tuwotahl confirmed.
Allie rested her staff on his bloody chest. “Fuck you,” she panted.
Allie didn’t hate the dead for hurting people, and she didn’t love them for the people they used to be. But more than anything, she hated the living for making the dead into weapons.
