The short and gratifying tale of the creature formally known as Peter

a zombie thing i wrote because i hate one of our teachers. also proof that that im not actually that retarded haha

The cliché shuffle of feet and obligatory mournful howl breaks the silence of a golden morning. One mangled foot drags the other over bitumen and weeds, occasionally a rock or maybe a bone will be kicked off with a tap tap tap down the street. The creature formally known as Peter watches each bouncing particle with a vacant kind of hopefulness, he even stops and tries to claw at his own feet every now and then with an almost admirable optimism.

He's been wandering this way since it started, shuffling relentlessly through abandoned, often destroyed streets searching for that one thing that makes his undead little heart glow with bloodthirsty joy, flesh.

And there it is.

Peter pauses for a moment, for the first time in months and attempts to focus on the creature before him. His mouth opens to reveal blackened gums and a handful of yellowing teeth, gnashing in anticipation as Peters single, bloodshot eye swivels to stare in clouded wonder at the holy grail pecking at the ground before him; a single, scrawny crow.

The crow pauses and regards Peter and Peter regards the crow.

The crow seems to ponder the creature with its head cocked to the side, its beady little eyes and upwards curved beak give the impression of an inviting smile. It would be rude of peter to Refuse such an invitation, so he lunges... he trips on a clump of grass and lands flat on his face, landing mere centimeters from the bird who doesn’t even give him the courtesy of looking startled.

The eternally persistent Peter, doesn't waste a moment in trying to snatch at the bird again but his claws only grab at air as the crow beats its wings with an angry squawk and hops out of the way. Peter drags himself after it but it only hops back further, every time the crow settles just out of arms reach.

With an enraged gurgle Peter gathers his strength and with eyes clenched shut, manages to lunge one last time and... suddenly the silky texture of feathers can be felt among his rotting fingers.

Something akin to a smile splits the creatures face as it looks down at its tightly clenched fist.

A single dark feather falls from Peters grasp as comprehension slowly dawns, panicked he swivels his head in search of the rest of his lunch but its too late, for a moment something blocks out the sun, it’s the crow, already gliding off and out of Peters world.

The creature sounds a low moan as he watches its departure. Peter lets his head drop to rest against the road, his one good eye staring miserably at the feather grasped tightly in his fist.