Challenge: Write the story of a picture you have never seen before.
Mr. and Mrs. Andrews sat calmly, posing for the painting
they had commissioned. Their dog Digby panted at Mr. Andrew’s side, the summer
heat as hard on him as it was on Mrs. Andrews in her layers of clothing.
Suddenly Digby tensed and sniffed the air, alert to
something that the rest of them couldn’t see. The Andrews turned to investigate
but the painter made such infuriated sounds that they stopped trying to peer
off to the side and settled back down into their positions.
Mrs. Andrews concentrated on breathing slowly and shallowly,
her corset snugged so tight she could barely manage even that.
Mr. Andrews held his unloaded gun propped against him with
his sleeve-covered arm, the metal too hot to hold in this heat. The gun was too
heavy anyway, and he didn’t really know how to use it.
“If you could keep the dog still,” the painter grumbled.
“Digby!” Mr. Andrews barked out but the poor animal kept
pawing at his master’s leg and whining. His tail was tucked firmly between his
legs as he stared to the couple’s left in fear.
“What was that?” Mrs. Andrews asked suddenly, her head
turning in the same direction as Digby’s.
“What was what, dear?” Her husband asked tiredly.
“That noise…” she trailed off, then shook her head. “It must
have been a cow…or a bird…”
“uuuuuuuu”
All three people turned this time. There had definitely been
a noise. A strange noise.
“Uuuuuuu”
Slowly a group of people appeared as they crested a hill.
They were walking slowly, shambling really, their arms outstretched before them
as they milled along confusedly.
“uuuuuuu”
Digby started barking and the group of people turned towards
the sound, their shamble picking up speed as they trotted purposefully towards
the group.
“What are they? What’s going on?” Mrs. Andrews asked
hysterically, fanning herself with her hands.
The painter was furiously trying to pack up his supplies
before he looked up again at the group of people closing in.
They were….dead. They had to be. Their bodies rotten and
very deceased. One was missing an arm, another an eye. One had a bullet wound
through his chest and another a hole in his leg. But still, somehow they were
moving.
“Aaaah!” Mrs. Andrews’ shrill scream pierced the air as she
tried to run away, floundering in her skirts and unable to breathe in the heat
and the corset and her panic.
Mr. Andrews put his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired,
but the gun barrel was empty and the creatures kept coming.
Digby was barking, running in circles around the Andrews as
he tried to protect them but the horde closed in around the couple as the
painter ran for his life, his art supplies trailing behind him as he held the
canvas tucked under his arm.
