by Sophie Bachard
Images exploded from darkness and Defoe understood two things simultaneously: he’d been dead for centuries, and his greatest work had been affronted. The former was a trifling wonder compared to the horror of the latter.
He twisted, hungry to escape his underground prison. Skeletal fingertips clawing, he peeled the casket. Frantic. Chomped through the last few feet once his head gained egress. Burst forth in zombie redux, chewing dirt.
His renowned imagination clobbered by Mr Reaper, Defoe felt no poetic frisson for the rain-percussion on exposed ribcage, feeling naked without his wig. Only red-mist revenge in rotted brain.
He shambled across the appropriately misty Bunhill Field’s cemetery, dragging one putrefied stump. At the iron gate he cast about for bearings, using zombie sixth sense. Moaning, he limped by the deserted highstreet. Lights dazzled the benighted vision of his one good eye dangling maggot-infested on his cheekbone.
He stopped at Waterstones, muddy hands clanking against the plate glass. Peered at the display illuminated by Christmas lights.
His fury erupted, flaming to his gullet. Crusoe Redux Edition.
A brick through the window set off an alarm. He snatched a copy of the book and made zombie-shuffling haste, vengefully chomping pages as he went in pursuit of the publisher.
Copyright © 2007 by Sophie Bachard