The Genesis of the Dead

The world around him was still and quiet. This calmness, however, was stripped from him as quickly as it was granted. Chaos returned, along with the emotions that consumed him: fear and terror, loss and grief, anger and rage, it all coalesced back into him before being taken away once more. What remained now was a shell.

The shell opened his eyes to a mournful scene. A decrepit room, devoid of any light source, filled his vision as the stench of burned hair assaulted his nostrils. Around him, shattered furniture lay in rubble, while the very foundation of the home cracked beneath the weight of what had transpired.

The shell noticed that not far from where he stood lay the bodies of two females, one adult and one child. Their blood, still warm, pooled at his feet. The perfect shell cracked a little, and all those emotions reemerged. Yet before they could fester and rot him again, they dissipated like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. They were lost, as was he.

The blood, which had long overflowed, was still enough to reflect his face. He was tall, around six feet seven inches, with messy gray hair. His eyes mirrored the color of his hair, and his features were sharp, handsome, and slightly roguish. His lean, sturdy frame gave him a striking appearance.

With an indifferent expression, he began to move toward the door. Just as he was about to leave, he hesitated; he felt something. It wasn't a physical sensation but more like a spiritual one. He turned his gaze toward a farming instrument lying haphazardly on the ground. Its blade was dull and chipped, its handle uneven and crude, yet this tool...

He walked back into the hellish room, ignoring the bodies, and approached the scythe. He picked it up and held it in his hands. It felt familiar, as did the room he stood in.

"This one isn't ready yet," he thought. With no further distractions, he turned and left; there were more pressing matters to attend to.

Outside, a cold autumn breeze brushed against his skin. Most would have felt a chill, but he remained unperturbed. His gaze swept over what appeared to be a village in ruins. Large plumes of gray smoke danced across the horizon beneath the triplet moons in the midnight sky.

This place was dead; that much was clear to any observer. The concept of survivors never crossed his mind, as the destruction was absolute. All the homes that had once been part of this village's community lay as ash and debris. Only the house he had emerged from stood somewhat intact.

He felt that sensation again, as if something were connecting to him, binding him. His eyes locked on a collapsed roof. Moments later, movement, slow at first but gradually more pronounce, as a figure demerged and sluggishly rose to its feet.

The creature was composed entirely of bleached white bones and stood around six feet tall. A dark, visible purple hue glowed in its eye sockets. Much like the shell gazed at it, it too stared back. Their eyes met...

The skeletal figure slowly meandered close enough to touch him. All the while, the shell's face remained impassive; he did not fear this creature, he had no reason to. They both shared the same purpose, and though different in form, they were of the same kind.

The skeletal figure bent down slowly, resting on one knee as a show of respect, akin to a man bowing to his lord or a child honoring a parent. The shell nodded slightly, beckoning his comrade to rise. They stood side by side, overlooking the grim horizon.

The shell took this moment to ponder. He had many unanswered questions and, until now, had acted purely on instinct. One thing was certain: he understood his purpose for existence. What he failed to grasp was why...

Although nearly all traces of emotion were gone, a tiny crack remained. He was not supposed to question; he was meant to act. Yet those queries gnawed at his thoughts. Even knowing what he had to do, achieving his objective would not be easy or quick. Perhaps his questions could lead to answers that might improve the outcomes ahead.

Aside from "why," his biggest question was what to do next. He was not powerful he could sense that much. Even a lowly wild beast could spell his demise, so he needed to find a way to grow stronger.

Meanwhile, his friend gazed up at the stars. The empty eye sockets beheld the infinite heavens, and instead of inspiration or fear, it felt fascination...

"Enough," he said at last, remembering the sensation from before. As if by instinct, he forced the same feeling outward, directing it at the wrecked surroundings. A moment passed without change. Despite this, the shell felt no doubt. Soon, his instincts proved correct as movement began.

It started small, spreading like an infectious virus. Hands, feet, limbs, and heads emerged from the devastation. Two, six, ten, twenty-four, thirty-five… the numbers quickly grew. They were not uniform; many of these abominations were distinct. Yet, upon freeing themselves, they moved in unison. They formed neat rows and, once gathered, knelt low before their master.

The shell observed with a faint sense of satisfaction. Something terrible had begun. He could feel it, the sensation did not always require his will. He sensed dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? In front of him were sixty-two; the rest were scattered, but their link persisted. They would gather for him, for he was their king, their master, their savior.

A twinge of excitement coursed through him. The thrill of something new and revolutionary. This was a genesis—a genesis for the dead.