At the Del Fenwickian border, 408 days after a wizard cursed the REALM…
Current Version:
On the border of Del Fenwick, in the Villager refugee camp, in the children’s medical pavilion, the situation had grown dire. Some humanitarian aid had trickled through, but only enough to blunt the edges of starvation and a sickness that ravaged the camp. Lacking cots, caretakers had collected rags and piles of straw to keep the sickest children comfortable. Food and water were strictly rationed, medicine was non-existent, and hope was the only commodity most Villagers had left.
Belinda had lost her husband during NIGHTfall, and now she had no hope left for their son.
A few hundred yards away, beyond a garrison of well-fed soldiers, lay the Regency of Del Fenwick. Across the border, a mile down the Gold Road, was the Village of Weffix. Less than a mile, as the crow flies. In better times, Belinda had traded there, but even then, the Fenwickians had eyed visiting Villagers with suspicion. Now, under the Word Wizard’s curse, those better times were gone.
“Momma, don’t be sad when I’m dead,” Timmy had rasped, and Belinda had had to leave the tent, sprinting from her own child to spare him the sight of seeing her cry. She collapsed between two refuse bins and sobbed out waterless tears. Dehydrated as she was, it felt as if she were crying out dust.
A sympathetic zombie approached, and placed a comforting arm around Belinda’s shoulders. Belinda had always avoided the zombies of Wordler Village. Not that she had anything against them—they seemed like such nice people—but there was always a chance that one of them would lose control of their cravings.
“There’s a difficult choice that many Villagers are making for their loved ones,” said the zombie. “Our condition makes us the ultimate survivors. We don’t get sick, and we don’t strictly need food.”
Belinda wiped her eyes and nose. “You don’t?”
The zombie shrugged. “We are always hungry. So what’s a little more hunger on top of that? You get used to it.”
Belinda shuddered. “It sounds like endless suffering to me.”
“It’s better than death, at least for me. Maybe for you as well, or maybe not, but consider well. A bite from me would reverse the ravages of cholera, malaria, and malnutrition. Once the zombie condition takes possession of a body, it doesn’t like to share with other diseases.”
“You seem well-intentioned,” said Belinda. “I’m sure your offer is meant to be charitable, so I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. I’d rather let my child die than for him to lose his humanity.”
“No offense taken.” The zombie smiled. “I completely understand. But if you change your mind, there’s a growing number of us available to help.”
The next day, Belinda awoke by Timmy’s bedside with dried tears gluing her eyelashes shut. Nearby, a blue notepaper rested on the ground. “Do whatever it takes, Wordler 408. You have until sundown.”
“And now this,” Belinda grumbled. From the entire REALM, the curse had singled her out on that day, and through its magic she somehow knew that her failure would mean Timmy’s death as well as her own.
“Whatever it takes?” She sighed.
Outside the tent, the zombie was waiting as if he were already aware of her plight. Maybe he’d even been waiting there all night, as his kind didn’t need to sleep. “Good morning,” said the zombie.
“There’s nothing good about this morning,” Belinda shot back.
“No improvement to your child’s condition?”
“What do you think?”
“Ah.” The zombie nodded. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“I…may need some assistance.”
The zombie bowed. “I am at your disposal.”
“Do you know where I might find a vampire?”
“Ah.” The zombie wasn’t quite able to hide his disappointment. “I know a vampire, and I’d be happy to make an introduction. But don’t get your hopes up. They don’t turn children.”
“I know.” Belinda bit her lip, remembering an old nursery rhyme about Wikki Vikki Vamp and the pint of blood that made her into an undead monster. Probably for an adult, it would take at least twice as much blood. She wasn’t looking forward to the taste of it, but the Fenwickian Village of Weffix was less than a mile away as the crow flies.
Or the bat.
Web3 Draft:
- Listed on OpenSea
- Listed on Rarible
- Pinned to IPFS
Revision Notes:
To be added.
