The man that saved my life
showed me back to his home,
a cozy little ranch, with
fields he tilled in the summer.
I would never have guessed that
a small farm like his would
be one of the most well-
protected fortresses around,
but he had to guide me step by
step to the front door because
there were so many traps that
I was in danger of setting off
which were invisible to one not
looking closely. An elaborate
system of wiring and feedback
that would make NASA blush
fed into his basement, the
control room from which he
could monitor the instruments
and their prey. His wife made
me the first warm meal I had
eaten in weeks, then I took a
much needed shower. The smell
of rot would not wash off.
The momentary world I let slip
into my mind, where zombies
did not exist and warm meals
and showers were more common
than gunfire, was torn down
by that acrid smell. Before
long I realized my mistake,
as that stench was coming from
me. The wound on my left arm
was becoming gangrenous. Maybe
outside where I needed to stay
alert, I had suppressed the pain
but I now had full knowledge
of how much it hurt. Upon
going back downstairs, the woman
informed me that an alert had
gone off, indicating that one
of the traps had been activated
and her husband was out to
investigate. I had her lead me
safely into the field where he
stood, shotgun limp at his
waist, next to a corpse stuck
crumpled in a bear trap. I
knew the face, but couldn't
find words to fit his new shape,
first disfigured by the molding
grip of death, and once more
by the rending teeth of steel.
I think I wasn't able to hide
my reaction from the couple,
since they stood with me in
silence for a few minutes there
and didn't question me when
I asked if we could bury him.
And I think the man noticed
more than sorrow in the way
I struggled to move the earth
with my shovel, because upon
returning back inside his home
he asked if he could see my arm.
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