***
Dawn broke, sunlight from the windows slowly bleeding in to wash out the light of her candle, until it was bright enough for her to snuff it.
A thump from the other end of the house told her that Gregory and the kids were up, and on their way out to gather eggs and milk the goat. She sat a little straighter in her chair, and switched from the lullaby that had gotten her through most of the night to a more cheerful song. Soon enough, the morning chores would be finished. Then her husband would be along to share breakfast with her and see how the night had gone.
She wasn't sure what she would tell him.
Most of an hour later, he strode in, tray in hand. "You gave me a bit of a turn," he said as he set it down. "I heard you singing, and thought she must have passed."
Felicia stopped singing, thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I think she did," she said.
She almost smiled at the way he jumped to look at the bed, then glared back at her as if she was playing a joke. She inclined her head though, indicating the bed, and after a moment he stepped closer to look at the body lying there so still.
He glanced at Felicia, and she nodded at the expression on his face, standing to take hold of the sledgehammer. When he saw that she was ready, he reached out a hand and held it in front of Gran's mouth and nose, feeling for any sign of breath. A moment later he slid it down under her chin to feel for a pulse.
"Anything?" Felicia asked.
He shook his head and pulled the blankets back so that he could hold his ear to the old woman's chest. Then he sat up and shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "No sound of breath, no heartbeat, no gut noises. Her skin's even starting to feel cold. I've never seen anything like it."
"Like Romeo and Juliet," Fellicia said, smiling sadly. They had found the old book of plays a few years ago, exploring the abandoned farmhouse they had decided to make their own. "Remember how much Gran laughed when we asked her why they thought Juliet was dead, if she was lying still on the ground and not trying to kill anyone?"
"I remember." Gregory smiled back.
Felicia lowered the sledgehammer and walked over to slip an arm around his waist, looking down at her grandmother's body. "Gran always said that if we soothed enough zombies, eventually the dead would rest in peace."
"What do we do now?"
"Build the pyre, I guess. We can leave her in here while we get it ready."
"We should let the neighbors know." Gregory said. "This changes everything."
"True..." Felicia grinned, remembering how Gran had gone on and on the night they finally burned her mother's body. At the time, she had felt a little scandalized, but now... "I think Gran would want us to have a party. We'll invite all the neighbors, everyone we know. They'll want to see her body, see for themselves that she's not rising. And then we can celebrate, maybe start a new tradition."
"Or renew an old one. My Dad used to tell me about Irish wakes, where everyone got drunk and told funny stories all night long. He said they liked to send the dead off with a bang."
"This was your Dad," Felicia said, laughing a little as she wiped at her eyes. "Are you sure he wasn't talking about explosives?"
Gregory grinned. "Could be. Either way, let's make it a party Gran would approve of."
~~*~~
Short Story Collections by Anthea Strezze
Refuge: Tales From a Zombie Apocalypse
When a terrorist attack unleashed a new strain of the bird flu, people worried.
When the resulting pandemic killed millions, it felt like the end of the world.
Then the dead started to rise...
The Trouble With Wishes
Everyone wishes sometimes - for things to be different, or easier, or better. But when a wish is granted, can you ever get what you really want?
Coming soon:
Zombie Variations
What's it like to be a zombie?Do they still feel love and fear? Or nothing but a ravening hunger for the brains of the living?
Transformations
Self-transformation. What sort of motivation does it take to destroy who you are, in the hope of who you might become?
~~*~~
About the Author
Anthea Strezze believes in nurturing the sense of wonder, and strives to write stories that her readers can really connect with and find echoes of themselves and their lives in. She's just as likely to write a story about werewolves washing dishes as mages doing battle with ancient evil (more likely, actually), and loves writing both mundane stories with a taste of the fantastic, and fantastic stories with a hint of the mundane. She lives in New England with her husband and cat, and maintains a blog at https://AntheaStrezze.com/blog.
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