Beating

Chapter 1

I'm not dead... Just living on stagnant water. I am human.

Tom repeated this over and over again in his mind. Maybe that was the difference between him and them. His mind was still attached, he did not desire to devour human flesh. Even though his heart had stopped beating hours ago and his lungs no longer needed to suck in air, even though he was now the epitome of a deadman, he still felt entirely human.

The deadman he had been attacked by lay motionless beside him, a hunting knife embedded deep within its eye socket. Tom and his partner, Sam, were the hunters in their meager pack of survivors, scavenging on an earth ravaged by a plague that turned humans into undead cannibals. They had split up after finding traces of deer in the area, deeming it too cold for any deadman to be an active threat and not wanting to stay with each other longer than they needed to.

Sam had never been fond of Tom, especially after Tom had self- appointed himself as the group's leader. Although no one had disagreed or tried to challenge his attempt to take over in camp, and he always lead with good intentions, Tom could always sense that Sam resented him. And after Sam's sister died, the cold flint in his eye became directed towards everyone, not just Tom.

Shielding his face from the biting wind, Tom had strolled alongside the deer tracks through the lightly forested area. It had been a quiet night, and as he followed the trail, he found the deer at the end of it - dead and torn open. He had no time for disappointment when he was confronted by a deadman. Although Tom managed to kill the creature, he had been bitten. The bite had hardly broken the skin, but he almost immediately felt the effects of the illness in his bicep. In a panic Tom had ripped a large portion of his shirt off, wrapping it tightly around his arm as a makeshift tourniquet.

The cold that had seeped through his veins perplexed Tom at first - simply because it was all he could feel - but now he had become used to the numbness. He welcomed it. The illness contained from the bite had sent an excruciating pain through his veins and lit his skin on fire. His lungs had burned and throbbed. He awaited his ultimate demise- yet, as the pain inside him faded, so did the strangled wheezes his eroding lungs produced, and so did the need to breathe completely.

To his horror, Tom realized the white light he was beginning to see was not heaven, simply a flashlight in the distance. He figured any outside party would rather off an individual deadman than let it live - even his own group found humor in killing or even mutilating immobilized deadmen. And at that moment, he couldn't very well try and talk it out... Could he?

Help. Tom hoped that came out as a word, and not the garbled moan he felt tumble from his throat. The light whipped in his direction; he could hear footsteps now.

"Tom?" a familiar voice called; time seemed to slow as Sam came into view. His death becoming a forgotten memory, Tom struggled to get up, smiling, although his friend had stopped coming towards him.

A pale dread spread across Sam's face, and if it weren't for the circumstance, it would have broken Tom's heart to see, but in his new manic state, he didn't even process what Sam could be upset about. "Jesus, not again. Not you too."

Sam dropped to his knees. Tom could feel Sam's gaze as he struggled to sit upright. His body protested his every movement - as if it knew that, with no blood flow or oxygen source, it shouldn't continue to function.

"Don't come near me, I swear to God," Sam snapped out of his stupor, scrambling to his feet and producing a gun from his pocket. There was no fear in his eyes of the inherent danger before him, only hatred. Tom attempted to speak again, but all that came was a disgusting gurgle. "This isn't how things were supposed to be, man. This isn't right..."

Memories of Sam's sister, Rhema, invaded Tom's conscience. Guilt swept over him. His sister had died tragically, bitten in the jugular by a deadman as a swarm invaded their makeshift camp. She had been part of a group left to guard the camp while the others scavenged for resources, all of whom died as well. There wasn't any time to say goodbye; the guards were all dead when they returned. All they could do was kill the remaining deadmen feeding off the bodies of their friends and family.

Tom could understand why Sam was still bitter and why he blamed Tom for what happened. Tom had made the call to leave that day to hunt; he had promised nothing bad would happen, but people still died.

"Stop," Tom breathed, praying Sam would take his finger off the trigger. He sucked in another gulp of air awkwardly." Stop, Sam. It's me."

Sam paused for a moment, stunned. He lowered his gun quizzically before pointing it back at Tom's head. The two stared at each other silently before Sam dropped his gun in shock. "Oh hell no, how did you..?"

If I knew, I'd tell you myself. Tom snapped, although he forgot to breathe. Sam flinched.

"Can I trust you? You aren't just faking this to tear me apart?" Sam stepped forward hesitantly and stretched a hand out to Tom, a sad hope pooled in his eyes that quickly hardened into something unreadable. "I was kind of excited to get rid of you. Let's make sure it doesn't come to that."

Tom could hear the relief in Sam's voice past the stale threat. Hoping the crooked expression on his face resembled a smile, Tom accepted it.

It was odd, feeling human touch in this seemingly new body. Tom could feel the brush of skin against his, the dull pressure it left on his being. Horrifyingly enough, even with his dulled senses, Sam's pulse steadily shocked him. There was blood seeping through his veins, live cells waiting to be devastated and ruined. It was as if his body were numb to everything except blood.

Destruction, kill him, his body commanded mercilessly. Although Tom had never been too fond of Sam, he had never felt the urge to kill the other man. Tom felt a tremendous shiver run through him, and Sam quickly let go of his hand, reaching for the pistol he had released. He couldn't imagine how terrible he must look: he knew first hand the transformation a deadman underwent at the scent of blood.

"Stop," Tom mumbled. Breathe, then speak. This is the easy stuff. He sucked in a breath.

"It's okay."