Fiction: Zombies rising

In which the Republicans' worst nightmare is realised.

Zombies as portrayed in the movie Night of the Living Dead by George A. Romero

It was a cold day early in November. It was still dark, and few were stirring. The mist was so thick that it might as well have been called fog.

A ghostly white owl glided silently through the trees in the cemetery and settled on a gnarled old tree. It hooted to its mate.

As if this was a signal to rise, ragged ghostly shapes started to emerge from the damp, dark soil. The host of zombies, mostly adults, put on the appearance of clothes they used to wear, some unremarkable, some decidedly old-fashioned. Most the worse for wear. In the fog, you would not have told them from living human beings until you were very close.

Most of them set off in the same direction, but a few split off to go to some other part of the city. They walked purposefully, as though they knew where they were going.

A black cat saw them coming and quickly ran away along a fence.

A lone fox caught their smell and disappeared down an alley.

As they strode or drifted down the street, a few more joined them from either side.

As they approached, an ICE patrol ordered them to stop and show their ID. They had none. ICE were ignored. The patrol started shooting non-lethal rounds and gas. The zombies that were hit shuddered, but all carried on. As the zombies drew closer and the agents could see what they were facing through the gas and fog, some started firing live rounds while others ran. Hearing a shootout, another ICE patrol came running and started shooting at the shooters, not realising in the murk that they were shooting at their own.

Meanwhile, the zombies carried on, disappearing into the fog again, and arrived at their destination, an ordinary-looking federal building. They went in, and the few people inside ran away, some screaming. The zombies bent over the computers there, making entries. Some stepped away, satisfied. Others showed frustration, beating the machines with their ghostly fists. Some achieved their aims with help, but others turned away, despondent.

When they all had done what they could, they turned around and made their way back to their cemeteries, avoiding the shootout.

As they reached the cemetery, they sank back into the earth one by one. Some happily so, others visibly unhappy. A similar scene was taking place across the whole of America, with hundreds of thousands of zombies converging on scattered buildings. The first glimmer of light started to lighten the mist, and the sound of traffic began to disturb the silence.

All the dead voters in America who had not been purged off the rolls had risen up again to exercise their precious right to vote.