|Night of the living Ambulatory Corpses of Men.|
There's the conflict of living beings that struggle against the elements to survive, enduring mudslides, hurricanes, several feet of snow, the brutal and unforgiving sun, just to see one more day of scraping for food. There's the conflict of living beings in pursuit of this, while simultaneously avoiding being attacked and preyed upon by other entities who necessarily share their goals. Much higher up on the philosophical infrastructure is the concern of sentient beings who riddle themselves into intractable corners: what is my purpose here? For what do I toil so hard to survive? What right have I to take the lives of others, merely to prolong my own pointless existence? How can any person anticipate any potential reward in the Afterworld, having ramped up his own success and survival upon an immeasurable heap of corpses and carcasses? What is the nature of such an Afterworld as would reward these heinous acts? Where did I get the idea such acts are abhorrent; from what other world did I come that informed me any differently?
I could really use that cup of tea, right about now.
|They will swim any distance to get you.|
The A.C.M. are easy enough to avoid: they cannot venture within sunlight; their rigor mortis apprehends them to a slow gait, and they are easily outrun; they may surpass small mounds and work staircases, but ladders confound them entirely. Yet there have been times when I was otherwise employed in errands that redirected my sensory faculties from a more encompassing awareness to a single focal point, not noticing the sun has gone down, not hearing their anticipatory groans of primal hunger, that I have found myself effectively surrounded by the moldering, odorous host of A.C.M.
|They will gang up and surround you.|
The A.C.M. found me and slew me again, and I came to nearby. This happened three more times before I mustered the wherewithal to rise, sprint beyond their reach, reclaim my possessions, then dive into the shelter of my sturdy Yankee dwelling-home.
|This one is furious, much tougher,|
and attacking with gunpowder somehow.
They appear on the island as soon as the moon comes up. Sometimes they surprise me deep within the recesses of my mines, far below my stone house. Nothing about them makes any sense, excepting their singular drive to eat. To that, I may easily relate; as well, I may relate to the sheep and what it must think when it sees me rise before it, sword in hand, eyes darkened with grim resolve. One does not wish to starve to death; one does not wish to be eaten; between these, only one contender may emerge victorious, and then only for the time being. So shall it always be, I'm afraid.