Cravings of the Dead

To those who were reading Cravings, I must appologise.

I have hit a major writers block and also had some trouble with the plot. Since I moved out, moved to a new country and changed school twice, I didn't quite have the time to work out the issues with this story.

I do want to finish it someday, but it will probably be rewritten. 

a/n: Though this is a zombie story, I actually don't know that much about them, apart from what I've seen in Resident Evil and I am Legend. So purists beware, because I'll probably end up twisting tradition. On another note, this thing is unbeta-ed, and my English is a far cry from being perfect. So if you see anything that need fixing, please do tell. Unless it doesn't bother you. Oh and reviews will be showered with love of course :) Prologue. A silent street. Dimmed street lights and an eerie moon cast a spell of shadows and soft glows over the damp cob stones. The broken glass in windows caught the flickering lights of dying neon signs and distorted them into a disorienting electrical display. The shadows cast in between seemed to shift and teem with life, only to be revealed empty the moment a stray beam wandered into it. Harsh pants and gasps accompanied by the uncoordinated beat of two sneakers pounding the pavement disrupted the deceptive silence. A lone figure hurdled into the once thriving, now ruined, shopping district. He ran at break neck speed, for a human at least, careless in his steps due to fear and exhaustion. His mouth agape as in a silent scream and eyes running wild in their sockets, blindly dancing and scanning the road, searching, searching, and fearing. A foot splashed into a large puddle of water, ripples of oil creating dark kaleidoscopic spectra as the leg of his pants caught on something hidden beneath the poisonous rainbow fluids. The dim light of a dying street lamp caught his figure. Not a man, nor a boy, he could have been tall for his age, had it been discernible. Un-kept sweat drenched black hair with stubbornly long bangs hid his face as he bent to yank at his unyielding jeans. Toned muscles that had once been his pride trembled with stress, hunger and fatigue as he desperately tried to tear up the stubborn cloth. A guttural growl echoed through the street, startling the youth. Fear gave him a more then necessary adrenaline boost and he spurted off, ripping off half of the pant leg he had been combating earlier. His breath came out in fearful little wheezes and squeaks as he glimpsed a pair of dark shadows coming ever closer to him. Sharp pain flared through his sides and knees as he pushed himself to try and outrun the monsters that were rapidly catching up with him. He ran without a thought, controlled by base instinct alone, and overwhelming fear. He had no plan, he had no goal, he just wanted to live. Desperately. And he clung to a faint hope, that maybe, maybe, if he ran long enough… That faint maybe died in his mind the moment he was roughly grasped by the back of his shirt and pulled backwards. The force caused him to lurch backward and collide with a hard solid body, momentarily dazing him. If only it had done more then simply daze him. The moment his eyes refocused he was greeted with the face of his greatest fears. Ashen flaking skin, a mouth filled with the blunt synthetic teeth of dentures gaped at him as the unseeing yellowed eyes of an aging man danced over him. Without a pause his head bent out of sight and closed it’s prosthetic teeth on the neck of the screaming young man and began the laboriously slow work of ripping out the throat of the youth. Horrified the human flailed desperately as he tried to escape his inevitable end. The ripping noise of his shirt being shredded by blunt blood covered nails alerted him to the arrival of a second assailant. He glimpsed the grime covered nightgown of what could have quite possibly been Mr. Dentures late wife. Ironically, he faintly noticed, Mrs. Dentures did not have any Dentures. No, she had no trouble sinking her adapted teeth into the taunt flesh, ripping a blood curdling scream from his mouth. His screaming slowly faltered as the old man finally succeeded in breaking the skin after littering it with bruised from the harsh and brutal pressure he had applied to it. His spouse had been much more successful, having ripped a near neat patch of flesh off the chest and was now happily lapping at the fluids that were welling up from the wound. The body twisted and contorted in pain, but she paid no heed, and simply used her own weight to hold still his struggling form. Under the intense pain and increasing loss of oxygen the young man finally passed out, letting his mind drift off into blissful nothingness, as he was being eaten up alive.