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The Geist sat down on his picnic blanket, cloth unopened, as the sun’s rays glittered onto the water of the lake. His helmet, decorated with the tags of the soldiers, was on top of the basket.
He yawned, before falling to the ground, senses all warm from the sun as it shone down on him. How long had it been since he remembered the sun? Or the sky, blue sky? Even the clouds, forming a collection of shapes.
“That one looks like a tin trap.” He muttered, “And that one looks like a dagger.”
He shook his head. No! This was a picnic, not a jaunt down memory lane. He carefully placed his helmet on his lap, as he opened the basket. Two bottles, a few sandwiches, fruit and his trusty knife were inside.
His hand reached in, pulling out a beef sandwich. Oh, how long it had been since he last had meat! With white, whole bread, too! Such a luxury that couldn’t be afforded to men, not even men like him!
His grin grew, as he stuffed the sandwich into his mouth, tearing it to shreds. Yet, within a few bites, his chewing stopped. His eyes widened, as the rich taste of meat began to vanish, vanish into a dry, dirty, taste.
He spat it out, coughing and spluttering, as he stared at the offending sandwich.
It already broke apart in his hands, turning into dust, as it was carried into the wind. He gave a shudder in disgust. He needed, no, had to get that foul taste out of his mouth! His hand reached into the basket again, pulling out a bottle.
Opening it, he gave a cautionary sniff. No bad smell. He poured a little on the grass. No change, it was still water. Satisfied, he brought the bottle to his mouth, swallowing as it cleansed his throat.
His guzzling slowed again, as his eyes widened in shock. His throat began to close, as if he had swallowed a large amount of paint. He wheezed, smashing the bottle onto the grass, as he tried to cough out whatever was clogging his throat.
The bottle shattered as it landed onto the ground, before a swarm of locusts broke free. The Geist backed away, mouth open in shock as they flew away, into the sky.
No matter, he still needed water…
Which left the lake. Cautiously, he grabbed his remaining bottle, pouring out the entire liquid as he walked over towards the crevice. He dipped his arm into the water, seeing it rush into the empty bottle.
An emaciated hand shot out of the water, seizing his arm. The Geist gave a scream, pulling back from the lake entirely, dragging the corpse along with it, still stubbornly holding onto his arm.
His other arm fumbled, landing onto his trusted mace. Swinging it around to the corpse’s head, he heard the thud, and crunch of the skull, as its grip on his arm fell loose. Breathing heavily, he smashed the head in more, beating it again, and again, until it was nothing more than pulp.
He turned back towards his picnic blanket. It was gone. He gave a gulp, before turning back towards the corpse.
It was stumbling around, without a head to guide it anymore. The dirty Imperial uniform was scratched and bloodied, a hole through its chest. He looked at the lake again, seeing another corpse rise out of the lake.
It had a helmet attached, while its chest was adorned with several medals, scratched and its ribbons torn. Its uniform spared no better, while it stood on one leg, the other blown away from the knee down. It bled, bone sticking out as it hobbled towards the Geist.
From behind, another man approached. Helmetless, with its chest blown open, heart and lungs working in poor coordination, as if he had been opened up for surgery, yet no one bothered to patch him up. His blood tricked down to further soil his pants.
The Geist backed away towards his helmet, before picking it up. Dog tags.
“Y-you want your dog tags?” He asked. The corpses continued to shuffle.
“Fine, then get them, please!” His hand wrapped around the first one, barbed wire ripping into his skin as he pulled. The wire sliced further through his hand as he did so, mangling the tag further.
With a shout, he tore the dog tag away, throwing it at the horde. He glanced down at his hand, waves of pain, horrible, burning pain rushed through him. He cut through skin, through onto the muscle. Long cuts tore through his hand, a result from his action.
It wasn’t enough. His mangled hand grabbed onto the next tag, ripping and pulling it away. He threw it.
The next. His ring finger was loose. One pull from his teeth, and he could rip it off from the knuckle.
The next. It fell down, but he couldn’t focus. The tags had to fall. His hand kept pulling through, ripping until his helmet was blank. Bloodied with his fingers, with some skin and muscle attached, but blank.
He didn’t want to look at his hand, staring at the corpses instead. There were even more now, all moving towards him. His eyes widened, before he turned, and began to flee.
He ran through the grassy fields, through endless ones, he thought. Turning back, he could see the corpses chase after him, their pace increasing. Or the ones that had two legs to run on. From the front was an officer, wielding his calvary sword with his good arm, the other was blown off.
The Geist ran faster, the grass slowly dying the further he ran. His legs burned, a horrible ache that tore through him, while every movement further agitated his hand. The further he ran, the further the grass shrunk, turning browner and smaller as he kept on running.
The dirt cracked onto his boots as he stomped down. He didn’t stop, nor did he look back.
He saw a silver line, taut and shining. He jumped over it, instinct pulling him above the line. Another wire, another jump. A bear trap, teeth pointing towards him. He ran around it.
There was a muffled bang behind him. He took a short glance behind him. The officer in front collapsed onto the floor, along with two other soldiers. the rest did not care, continuing to move towards the Geist.
He looked away, throat closing up again, as he ran. He didn’t stop, didn’t stop running.