The Dead Undead

The Vallaynthian limped into harbour. It’s sails torn. It’s deck littered with debris and the rotting corpses of crew. Blood pooled at the edges. This was a massacre. The vessel had left Port Darrow 3 week hence en route to Ellamin in the West. It never arrived.

As per Caspyrian tradition the vessel was promptly set on fire, with the bodies still on it. Doing so also had the added advantage of eliminating germs on the ship, though they might not know it. Terror shook the men at the dock. What kind of monster could have done this?

A strange pox covered their skins. Red dots all over. Was it a rash? Or bites? Seemingly, they had all died out at sea, then drifted for at least a week before their ghost ship reached the fjord. It was nearly silent in the great hall that night, and 3 nights following.

And on the third day they were resurrected again, their bodies free from any scars or blemishes. It was like they never died at all. The great hall was full of celebration as the crew triumphantly returned from the land of the dead. They’ve got one Hel of an epic saga to tell.

That was until they began choking midway through their celebratory beverages, the glasses slipping from their hands like water. The guests watched with paled faces as the resurrected began bleeding inside out, until there was nothing left of them to give away their return.

And so, the scourge of ebola zombies came to an end. It was nothing like the movies—the zombies just died (again) of the virus & never got to turn anyone else into zombies. The world was relieved, except for Zeb Bumbledrumm who wondered what he'd do with a freshly stocked bunker.