The Fine Art of Not Puking

I was out of the castle.

Alive? Technically. Free? Barely. Still undead? Yep.

The city walls loomed behind me as I ducked behind a barrel near the main gate of the city. Two guards stood in front of it, completely unaware that the corpse with social anxiety was planning his great escape.

I needed to pass.

And I had a plan.

Kind of.

I grabbed a cloak from a laundry line nearby (sorry, random peasant) and wrapped it tightly around myself. Then, with the confidence of a wet sock, I went toward the gate.

One of the guards tilted his head like a confused golden retriever.

“Hey! You there!”

Panic. I waved casually. “Oh this? It's just an allergy to.. eh.. the sun. Don't worry”

They didn’t move out of the way.

Now it’s time for plan B.

I pulled out the biggest, nastiest fake sneeze I could muster. A full-body, overacted, dramatic sneeze that would have earned me an award at the Oscars – if sneezing had a category. A sneeze that hinted at the presence of at least three contagious diseases.

They stepped aside immediately.

“Ugh. Go. Just go.”

“Bless you,” the other muttered, covering his mouth and nose with his hands.

I gave a thumbs-up and limped into the forest beyond.

The woods were cool and quiet. The light filtered through the leaves like a peaceful anime flashback.

Except I was being hunted.

The king’s troops were definitely still looking for me.

But as I ran I realized something. I had one major advantage: I didn’t get tired.

I ran. For hours. No problem with my stamina. Through bushes, streams, and more bushes. Seriously, why are there so many bushes in fantasy forests?

I climbed over some mossy rocks, hoping to get a better view of the forest below – only to slip and tumble face-first into what looked like a nest. A nest of something I called Razorchirp. Why? Imagine a parrot, a crab, and a malfunctioning lawnmower had an identity crisis and became a creature. Because as I screamed - It screamed. Like a lawnmower. We were both confused. In blind panic, I threw a handful of moss at it, as it swung it’s claws at me. I managed to roll down the hill like a barrel and hit a tree. 

So that just happened.

It had to have been about 10 hours since the summoning, and my stomach was more hollow than my self-esteem.

I needed food.

Badly.

That’s when I saw it: an apple tree.

An actual apple tree, standing like a holy shrine in a clearing. Red apples hanging from its branches like fruity blessings.

“Oh thank you,” I whispered to the god who planted this tree.

I grabbed an apple. Bit in.

And immediately vomited.

Except I didn’t actually vomit. 

Nothing came out. There was nothing inside of me. My stomach tried, but all it did was send my whole undead torso into a dry-heaving spasm – for a second I genuinely thought I was about to eject my soul instead of vomit."

“What the heck?!”

The apple looked perfect. It tasted like a real apple. Sweet. Crunchy.

I tried again with a second one.

Nope. Even worse.

“No, no, no... please don’t tell me I can only eat...” I paused.

“…Human flesh?!”

I slumped under the tree, still holding my “cursed” apple. The sky above was pitch black now.

The exhaustion hit me like a tranquilizer dart to the soul. I hadn’t slept since being skateboarded into another world and chased out of a royal throne room like a plague rat. Not that undead biology required rest, but I guess mental breakdowns did.

I must’ve passed out.

When I opened my eyes again, the world had changed. Well, not really. It was daytime again.

Golden sunlight filtered through the branches above, birds chirped in the distance. The kind of peaceful morning atmosphere you'd expect from a fantasy world – except for the unbearable pain in my stomach and my leg. Wait. My leg?

“Ahhh! What the-” -- something was nibbling on my foot

I kicked instinctively.

A creature about the size of half a corgi flew backward. It looked like a small lizard out of pink bubblegum.

It hissed at me with its tiny, jagged teeth.

Then it spit a small fireball -- right at my face.

“OH COME ON!”

I ducked just in time, the fireball sizzling past my ear and exploding against a tree trunk.

I turned and bolted.

It screeched and gave chase, it’s little legs working overtime to keep up.

Mid-run, I twisted back and swung my fist. My knuckles collided with its squishy face. It let out a squeaky wheeze, blood from its nostrils – yet it somehow got angrier.

“Why are you so durable?! You’re the size of a lunchbox!”

Then I saw it.

A river.

Rushing water glimmered ahead.

And one thought clicked instantly:
Water. It can’t spit fire if we’re underwater.

It was risky. Maybe even dumb.
But I was desperate. And very flammable.

With a sudden turn, I stopped in my tracks and faced the beast.

It blinked, confused.

I ran at it full speed, arms out, scooped it up and held it to my chest like an aggressive teddy bear.

“YOU’RE COMING WITH ME!”

I sprinted the last few steps and leapt.

The river greeted me with the warmth of a slap from a snow queen.

We plunged deep.

It scratched and flailed.

I tried to choke it out, holding it close, spinning, thrashing. Neither of us could swim very well. It was chaos.

Then –

weird noises.

Not from the monster.
From below.

“Oh shi-”

A waterfall.

We went over the edge.

For a split second, time slowed.

We were airborne – mid-fall over the waterfall, flailing through open sky.

Its mouth lit up – literally – ready to shoot a fireball point-blank.

“Oh no you don’t!”

I yeeted the little beast sideways, hard.

It spun through the air like a flaming, screeching burrito. Okay.. big burrito.

The fireball still launched – clipping my shoulder and sizzling off some undead skin – before the monster crashed full force against a rock.

I hit the water like a thrown corpse – which, well, fair enough.

When I finally surfaced, soaked, coughing riverwater, I saw it.

The monster.
Very dead.

I had no way to make a fire. No tools.

But I had sticks.

I sharpened two of them the best I could, carved open the dead creature, and nearly threw up again.

I gagged. Looked away. Then forced myself to look back again.

“Don’t look at it. Just chew. Just chew. Pretend it’s beef jerky,” I muttered, though no jerky I knew had green muscle fibers and the texture of soggy rubber bands.

I gnawed.

Dry-heaved. Nothing came out.

Gnawed again.

My body shook like it wanted to punch me from the inside out.

I stopped. Panted. Tried to psych myself up again.

And then – through sheer force of will and the primal instinct not to die – I got it down.

I felt... a little better.

Not good. Just better.

That’s when the smell hit me.

Something... delicious.

I sniffed the air like a wolf.

Through the trees. Past some bushes. Into a small clearing.

Then I froze.

Human corpses.

Five of them. Scattered across the field.

Something strong must’ve killed them, that much was clear.

But all I could think was:

“…Why does this smell so good?”

I approached one. My instincts screaming, my curiosity louder.

My stomach growled. Loudly.

“Nope. Nope nope nope…………………….. Okay.. just a test,” I whispered. “I won’t actually become a cannibal. I just want to know.”

I crouched.

Stuck my tongue out.

Dabbed it in the blood.

My brain exploded with flavor.

“D-DELICIOUSSSS”

Two seconds later, I was on my knees, gagging and forcing fingers down my throat.

BLEGH.

“…Okay. Now I know.”

I stumbled away.

Weeks passed.

Through trial and error (and more vomiting), I found ways to eat without puking.

Holding my nose shut helped more than I expected. The real key though? Speed. Chew as little as necessary, swallow as fast as possible, and never, ever think about texture.

If I closed my eyes and focused hard enough, I could almost pretend it was just jerky. Horribly wet jerky made by a sadist.

It still tasted like regret, but at least it stayed down. Most of the time.

As for the apple tree. I tried looking for it again, but sadly the fight with the Razorchirp dragged me way too far away to know where I was.

I also tried to train my body.

Didn’t work.

A zombie can’t grow muscles, apparently. Who knew?

But something else happened.

Every time I ate a magical monster, I felt... different.

Stronger.

And then, one day -- while getting chased by some snarling cave-gremlin, I threw a desperate punch at the air, yelling, “Take this!”
(Yeah. I panicked.)
Nothing happened at first.

Then -- fwoosh -- a tiny flicker of flame danced on my fingertip.
And vanished in a blink.

It was like I’ve unlocked "birthday candle" level magic.

“.....Okay. That’s something new.”