Eralia, the Brain-Eating Zombie

Laufa collapsed with a gritty thud in the dirt. Behind the cloud of dust from her fall, the captain’s stena gemstone pulsed. His smirk vanished.

* * *

A sickening, wet scraping.

That was the first sound she heard. It vibrated up from the ground, followed by muffled sobs. Something felt deeply, terribly wrong. Her finger twitched. The dirt against her back was uneven and cold, a warm wetness spilled from her. A desperate breath caught in her throat with a thick, gurgling liquid. Her mouth tasted of blood. Suffocating. I can’t breathe.

“Laufa, Laufa!” The sobs formed a name.

…Laufa? The name felt familiar, but she didn’t completely recognise it. She grasped for her own name, but couldn’t remember anything. Anything at all.

Warm droplets splattered her eyelids. She pried them open, and the world slowly crept into focus. She saw a boy, no older than sixteen, sobbing above her, his mouth twisted in grief.

“…Killed her…”

“…Survived? Impossible.”

Hushed whispers. A woman wept nearby. Blurred figures circled her, gawking. Her head throbbed with a pounding behind her eyes. Her limbs felt heavy, without strength to even move them. Hospital, someone…

Her vision cleared, landing on the boy’s clothing. A brown tunic. Leather clogs. Behind him, a man watched her, calmly, intently. A glowing crystal was set in a silver-ish fitting at the base of his neck. She glanced down.

Ah. Blood. She was soaked in blood. Her hands fumbled for her chest, her body barely obeying. Her fingertips felt like they belonged to someone else. They were slippery and lifeless. Slicked in blood. Litres of it.

“H—huagh,” she choked.

The boy’s swollen eyes darted to her face. “L…Laufa?”

Stop calling me that. Help. Please, I can’t move, somebody help. It hurts, it… it, it doesn’t hurt.

Her fingers probed her own body sluggishly. She felt a soaked and sticky cloth. The fingers stumbled upon her chest, and she braced herself… But it felt solid. There was no pain, and there was no wound. There was blood, but no wound. She hacked up the liquid clogging her throat and inhaled. The air was an icy sting in her lungs. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dreaming, either. She was definitely breathing.

“Captain, she’s alive.”

“Indeed… She is.” The man adjusted his glove. “Laufa, it was? See to her induction.”

He flicked his hand, and two men parted the masses, their eyes fixed on her. They seized an arm each, their hands rough, clamping down tightly. As they hauled her up, her knees buckled, and she stumbled. They dragged her through the crowd, a blend of fearful and awed faces. A mother jerked her child back as her heels scraped across the dirt. Nauseating scents of sweat and blood filled her nostrils.

The captain examined her like an animal. “The order for her brother is still valid. Take him as well.” He turned on his heel. “A conscript, and a volunteer.”

Brother? She strained her neck.

A woman cried out. “Fiann! No!”

A guard wrenched an arm behind the sobbing boy’s back. His eyes were terrified, darting wildly before meeting hers. His tears fell, mingling with the pool of blood on the ground. He mouthed a word, but she couldn’t be sure what.

She couldn’t be sure of anything.

No, that wasn’t true. There was one thing. The captain’s parting message. The word that boy had sobbed. Her name was, probably, Laufa.

* * *

The library of the Royal College smelled stuffy, equal parts parchment and leather. An afternoon light highlighted the dust between its twisting shelves. Its silence was broken only by the soft turning of a page where Eralia Adeus sat alone. The history book’s spine creaked.

…The treacherous southern lords saw the royal establishment of the Stena Merchant Guilds in 1146 as a threat to their traditional privileges. Led by House Miarties, they sought aid some twenty years later from the Garath Empire, whose humid marches had long harbored envy for Lodran’s vast stena deposits.

“Amateurs.” A sneer curled Eralia’s lips. “Overplayed their hand, went begging for foreign support, and were crushed. Too little, too late.”

Their banners were torn down, their names struck from the rolls of nobility. The vast holdings of House Miarties were divided amongst the Houses of Lesnick and Rustes, whose support of the Compact had proved their unwavering loyalty…

She paused. Her slender finger rested on the name Rustes, the page coarse with age.

“Loyalty?” Eralia muttered to herself. “More like better opportunists.”

She closed the tome with a thump and opened her own leather-bound notebook. Inside the front, her fingers traced the sharp crease of a folded letter. Her jaw tightened. She didn’t have to read it, her cousin Corvan’s words were already burned into the back of her mind. A draft from the window sent a chill down her neck.

…I pray that allowing your enrollment into the Royal College was the right choice. Should your ambitions of military command fail, a noblewoman such as yourself has other uses at the capital.

She whipped past the front and the pages of combat notes, landing on a list of names in her own scratchy handwriting.

House Vellen. House Pasaulis… House Rustes.

She uncapped an ink pot. The quill scratched against paper as she scribbled in small letters beneath the entry: Miarties.

Her head lifted at the shuffle of boots from the corridor. She saw a group of lectors and instructors march past the library’s arched doorway. A flash of silver thread on one man’s mantle caught her attention, a royal sigil.

A Royal Inspector? Here? Her chair scraped against the floor as she shot to her feet. She jammed the stopper into her ink pot, flung it into her satchel, and slipped into step behind them. Their colourful robes sparkled among the uniforms of disciples clogging the halls. She fought the urge to shove the dawdlers aside. Her own footsteps were absorbed by the growing chatter ahead.

The dim corridors opened into a grand courtyard, where a blast of sunlight nearly blinded her. Before her eyes could adjust, the crowd surged around her. It was a warm, disorganized mass of bodies. Her procession vanished into the chaos. Frowning, she raised her head. Of course…

Eralia stepped back, leaning against a pillar as she caught her breath. Gilded Lodran banners fluttered in the mountain’s wind. Spectators circled a large, paved square, kept behind by a low stone wall. A voice, a touch too loud, chimed over the chatter.

“Young Lord Rustes, what a pleasure it is to see you!”

Her head snapped towards a young noble with an eager smile, his bow a touch too deep.

“…I wish I could say the same, Ottro.” The young lord in question, Mordhun Rustes, sighed before he turned to respond. The scar on his right knuckles vanished as he clasped his hands neatly behind his back.

“Ah, Lord Rustes, surely you jest!” Ottro shifted from foot to foot nervously. “I wouldn’t expect a disciple of your importance to be here, watching the entrance ceremony, though!”

Mordhun turned his shoulder to Ottro, his gaze drifting to the line of recruits ahead.

Ottro gave an unsubtle cough before continuing. “Could it be, perhaps, you’ve heard the rumours surrounding that commoner?”

“Which commoner?” Mordhun’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“They say that she came back from the dead. Dozens of witnesses reported it!” Ottro leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s possible she could be a manra—“

“I should have known not to expect anything of value from your mouth, Ottro,” A sharp laugh escaped Mordhun. “What, you claim there’s some sort of vengeful revenant among the recruits? Do you take me for a fool?”

Ottro’s smile remained plastered on his face as he bowed again. “Of course. It was only a rumour—“

“Be gone.”

“Of course, Lord Rustes.”

As Ottro fled, Eralia kept her eyes fixed on Mordhun. She followed his gaze to the recruits: their drab wools, the marching steps, and a flash of auburn hair.

Close, but if anyone were a revenant, it would be me. Still, revenant. How crude. A revenant was a zombie. Her case was more of a takeover. Replacing a stranger’s consciousness at birth, before their life had even begun. Then again, this body would’ve been stillborn otherwise, so whether they had a life to begin with was debatable.

She had inhabited the body for nearly eighteen years, eighteen long years of Lodrian nobility. Almost as long as she had lived on Earth. Her fingers traced the spine of the journal in her satchel. Which life was the real zombie, now?

* * *

The gravel crunched under her boots. Laufa pinched her arm for what felt like the hundredth time and slumped her shoulders in defeat. Nothing. She flinched as the cold rod of a guard’s polearm grazed her skin, a sharp reminder to stay in line. The face of the captain who’d kidnapped her flashed in her mind. She had kept her mouth shut, a single misspoken word and the armed men might just turn on her.

The recruits marched, any conversation lost in their footsteps on cobble. She felt the vibration rattle her teeth. Golden banners lined the endless mountain path. Ahead, an iron cage-like gate was flanked by statues on either side, their crowns were adorned with blue crystals. She felt ridiculously small against the massive fortress.

Silver-plated guards stepped aside and the gate lifted with a heavy grind. The recruits clustered together as they were herded into a vast courtyard, where the city they had marched from was visible far below. Laufa rubbed her thumb against her gritty palm, the reality of her situation finally settling in. From the moment she’d awakened in this nightmare, there hadn’t been a single moment of rest. Not a single second to gather her thoughts, not among these strange people with their strange clothes, strange gems, and terrifying weapons. Walled-off figures in grey robes moved through the courtyard, their gazes lingering on the new arrivals. I don’t belong here.

One boy took a breath of the thin, mountain air, nudging his friend. “Can you feel it? This is our chance to crush those Forsgailte bastards!”

“It's a chance to not die to some spear, you mean,” another boy sneered. “Soldiers like us’ll get torn up. That’s all we’ll get.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be different.”

Laufa jumped as the crowd’s chatter was cut short by the blast of a horn. From a stepped altar in the center of the courtyard, a man’s voice boomed.

“I am the Grand Master of Arms, Ochist Vellen. You stand here today because the Royal College has presented you with our Compact’s most prestigious opportunity. The opportunity to advance. Today, we will discover whether you are fit to be a shield, or worthy of being the Compact’s sword.”

He stood before them, a dark wool cape draped over his shoulders, with a noticeable widow’s peak. He felt important, but not in the same way that captain had. “Step forward, grasp the stena, and place your hand upon the stone!”

The recruits tensed as men stepped from the altar, lining them up. A guard jabbed a slow girl in the ribs with the butt of his polearm, while another boy stumbled. The guard didn’t even flinch. A hand grabbed Laufa’s shoulder and shoved her forward. She shuffled behind the boy she’d been enlisted alongside, Fiann.

He snuck a glance back, his eyes widening. “Laufa, are you okay!?”

Whoever you think Laufa is, it isn’t me. She wanted to tell him, but the words wouldn't come. Were they even her words in the first place? She could see the hope drain from Fiann’s face as he waited for a response she just couldn’t give. Her eyes dropped to the ground.

“Ah…” He fiddled with the hem of his tunic. “I guess… We might have to miss that festival, after all.” His voice cracked as he tried to laugh.

Ahead, the first recruit was jerked toward the altar, where a polished obsidian stone sat, dotted by small holes. A man handed her a blue gem, the same kind as the one on the captain’s uniform, and in the statues’ crowns.

“Illumine,” the Grand Master commanded.

The girl set her palm on the stone. Her face flushed red with effort, and a silence hung over the courtyard. The stone remained still, unchanged against her trembling hand.

“Infantry.” A man beside the Grand Master marked a ledger, and another guard pulled the recruit aside.

“I’m sorry, Laufa,” Fiann whispered. “This is all my fault…”

The next recruit, a boy with a stern look, followed. He whispered to himself before touching the stone. A faint point of light appeared in the obsidian. A distracted recruit craned his neck forward to see, while another held his breath. Numerous dots of light followed, stationary and encircling the first. Between them, crackling strands of light connected. It felt like… Magic.

The words felt childish, something out of a story. Yet there it was, right in front of her. The pathways splintered, and his light flickered out of existence.

“Infantry.”

Even though the stone lit up… He didn’t pass? The recruits shuffled forward as her eyes drifted to the next-in-line. It was Fiann’s turn.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, his voice squeaking higher. “...I’ll, I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

He was shoved forward, but managed one last, brave-faced look at her. He approached the altar and took the gem with trembling hands. He exhaled, held his breath, and squeezed his eyes shut…

“Infantry.” The stone stared back, stubbornly the same.

Fiann opened his eyes, looking from his own hand to the stone. Guards roughly pulled him away, herding him into the line of infantry. He looked back at Laufa again, all semblance of bravery gone.

“Step forward.”

Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe I’ll touch it, and they’ll let me go home. I can’t just stand here. They’ll make me move. But I can’t run, either. Laufa crept forward, her legs felt like lead.

The gem was pressed into her hand. Its surface felt smooth and alien. She stared at the obsidian slab in front of her, her own reflection warped and elongated. A face she didn’t even recognise. Her gaze darted between the hungry eyes of the men surrounding her, the massive stone walls, a beautiful blue sky that reminded her of home. Earth, not this layer of hell she was trapped in.

“Illumine,” the man commanded.

I don’t know how to. Will they kill me if I fail? It’s not fair. You can’t just drop me into this world and expect me to work magic. It’s not fair at all.

Her hand met the obsidian. It stung, like touching frozen metal. Her palm slicked with sweat against its polished surface as she nervously palmed the azure gemstone in her other hand. Damn it, Damn it, Damn it.

A strange sensation coursed first from her fingers, into her chest. Her reflection seemed to distort. A sharp sting pricked her brain as her thoughts became a whirlwind. The smell of a room she didn’t recognise. The tug of a small hand on a sleeve. She tried to form a sentence in her mind, but all she could produce was a jumble of words and names that meant nothing. Would the real Laufa have known what to do? What would she do? What am I supposed to do!?

She gripped the gem tighter. There was a searing flash of white, then everything vanished. Her vision lurched back into focus on a small, blue spark on the obsidian. Blurred heads turned towards her. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. There was a familiar taste on her upper lip. Blood, it was a taste she had learned clearly today. She brought a hand to her nose and wiped it away.

Soon, the light began to fade. The onlookers turned away, losing interest. The man overseeing the test narrowed his eyes. Ah, no, no.

Her heart pounded in her chest. The spark flickered violently, like an out-of-control fire. I don’t want to die here.

She threw her entire weight onto the obsidian. It exploded with light, branching out into hundreds of glowing lines. They illuminated the obsidian’s perforated surface. The current that had travelled up her arm felt like boiling water in her veins. The ache in her head had grown into an overwhelming pain behind her eyes. Her breath hitched, it was too intense to function. She could hear nothing, except for a low, crackling thrum as the obsidian itself shifted between a deep black and a bright blue reflection. She squeezed her eyelids shut. Time passed, seconds or minutes, she couldn’t tell, then, the light vanished.

“Bearer.”

What? Her eyes fluttered open. The man’s expression had shifted from an indifferent frown, to something she couldn’t fully understand. Before she could even process it, a hand clawed her wrist. Her feet tripped over each other as she was dragged away from the altar, and away from the other recruits. Her gaze wandered to them, as Fiann’s mouth hung open in shock.

“LAUFA!”