A few days after The End, some fanatics and preachers of the end times revered the massacres as a culling ordained by God, allowing hordes to storm safe zones with lifeless, bloodied smiles, calling it retribution. They named it The Cleansing.

Today, however, these ideologies have become perverted, shifting their worship from God to the undead themselves. This change was due to a man who was half-undead and half-human, calling himself a god.

These cultists go around making it easier for the undead to take over, clearing out survivor camps, taking prisoners to convert, scarring and scalping them beyond recognition, leaving them just barely alive so they can undergo their own transformation into what they believe to be a pseudo-undead state. In reality, the state they enter—if they even survive the process—is akin to the abandonment of one’s own will and survival instincts, craving death as an escape from the torture. They expect to die, but they don't. This is what a pseudo-undead is: a lifeless husk that can think and craves violence as a way to seek revenge for what was done to them.

Sometimes, however, those who weren't born into the ideology, the indoctrinated, manage to snap out of it.

A flock of cultists drives down the open road beyond the forest, passing by a gas station. They see a beheaded glider and fall to the ground to worship it. A deep, intense sadness fills them. They celebrate its undeath by crucifiying it and parading it around. Among them is a woman in her early thirties, and she and a few others spot “The Demon” riding by—a dark figure with protruding horns atop its shadowy head. It rides in on a mechanical steed that lets out a monstrous roar.

The cultits turn to face the fiend, howling before blowing their warhorn. Their fleet of madmen appear to take charge, but the noise they make attracts a fierce deity. It appears, towering over the trees toppling any that stands in its way. “URA HAS AWOKEN! IT REQUIRES SACRIFICE!” The woman falls to her knees in prayer and the others around her stand in awe.

It follows the noise raging into a blaze, while the remaining cultists carry the beheaded glider back to their base. One takes a look behind her, beholding the carnage caused by the giant beast. Limbs thrown apart like confetti, cars turned into abstract sculptures and towering trees put down to size. It wasn’t undeath, it was pure total chaos. It was torture by their own gods.

Five lonesome cultists traversed through desolate towns, footsteps echoing against the crumbling walls overgrown in flesh and flora. Their symbol of devotion to the glory of the undead carried above them up front. The woman’s eyes flicker with a glimmer of clarity as the dangling corpse above her inched closer with every bounce in the group leader’s step. She felt a light tinge of guilt.

She remembered helping make a similar symbol. This one, was made by The Demon, beheading a helpless undead. But the ones from before, she could remember it with painstaking clarity. The man screamed all the while as he was chopped into bits, chants echoing in her memories. The way he sobbed, and- She looked away from the zombie.

As the group moved from ghost town to the next, they remained vigilant. However, amongst them, a cult member had noticed how the woman had looked at the glider. He kept a close eye on her. He noticed her hesitation, the way she looked at the decaying buildings with a sense of recognition and sorrow. It was clear she was beginning to remember her past life. the one before the cult had taken her.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

One night, as they camped in the ruins of an old church, the man approached the others “Our sister is slipping, my brothers.” he whispered, his voice filled with urgency. “We must restore her faith to our cause before she becomes a threat to our mission.” the others nodded in agreement after observing her closely as she slept. They gathered around her, chanting their sacred hymns.

She awoke with a shriek, the one who told them of her staring her down. Their faces were inches apart, and he had a sickening smile upon his visage. They had grabbed her, holding her down, as the squad leader brandished his cleaver. “DON’T DO THIS, PLEASE! THE UNDEAD GODS DON’T BELIEVE IN OUR CAUSE, THEY ONLY WISH TO CAUSE PAIN!” She screamed, but her words were almost silenced by the droning of the group's chanting. “THEY WISH TO TORTURE US NOT FREE US!”

He stopped, cleaver held against her bare skin, slowly tracing down her face. He thought upon her words. Traitorous as they seemed, he thought upon them nonetheless. He remembered his past life, the false life. How the sheep spoke of souls trapped in the undead flesh. Eternally in pain. He frowned, as the chants around him seemed to grow hollow, no longer comforting him.

“What are you waiting for brother! Mark her with our cause!” the leader looked down at his knife, to his brothers, to his horrified sister, and to the glider. “Do it!” the leader looks down. Closing his eyes tightly. And began to carve out around her face. From her chin, circling around to the bridge of her nose, and back down to her chin once more. Her pained screams pierced his very soul.

As the days turned into weeks, the groups continued their journey towards the heart of their cult, her moments of clarity grew more frequent after carving. And the leader found himself drawn to her. He stared back in regret. Her face never left the sight of ground, trying to mask her thoughts before she is re-indoctrinated once again. The pain stings, and worse when her grimey hands wipe off the seeping blood that leaves a trail from the church. The leader’s own brainwashing unravels with each passing day. When she looked up for a moment, he saw in her eyes a reflection of his own doubts. Each starting to remember the lives they had both lost.

The man who had noticed, noticed more. He sensed the leader starting to slip as well. He tried to preach to the group leader, to reason. But, the more he did, the more he resisted. She overheard, and what they knew from years of service to the cult slowly creeped back into their minds for a moment before vanishing once more. A cycle of brainwashing and awakening. An endless loop of devotion and doubt. And devotion had lost.

He felt a connection to her. Deeper than the cult, deeper than the crave of freedom. He knew he had seen her before. How he felt was unmistakable. The past they had both tried to recall, was one in the same. He carried the cross in one arm, and with a free hand, he felt around his ring finger.

He missed her.

They finally reached the outskirts of the deadzone. The towering ruins cast long shadows over them. The miasma acts like a wall dividing it from the outside world. The man who noticed, and the man who hadn't, they both breathe it in. The leader and the woman stayed behind. They shared a silent understanding. They knew that breaking free from the cult would not be easy. But, they were determined to reclaim their identities, even if it meant facing the wrath of their former comrades.

It was a chance to break free and find a new path. One that led away from the darkness and towards the light of their long forgotten past. They looked at each other. And the leader slammed down the glider onto the cultists in front, the arms of the cross pinning them down beneath the unliving dead.

The leader grabbed the woman’s hand, and together they ran, and ran. Until their bare feet bled, and then they ran some more.

But, that was only a dream they shared.