“Right zis way, and do not touch zee bones, please.” The French guide’s nauseating sweet voice droned on, cautioning my class to not touch the ancient, withered bones. Everyone thought the field trip to the French catacombs would be totally sick. Well, sick, yeah, but not in the cool way. The guide kept on with her dry, useless facts. No one was listening, but despite the guide’s warnings, everyone prodded the bones. It felt like we were awakening the dead.
“Hey, Jack, lets ditch this group and do our own exploring, hmm?” said my friend, Phil, with a sharp jab in the shoulder.
“Totally. It’s a miracle I haven’t fallen asleep yet.” We snuck around the rest of the group and stooped under a thick rope into the extensive, skull lined walls. We jogged down the broad tunnels, occasionally pushing each other into the walls. We roamed the corridors, joking and laughing. As we got further down the hallways, we took the corners at random. When the dim lights started to become sparse, Phil and I turned into a small crypt. The walls were now lined with wrapped bodies instead of skulls. A low moan came from behind me, probably Phil.
“Shut up dude, we haven’t been walking that long.” I told him over my shoulder.
“That wasn’t me, man.” Phil replied, with a shudder in voice. That wasn’t like him; he was the lineman on the football team. I hurriedly glanced around the cramped crypt. Nothing looked out of place.
“Maybe we should leave.” I suggested. But the low moan came again, and again I surveyed the crypt. Nothing.
“Yeah, let’s go right now.” Phil said, turning on his heel to leave. But there, standing in the archway, an emaciated, pale gray corpse obstructed our way. I instinctively took a step back. What is it? I thought. The eyes were milky and filmed over, as though no thought has crossed its mind in ages. Clumps of hair were barely hung on to the scalp. It stretched a hand towards me, the nails yellowed and cracked. The monster took in a raspy breath through its mouth and began to shamble toward Philip and me. We backed into the opposite wall of the crypt. We were trapped. Panicked, Phil lashed out at the monster. He struck him square on the arm, and to our surprise, whacked it off. The zombie let out a high pitched squeal. Hands began to pop out of the rotten linens, and more zombies came from the walls, straight for us. With a quick lash, the zombie grasped Phil’s hair and took a lunge at his head, its putrid teeth barred. Phil ducked and ran between his legs, and I followed. Foul, fetid fingers grazed us and drew blood. We toppled on top of one another, but we were out of the crypt. Sprinting, taking left and rights, we miraculously made it to the class.
“Zombies! Right behind us! We need to run!” I shrieked.
The class erupted into laughter, even the French tour guide. Phil and I ran to the door. But it was too late. Before Phil and I could make it to the exit, we heard the fatal screams of pure terror behind us. It was too late. We couldn’t do anything now.