Rain pitter patts across the graveyard, the fat drops drawn towards the blue, makeshift tent covering a burial. A large crowd, mostly men and women in dark, pressed, police uniform, some small families, a few random loners, all surrounding the open casket at the center of the unhappy mass. The occupant of said pine box is a tall older man, graying brown hair, stone faced, and his wrinkles, now worn grooves adorning his face, marks of pride honoured by hard working men. A brass police badge shines brightly on his chest, his arms draped at his waist and his fingers loosely crossed as if he was praying. Two figures are standing opposite the priest, just some feet away from the casket, a woman and a young boy, are his wife, a short, raven haired woman with a hand over her mouth, trying to cover her sobbing; And the child, just a nine year old boy, is his son, his hair contrasting his mothers with golden yellow. Eyes cracked with red fissure-like veins mix with steely anger show the boys' sad devotion to the deceased, a silver sheriff's badge in his hands. The boy says nothing, gripping his silver star tighter and tighter, and the tears escape his eyes once again. He wiped them with his sleeve as he approached the coffin, his lip wobbling, betraying his battle to remain strong. His silence continues as he places the silver badge in his father's hand, taking up the brass shield in the same motion. His mother steps forward, placing the man's cold grey pocket-watch into the other hand, pictures of his offspring and spouse on the inside cover.
As the boy turns away from the sad sight, he sees his father standing in front of him, in all his cold anger. He turns back to the coffin, clarifying that now there is two of his father. He turns back again, to the man standing in front of him. Fear railroads through the boy's body as he looks for his mother, someone, anyone to help him. No one even took notice of the boy anymore as the casket is lowered and the crowd readies to disperse. Nobody else seems to take in the tall stiff tromping through the ceremony, no one but the child. His mother begins walking away, working through the people, unaware of the strange apparition haunting her child. Drawn out, simple words leave the supposed dead man's mouth, "YOU... YOU AREN'T WORTHY... YOU WILL FAIL! IF I COULDN'T… THEN HOW COULD YOU HOPE TO?" The ominous words echo as the environment around then melts away into inky darkness. All that's left is the man, the boy, and the coffin. His supposed father begins to step towards the child, making him back up, almost fall into the open grave. Suddenly, dead arms reach out of the open casket, snatching the boys' ankles in a hard grip, and pulling the boy in. The boy is now reunited with his father, and all the boy can feel is fear. The coffin door slams shut and the boy finally screams at the top of his lungs into the blackness, sound blocked by the large clammy hands of his father over his mouth.
Twenty six year old Jack Durande' bolted up, his arms swinging and flailing like he was fighting off some monster, his eyes wide as dinner plates and cold sweat dripping from his brow. The body hogging all of the sheets next to him simply mumbled something about a dying cat and rolled over onto its side. Jack pushed the remaining sheets off his legs, swung his body around and shakily set his feet onto the cold metal floor, almost like the floor might not be there to catch him. He put his face into his hands, small tears trailing down his face as he brought his mentality back to reality. He sniffed once, wiped his eyes with his forearm and hung his head for a few moments, only to swing it to the side, glancing at his electric clock on his nightstand. 2:17 stared back loudly, the smaller text next to it telling him it was Tuesday. He groaned out a light "Fuck all." And put his hands back over his face. 'Why do all of my dreams about dad have to include zombies?' he thought with an even louder mental groan.