The Story of ZX-17

They're not zombies, they're monsters; reanimated corpses of creatures no longer recognizable. They may have been tame once. They may have been loved once, but that had all gone now. There was no recognizable life left in them, no emotion, nothing. "They're just prototypes," I was told, "they don't matter." I walked down aisles. They stuck their noses and paws through the bars, begging me to come closer, begging to get out of their cages, but I knew better. They just wanted to kill, that's all that they knew; no sympathy, no love, nothing but that simple instinct crying out for blood. I examined every cage, each built specifically for their generation. Their mouths were sewn shut to keep them from biting us, each other, and chewing through the special reinforced bars that kept us safe from them. Their paws were wrapped in specially made bandages to keep them from clawing their way through the solid cement walls and up to the surface. They had had holes cut into both side of their throats to allow them to breath, and if they turned their heads just right, sometimes you could see right through them. Their bones shown through clearly through whatever was left of their skin. Most of them had been found dead on the road, brought back into the lab to create the perfect war hound. Originally they thought of experimenting on humans, but there were to many ways that could go wrong. Instead they use what ever they find on the road; dogs, cats, possums, raccoons, whatever, as long as it still had its claws. Many times they came in half flattened, partially decayed. Those were the first generations. Then as they went on they started using fresher meat, usually right from the vet. Now, they're operating, and experimenting on live animals, the ones deemed too vicious to put up for adoption. The cages were alive with bangs and crashes as they rammed themselves into the bars begging for our throats. I was led to the back. To the most dangerous prototype they had, to my responsibility. They called him ZX-17.

I approached cautiously. He lay in the back of his cage, undeterred by the commotion around him. As we stepped closer, he lifted his head. He turned to us. His eyes were gorged out after his reanimation, to reduce the immediate danger. They had tried to sew his mouth shut but the strings came loose, and were covered with layers and layers of slightly tighter wires. The skin on half his face was falling off, exposing his skull. His ribs were cracked, peeking through his ratty fur. His tail was stripped clean leaving nothing but a bony whip.

He tilted his head, as though he were still a live pup, begging innocently for a meal. I watched him, and he watched me. His eye sockets were empty, but I felt a chill as he turned his head, looking directly at me. As though he could see me. As though his eyes were never gone. As if those empty sockets could see straight through my body, and into my soul. Into my mind. His one ear pricked as though it could hear my thoughts, like I were saying them aloud.

I turn to the guards behind me, but they refuse to go any closer. I swallow hard and step up to his cage trying to be strong. I could show no sign of fear. I cannot be weak, else it will spell my doom and the death of the people around me. The beast walks up to the cage bars, its dry nose twitching as if it could smell my fear. He pushed one paw through the bars, the bandage tattered and torn, exposing his razor sharp claws, that could pierce on contact, and slice through metal. I take the wrap in my hand and cautiously cover his paw again. When I finish he takes it back, and replaces it with another. I frown. You're a smart one aren't ya. I think. He turns to me and gives a snort.