Far beyond the fairy hills where forest nymphs abide,
Far beyond the grotto where the laughing mermaids hide,
Far beyond the forest where the knights and dragons fight,
There is a place that magic’s lost, and lives each day by night.

It is a place that once was great, before the Walking Death
Did scatter people to the wind, and take away their breath.
For now, the skies are icy grey, and creatures stalk the street
Looking always, as they do, for someone they can eat.

The hero of our tragic tale is here upon this bridge,
A place that he has chosen for its view of yonder ridge.
There, he thinks, he saw a light, the night before that day.
It could mean other human beings—watch, he thinks, and pray.

He knows he has been spotted when he hears a mournful cry,
So turns about and sees the thing, and shoots it in the eye.
Then, he hears the thunder blast from far above in heaven,
And guards against the coming rain his AK-47.

He now must quickly leave the bridge, before the things can swarm,
And wishes (not his first or last) for someplace dry and warm.
It’s easy with just one or two, but if they come together,
The last thing he’d be worried ‘bout was cold and stormy weather.

He saw no people on the cliff, but goes there, just in case,
For even if there’s no one there, it’d make a handy base.
The highest ground’s the longest view, and knowing what’s ahead
Can save a man the trouble of him joining with the dead.

And would you guess, that at the top, he finds an empty camp?
And there, perhaps, the source of light, a little oil lamp.
Abandoned, though, and all intact, so there was little chance
That those who lived here hadn’t died and joined the shambling dance.

As if to prove his theory, then, he finds the man at last
Whose tent had pitched upon the ridge above the valley vast.
Sitting, there, behind a tree, his eyes are shining dull,
With bandages around his wrist, a bullet through his skull.

Bitter disappointment, then, for friends he never knew,
Who could have fought together as the swarms around them grew.
If he had not been bitten, then he wouldn’t now be dead
For choosing right the noble end, and blasting out his head.

He digs for him a shallow grave beneath the gnarled birch
As lonely as the sable crow that eyes him from her perch.
If she could bear him from that place, with wings as dark as jet,
He’d not have gone away with her, to fight the creatures yet.

For crows, it seems, will eat the dead, as those who have been bit,
And they can’t reason like a man, or find the cause of it.
If running could have served him well, he’d trade his loathsome life
To cure the awful Walking Plague, and end the living’s strife.

Of course, you know, the crow he sees is nothing but a crow,
And cannot save his life this day. I thought you ought to know.
She flies now, off her lonely perch, and being just a bird,
Cannot presume to warn the man, spoke not a single word.

At last, the final mound of earth is placed upon the tomb
While he has not the fondest thought of what will happen soon.
And so, the dead, as buried thus, had reached his bitter end,
The stranger whom he never met engraves his stone, A Friend.

The funeral is over now, with just one soul to mourn
Though never really noticing the sky, too, is forlorn.
She pours her sorrows from her clouds she painted iron grey
Till naught but time could tell it is the middle of the day.

He stands there, soaking in the storm, and then his face goes pale
As off he hears approaching him the creatures’ mournful wail.
He’d stayed up there for far too long, and hadn’t kept his guard,
And now, it seems, they’d come for him, and now, it’s raining hard.

No time to waste, he grabs his gun, and takes his rapid aim,
To **** the thing that doesn’t know its history or its name.
They come in droves, but he is fast, and gets them one by one,
And he is sure that if he holds, the battle will be won.

He guides another straight and true, above the squawk of crows.
He curses that what’s in his sites with every word he knows.
He pulls the trigger, soft, as though the angels heard his hope
And heeded him his prayer to them: Assure the fatal stroke.

But as the bullet leaves the gun, he sees the creature’s eyes
Lighting up with fear and dread, and then, with cool surprise.
And in her hand, she holds a sword, which she had used to ****,
For creatures will not stop their search, and never eat their fill.

And then, he knows, she is alive! She’d come to join the war!
And they could fight together, not be lonely anymore!
And as he finds his fondest wish had found him in the rain
The bullet that the angels blessed flies straight into her brain.

He sees her fall among the dead that still are marching on,
And at the feeding frenzy’s start, he sees his hopes are gone.
And there they are, the scoundrels, they are tearing up her flesh!
They wish to eat her to the bone, because her meat is fresh!

He cannot let them, not at all, he has to make a stand.
He charges at the feasting swarm, and feels one bite his hand.
He fights them still, keeps them away, till he begins to fade.
The sins of all mankind before, with this, they are repaid.

This grim thought was last he had, before he finally died,
With no one else around to see, none grieved, and no one cried.
The dead man stood. His eyes had lost their golden, burning fire.
Though finally freed from human strife, was not from his desire.

All around, the others were, and just the same as him;
No different thought than flesh and blood could even they begin.
The man looked down then to the girl, and knew not in the least
Whose fault it was that she was dead. He then began to feast.