All Flesh Must Be Eaten ...

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Wilber/Parishioner’s Eyes/1
Parishioner’s Eyes
An All Flesh Must Be Eaten Adventure
By James Wilber
I remember hearing Ned say, "Hey guys, I found some gasoline!" I turned to acknowledge his achievement and saw the
zombie standing there.
You can always tell a zombie straight away by the eyes, at least after a while you can. Eyes that are rolled up, smoke
glassed, looking at nothing in particular. Staring towards the sky like a Latino Jesus on a candle or a man singing a hymn at
church--parishioner's eyes.
Ned was marveling over an antique gas pump attached to a rusty red tank. He couldn't see the zombie behind him and
was too excited to hear him coming. I obeyed stupid instinct, lifted my shotgun to my shoulder, fired. I remember pieces of meat
flying in a dazzling display like the Fourth of July coming from the man-eater's chest. Then the tank exploded.
It's a strange experience being lifted from one's feet by sheer blast power. I landed on my back, breathless, ignored the
pain and looked up at the flaming mess. Ned was on fire, the zombie was on fire and everyone was panicking. Two of my party
lifted me by the shoulders and carried me to safety.
A bit later, while the blaze was cooling, we sat around in a circle thinking about the events. Carl, our leader, looked at
me and shook his head.
"You reacted; any one of us could have done it."
"I know," I replied shakily, but I didn't really feel that way.
"Well, enough loafing," Carl said. "Let's go see if there's anything left in the house. Wayne and Jim go dispose of the
bodies. Sid, you rest a while okay? Keep watch."
I nodded in assent and watched Wayne and Jim go about their work. Now, before this all happened, the only things I
knew about zombies I had learned from movies. I wish they still made movies. The whole process of killing them still terrifies
me. Real zombies (and shit I can't believe I just said "real zombies", some days it still hasn't sunk in)--you see real zombies don't
"die" if you electrocute them or shoot them in the head. No, they just keep coming. You have to destroy them utterly. The best
way to do it is shoot them with something big, high caliber or a shotgun; then after you've blown off a limb or two (one leg and
one arm considered best) you go up to them, and hack them apart with a machete. I've got a Museum Replicas broad sword that
does the trick. The limbs will move on their own then, but they're pretty harmless. If you're feeling complete, wrap the parts up in
a bag and bury them.
The two men on clean up detail flipped a coin to see who would have to hack up Ned. No, you NEVER get used to it. To
the moron who just said, "well hey he's a zombie now!" fuck you, okay? I knew the guy's name and I knew his family.
You do get used to the mess though, just like working in a slaughterhouse.
I have had a long time to get used to it. The dead started to return to life about four years ago. I was twelve then. Of
course at first, no one believed it, then it happened. Masses of dead started to walk in the cities. Armies of the dead rampaged
across the countryside looking to eat human flesh. Countries started to blame each other, a few nukes got launched. New York is
now a radioactive shit hole, but hey it was a shit hole before and I figure that's a hell of a lot less zombies to worry about now.
About two years into the plague the country shut down -- no law, no electricity, just chaos and the undead. Right around
that time, groups of people like us started heading to the woods. They would find a good-sized farmhouse or an old factory, make
it as secure as they could and start a life of scrounging and paranoia. We are the "saviors" of the human race. We'll never know
what made the dead come back to life. I have always assumed it had to be something supernatural. Zombies just don't obey the
laws of physics and biology. This was something religious, something cosmic, this was retribution.
We went back to Tombstone. That's what we call our little fortress-home: Carl is a big fan of westerns and shitty puns. I
cleaned up and did the only thing that makes sense when you have a day that bad: end it.
As I was tossing in my bunk I thought about my Theory. I have this theory you see, that one-day in the distant future all
of the zombies are going to rot away. Maybe the bones will attack us then, but the bones will turn to dust. Then the planet will be
ours again and my grandchildren will know what it is like to run through a field of wild flowers without carrying a gun.
I had a reoccurring dream that night. I have this dream too often; it's something that happened to me when I was thirteen,
acid etched in my unconscious for eternity. My mother died. She was hit by a policeman's stray bullet (not so surprising that I
have a dream about stray bullets). We still lived in Cincinnati then; the zombies had us holed up on the North side of town. The
National Guard made sure they didn't cross the bridges, but a few would get over the river from time to time. My mother was out
doing wash. She got hit by the cop who was trying to save her. The dream really isn't about that though; it's about her funeral.
I won't go to funerals anymore, the whole concept of having them now is ludicrous. I dreamt of how my mom was tied
down by old cord rope, tied down so she wouldn't get out of her own coffin and eat the mourners. The priest was a dignified man,
a man of duty and inner strength, a real stupid ass he was. He said the last rites and passed the holy water over her in the shape of
the cross. I watched in fascination, my mother's eyes followed the priest's hand as it went over her. She would lift her head and
snap her jaw at the digits hovering tantalizingly out of reach. When the prayers were over, the pallbearers set to their grisly task.
They hefted axes to their shoulders, my father first, and chopped her to bits in her own coffin. Catholic to the last, no cremation
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for us thank you. I really didn't see much of it; the choppers were in the way, but I screamed and screamed as the blood and meat
splashed up on the crew and those in the front row.
After the incident with Ned, the clan let me stay home for a while. It wasn't until two months later that I was asked to go
on another mission. At times when we have enough food and such, a party would get together and go looking for another group of
survivors. I don't know why we did this, instinctual I guess; we are communal creatures. I was going stir crazy behind ten-foot tall
cyclone fencing and barbed wire. Carl could see that I wasn't enjoying my "rest" so he let me go with him and ten others, out to an
old one-church town that was only two days' hike.
It was a good day, sun shining and birds singing. We walked silently through the backcountry, more fields and scrub
then actual woods. Here's something ironic: you can tell, just a few years after, that the air is cleaner and you can see a bit further.
No more cars and factories, makes me wonder if the whole zombie thing happened because Mother Nature was pissed off.
Carl was feeling generous so he passed out some smokes. It was positively pleasant, not one rot-head the entire trip.
We reached that small town in the middle of the afternoon the next day. We all got quiet and serious. A person is still
much more likely to see a zombie the closer one gets to civilization, if you could call this place civilization.
As we passed the only intersection, I heard the sound of something small, heavy and metal hit the ground. We looked
over to a used car lot, more like a vacant gravel lot with a dozen cars packed together. The cars must have been in sorry shape
before; now they were almost rusted off the frame.
Considering our mission, Carl let out the universal greeting call.
"We're Human," he exclaimed.
No reply.
We spread out and headed into the car lot, making sure to stay out of each others' field of fire, seemed like they were
giving me an extra wide berth. I peeked around the corner of an old Cadillac and thought to myself that I would have gotten my
driver's license this year. Behind the car I saw two kids, frantically trying to work the magazine they had dropped back into a
rusty, ill-kept and yet still dangerous looking AK-47. The kids were filthy, hair sticking up like Einstein. Now I know what
authors meant when they said someone was wearing rags. It made me smile.
"You two should speak up when someone calls out to you," I grinned. "You could get yourselves shot by mistake."
Being the youngest in our group I figured I was the least imposing, so I took it upon myself to talk to the kids. Carl was
right, there were people here, hiding out in the cannery on the edge of town.
The kids led us down the road and a nervous, filthy, assembly of people let us into their compound. It looked as if this
group forgot what a shower was; they were really bad off. I thought to myself that they must have a water problem or, considering
the poverty of the town we just walked through, maybe they lived like this before.
A man came out at the head of a delegation: a big beefy guy, wearing an old fur coat and tons of gaudy jewelry, gold just
dripping off him. He walked up to Carl, stiff backed and chest out.
"Strangers, will you share a meal with us?" he said, as if that was the only thing to say.
I thought this was pretty fucking peculiar. What was this, the Middle Ages? I didn't get where this guy was coming from
with his funny greeting and all, but most people left alive weren't playing with a full deck.
Carl gave him his official greeting in a much less official tone, "We don't want anything from you folks, we're just
looking for others. We don't want to take anything that's yours."
This little sensible message told everyone that we weren't raiders scouting out some new prey, if they believed us.
"But we would appreciate dinner," Carl added, so as not to offend our host or his own hungry belly.
"Then let us go discuss as the women prepare food," the chief spouted.
Carl and their boss wandered off into the building to have their pow-wow. I couldn't help thinking what a fruit loop this
guy was. The rest of us stood around like a bunch of jack-asses. Soon enough some of the strangers started asking us questions
and my comrades; happy to talk to someone new obliged them.
I'm anti-social by nature so I wandered over to a stack of barrels and took a seat. I watched them banter about everything
including the weather for a half-hour. Then one of their group spotted me and wandered over.
She was a pretty girl, even with her desperate need of a hairbrush and makeup. She said her name was Sara. She was just
that right combination of shy and inquisitive. I guessed she was around my age, maybe a little older. I had no one my own age at
Tombstone. We talked and talked about all those silly things. She made me at ease and I think I was happy for those couple hours
while we were together.
The sun was setting so everyone was asked to come inside. It was an ominous place made of concrete and metal pipes, lit
by torches nailed right into the cinder block walls. Footsteps echoed here no matter how much other noise you were making. The
two kids that introduced us found me again. They dragged me with great enthusiasm over to their little space in the factory.
It was like an animal den, a corner of a room covered with blankets and garbage. The kids pulled back one of the
blankets and revealed four shiny cans. They set the cans upright, stepped back, and looked at me proudly. I was wondering when
they were going to open the cans and share something with me, when one of the cans made a little pinging noise. I jumped, they
smiled. Another can rocked back and forth and fell over, rolling across the floor.
The kids started explaining to me excitedly that they had taken zombie fingers, sometimes a whole hand, and sealed
them up in these cans, making sick and twisted Mexican jumping beans. Talking to the girl must have softened me up, because I
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thought about this for a minute, repressed the urge to first puke and then strangle the little monsters. Just then someone called out;
"Dinner's ready!"
Dinner was preempted by a lengthy prayer cum sermon. Their windbag leader put on quite a show, professing faith in the
almighty and his thankfulness for being alive. The meal was pretty good though. All of us from Tombstone sat together.
Conversation was lively with the natives. I must admit they have pretty good thing going here. They still have a ton of canned
goods, a nice unperishable stockpile of food. It would make me paranoid.
After dinner the other folks socialized a bit, then their leader said it was time for the "Rite of Those Possessed by God."
My bullshit meter hit the red line. “What the hell is this?” I thought to myself.
They all started lighting torches, the adults any way: I saw that Sara had a seat by the little kids. The chief stood in the
middle of the circle, while the rest started swaying back and forth, humming amen, just like a good old Baptist revival.
The leader announced "It is time for our litany and creed."
He would pontificate the lines, and the others would repeat after him in unison.
"We do not eat the flesh of our own...."
"We do not suffer the dead to walk...."
"We do not make cities to the dead...."
I was getting the creeps. This was way too bizarre. Where did they come up with this crap? What would posses them to
do something like this?
The ceremony continued. Some passages they read were from the bible, others I couldn’t recognize. Carl and our bunch
were looking like they were watching some native tribe do their thing on PBS. I was scared shitless.
At this time I noticed a few of their bigger guys were missing. When the crowd was worked up into a good frenzy they
showed up. The men were wearing black robes; their faces were painted up like skeletons. They had with them a zombie. I could
tell it was one even though its hands were bound and it had a sack tied over its head. I could tell by the way it moaned, the way it
cried out in hunger.
The skeleton crew dragged it up to the chief and he promptly ripped the bag off its head. Of course the zombie
immediately started to struggle, snapping its jaws in the direction of the nearest human. The leader then produced a knife, and I
thought for sure he was going to put the poor thing out of its misery but when the knife came down it severed the creature's bonds.
Someone cried out, "holy shit!" It could have been me. This thing was loose in the middle of their circle, too confused by
the variety of prey it had been offered. The circle moved in on it. Zombies don't get scared, this one just stood there. The
parishioners descended upon it, tearing it apart with their bare hands. I could see its rag clothing being ripped, their strong fingers
pushing into its soft rotting flesh. A blackish green blood oozed from its wounds, covering the attackers.
I ran. I knew that they were tearing it to bits with their hands. I don't know if they can feel. I know that some people will
run over a stray cat in the road, just for kicks. Even after all the killing I've done I could not imagine killing with my bear hands,
especially something that still looked human. It made no sense. Deep down in my being it set off an alarm that said, "this is
against human nature." I couldn't bear to watch.
After the initial sprint I started to think about where I might be going. I couldn't go outside, wasn't safe and I didn't know
the area. I found a deserted corner of the factory. There I curled myself up in a little ball on the concrete floor, trying desperately
not to think of what was going on the other room. Try as I might my mind kept turning, turning back to the question of why
people would do something like that.
I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I grasped my shotgun tight and tensed looking up at the intruder. It was Sara.
The only thing that could force its way out of my throat was "Why?"
She knelt down and put her arms around me. She was so warm next to that concrete floor. She held me for a time as I
heaved and choked back tears, trying to look like a man and failing miserably.
She went and got us some blankets. She was beautiful in that torch light, dirt smudged on her tan face and tears coming
down her cheeks. She was waxing apologetically on how "it was just their way of feeling strong" and how "it kept them together
as a group."
I really didn't care anymore.
Now I was young, she was young. We have hormones and she was a pretty girl lying there beside me. We kissed gently,
to help ease each other’s pain. Then the inevitable happened. She was my first
A rifle butt jabbed me in the gut and jarred me awake. Sara was staring up wide-eyed at the circle of men that surrounded
us and she clutched on to me for dear life. They already had my gun.
Standing over us was their big leader and his bully-boys. People in the background were screaming, mostly incoherently,
though I could swear I heard the word "heretic" being shouted.
In minutes Carl and the others were brought to the scene. They still had their guns. It's amazing how scary these
situations get when everyone is armed.
The chief talked to Carl and ignored me. He told Carl how we had "taken advantage of his hospitality" and "defiled one
of the faithful."
There wasn't much conversation after that; we all knew that it was best to get the fuck out before anyone got too nervous.
We marched away in silence and made certain to get as much distance between us and that town in as little time as
possible.
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Evening came and with it some rain. We found an abandoned house and made camp there. Another cold night without
anything to eat; nothing I wasn't used to. When we finally got settled in there was time to explain my actions.
I looked to Carl and said, "hey, I'm really sorry man, I didn't know they'd do that. It was just there, ya know?"
Carl shook his head, snickered a bit, and then looked at me gravely. "You should have known better. Some folks in these
parts have always considered women property and still do."
The look in his eyes was one of understanding though. He just sat there, thinking, "I might have done it... if she had
offered, I'd have done it, " he said and drew off his cigarette.
That was case closed in everyone else's book. I think they were more jealous than angry. I couldn't let it go though. I kept
thinking about the look in her eyes, like she was trapped. I thought about the sweetness of her breath. I thought about that warm,
dark beautiful space between her legs.
I had another dream, sleeping on the couch of that abandoned house. I dreamt I saw three children, two boys and one
girl, none of them over ten. The boys looked a little like me I guess, around the eyes. The girl was the spitting image of Sara.
They were running through a field of flowers.
I woke up early and slipped off the couch, grabbed my gun and a little extra ammunition. It was before sunrise. No more
electricity meant no more light noise, no pollution to smear the vision either. The stars were once again a wondrous canopy over
the night sky. The moon lit my way.
I ran. I ran through the fields and down the rain-slicked roads of that old country town. I came upon the cannery, a
brooding hulk in the dark with the smoke of a dozen fires coming off of it.
People didn't worry about zombies climbing much and the reason why I'm still alive is because I'm a sneaky bastard. I
was over the fence and unseen in no time.
Sara must have been awake too. To this day I wonder if she had the same dream or one like it. She must have been
looking out the window because she met me halfway across the yard, carrying a few blankets she was able to pick up on the way.
I kissed her. We moved silently across the compound and started scaling the fence.
When we were halfway up I noticed motion behind me. The dawn was breaking; the guards must have seen us
silhouetted against the fence. The guy was more inquisitive than angry; he was used to making sure nothing got in, not out.
"What the hell are you two doin' up there?" he asked.
I didn't have time for excuses. For the third time my stupid gut reaction made trouble. I looked back, aimed my shotgun,
holding it out along my arm, fired. I hit him in the chest towards the right shoulder. He gasped and spun. The gunshot echoed for
miles. I remember thinking, "good, hope the fucker becomes a zombie." We were over the fence before they could organize any
more resistance but the gun shot made sure they weren't far behind.
In the afternoon we came upon my clan from Tombstone. They were searching the old barns in the area, looking for me.
"We're human!" I exclaimed as I approached, "Its me, Sid!"
They gathered around, most eyes on poor frightened Sara. Carl came forward, I could tell he was pissed.
"What the fuck are you doin', Sid?"
"I went back for the girl." I tried to say nonchalantly, "we better get out of here, they're looking for us."
"I know," Carl said, using that serious tone. The serious voice everyone listened to, the one that made him our leader.
"Sid," he said evenly and calmly, "you have to let her go."
"No! No, fuck that!" I yelled. "She's not going back there with those freaks!"
Carl didn't argue, Carl doesn't argue. "Then you can't come back with us," he said.
I just stared at him, my jaw wide open; the thought was too much outside of my realm of possibility.
"We can't risk it," he explained. "We already ran into a group of them this morning. They'll start a war Sid; they'll fight
us. I can't let that happen and I won't. You have to go, Sid."
I stared at him while it sunk in. He was right, we can't fight the zombies and them. I couldn't put my own friends in
jeopardy.
I grabbed Sara's wrist and I ran.
We ran on through the day and part of the night. I know I heard gunshots a couple times in the evening.
I found us an old firehouse and we made camp. Silently she helped me do the little things like take care of my gun and
start a fire.
I sit here now, by this fire light, I have started writing this journal. More then ever now I want to make a record, leave a
mark upon the world. Someone has to start this thing up again, maybe we had it all wrong the first time but we need civilization, I
think its what were built for.
I have added a few things to my theory; it's better now. My theory is this: that soon we will find a nice old farmhouse.
I'll secure it real tight and maybe do some scavenging. We'll grow food and have children. My grandchildren will know a world
without zombies.
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Introduction
Parishioner’s Eyes is designed to be run as a convention scenario for the purpose of introducing new players to the rules
and concepts of All Flesh Must Be Eaten. This adventure can be easily modified for home use, perhaps as a staring point for a
new campaign. While the game mechanics used may be “simplistic” (no zombies with special powers or imbued characters are
used), the plot and the complicated themes of the scenario makes Parishioner’s Eyes interesting for experienced players. This
adventure should take approximately four hours to complete, about the length most conventions have for a single time slot.
Pregenerated characters are also provided.
Themes
All Flesh Must Be Eaten is a game of “survival” horror. Parishioner’s Eyes examines this theme in depth, as the
characters' actions not only determine their own survival but that of a large group of people, dependent upon them for leadership
and protection. The adventure also examines how the demands of survival can change people, how the basic institutions and
rituals we all participate in can be perverted by the horror of living in a world where the dead have come back to life, and how the
insanity of fighting against things that should not live changes a person’s character and basic beliefs.
Remember, there are no easy solutions in Parishioner’s Eyes. There is no princess to save or lost artifact to be recovered.
This is not a quest; it is a test, an examination of what could happen if people are forced to deal with a nightmare come true.
Roleplaying is emphasized. How the characters deal with the various NPCs will determine the course of the adventure. For those
itching for a fight, there is plenty of action as well but keep in mind that this is “survival horror,” combat is quick and
unforgiving. Characters will die if they rush headlong into the fray.
Setting
Parishioner’s Eyes takes place in the present time. Most of the action happens in and around the city of Cincinnati Ohio
and its rural surroundings. For those unfamiliar with the geography, Southern Ohio is a hilly land, without any large areas of
forest. Small farms dominate the landscape and rural communities, mostly linked by narrow two lane highways. The city of
Cincinnati and its sister city Covington are divided by the Ohio River with six major bridges linking the two. Cincinnati is pretty
much like most large old cities in America; it has its high rises and slums, shopping districts and industry.
Unlike real life America however, four years before the adventure takes place the dead started coming back to life and
eating the flesh of the living. Humanity did its best to stem the tides of the undead but resources and manpower eventually ran out
leaving all forms of government and civil society in complete ruin. In the first years after the dead started coming back, the
Armed Forces were called out and an attempt was made to isolate the undead from the population. Small wars, ignited by
countries blaming each other for the zombie menace, made things even more interesting. The Russian Federation managed to
launch one large nuclear device, totally destroying the city of New York. Because the regular military was busy holding off
foreign aggression, the National Guard was called upon to try and put a stop to the rampaging hordes of undead. Quarantine zones
were thought to be the best solution. The highest concentrations of zombies were in the cities, so in most places the National
Guard tried to set up a defensive barrier. The city of Covington was completely evacuated, leaving it to the dead. The Ohio
National Guard fortified the bridges and kept most of the undead across the river, protecting the living in Cincinnati.
What was never counted upon was that dead started to form a sort of “communal intelligence”. One by one the cities fell
as the zombies bided their time and then in one mad rush, pushed out of the quarantine zones. Almost one year to the day that the
whole zombie mess started, the undead in Covington overran the National Guard and destroyed Cincinnati. Now, the only humans
left alive are in small isolated camps, far enough away from the cities to avoid the large hordes of zombies.
To this day no one knows for sure what brought the dead back to life. Lots of theories have been put forth but for now
mankind is too busy just trying to survive than to stop and figure out what all this is about. If you ask the common man, it is
apparent to all that the zombies defy some of the most basic laws of physics and biology, which leaves “the wrath of God” to be
the only working explanation.
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