You’ve passed this building every day for weeks now and every time you stop to stare, before moving on in the endless pursuit of your next meal. This building is different from the rest. In all Ridleybank, where the ruins ring with the feeding groans and triumphant rattles of the RRF, only one building has ever been truly silent. This one.
Until a month ago.
A month ago, things started to happen behind the closed doors. There were loud noises, but not the sound of zambahz feeding. Rather it was more akin to that of barricades falling, only you know that was not the case. There are no barricades in Ridleybank. Ever.
Inside the building there was clanking and thudding. The sounds of movement, groans, barked orders and the occasional roar of exasperation. It did not sound like something being torn apart. Instead, unlike all else in the glorious ruin of the Greater Homeland, it sounded like something being put together.
Now though, the silence is back and it has drawn you in. You cannot resist. You have to see.
You approach the building, with its pockmarked and stained Greek-style columns. Looking up you see the name of the building. The old metal letters spell out “Th M sg ve M se m”, but in the spaces left, someone has spelled out the missing letters in thick smears of blood: “The Musgrove Museum”. Below the sign, the doors loom tall, brown and unbroken. There, in more blood smeared across the centre of them, one word: “Welcome”.
The creak of the doors seems louder than it should, echoing in the silence behind them. The wind seeping in behind you throws up dust, staining the air grey, but beyond that, in the centre of the great entranceway, you see a large fire burning orange and casting light around the room. The fire scares you. You have been burned before, but you shamble a little closer and look down at the untidy stack beside it, which you assume must be food for the flames. You see broken wood, some bones and great stacks of tattered and bloodied harman books. You bend to pick one up, but then are stopped dead.
“Who is there?” a great voice barks loudly, grim and threatening. You back away from the fire and think to head quickly to the door. But then you see him, leaning on the bannister of the stairs above you. A zombie unknown and yet, oddly familiar. “Oh.” he says, quietly surprised and begins to make his way down the stairs.
As he comes closer, dragging a clearly damaged leg, you take a long look over him. He is tall and lean and dressed in a dirty and bloody suit, the jacket of which is missing the right arm and has all the pockets torn and hanging by threads. He wears small, round glasses, the left lens of which is completely shattered. His eyes and hair are completely black. He has clearly been dead many years, but instead of the lurid greens and reds of the classically beautiful undead, he has the putrid grey tinge of one who has been revived and killed many, many times over.
“You, it appears, are our first visitor, young zambah. Welcome.”
The stern expression melts away and he gives you a delighted smile, waving his arm in a gesture which encompasses the whole room.
“This. All of it. It’s yours, my friend.”
You shamble forward in awe, seeing for the first time the great artifacts. The stacked skull monuments. The written volumes neatly ordered on the shelves where once harman books had been collected. The mud and dirt portraits that somehow dimly resemble zambahz that you recognise from stories told by your elders. One looks like the older zambah.
“I put this place together,” he says. “So that young zambahz like you can learn about our horde. Our history. That’s important, you know. History? After all, if you don’t know where we come from, where [i]you[/i] come from, then well… you don’t really know yourself, do you?”
Something stirs inside you. Almost a living feeling and yet not so. You recognise it though: Curiosity. Everything here speaks to you, calls out. And you want to answer.
“Of course,” your grim companion continues. “We don’t have everything. Sadly the great fire at Moggridge Place claimed our earliest records. But what we do have, I will be collecting here. There is still so much to show you all.”
You are listening, but only faintly. Something has caught your remaining eye. Something extraordinary that has you shambling toward it. On a plinth, surrounded by open space, a great statue stands. Sculpted from stone, wood, scraps of metal and harman bones, it portrays a slender, unassuming zambah, but one with a face shaped in determination and fury. One hand is bent into poised claws and the other is held up into the air, brandishing a rusty crowbar. It is the image of a warrior; an unlikely hero. This draws out the only word that you can think to say:
“Bahbah!”
Your companion looks at you, pleased.
“Yes! Yes! Papa Petrosjko. Our true father. You will find his words and deeds throughout this place: His and those of all the Papas and heroes who have followed. Everything here belongs to you, my friend, because you are the horde and the horde is you. Reach out and touch it all.”
Your fingers run along the leg of the statue and your can feel your eyes tingle as though they are still capable of tears. Behind you, the older zambah turns away, calling out over his shoulder:
“If you need anything, just shout. My name is Moloch and I’ll be here. I’m always here.”
With that he vanishes into the shadows and you are alone with Petrosjko and the history of your Ridleybank Resistance Front. Your belly is crying out to feast on flesh, but you ignore it. You stay and begin your long search through everything. This means more than any meal. This is who you are.
