Weekend Writing Warriors #SnippetSunday The Natives Are Restless

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Last week in my WIP, Book 2 of my Illuminati series, The Tree of Life, Kirin had called upon her mother, the goddess, Queen Isis, a perfect scene for Mother's Day.

​This week, we shift to the hero, Rodrigo, who owns a sizeable pharmaceutical conglomerate  and now has a healthy distrust of both Kirin and her family who not only kidnapped him and stole a specimen from his lab (claiming it had been stolen from them) he also distrusts their long-time enemy (his new partner), a drug cartel who have apparently implanted a tracking device under his skin without his knowledge and are using his research drugs on human subjects. His party, including a lifelong friend and media mogul, Jose, are in the rainforest, searching where he had once done research with his reportedly untrustworthy new partners, trying to find unwilling test subjects Kirin claimed were to be found there. It's the middle of the night and unfortunately his men have just killed a sick forest tribesman who stumbled into their camp and refused to halt or identify himself. Rodrigo had them put his body into the back of a pickup until morning, but there seems to be a problem. His men call him over, terrified at what's happening...

The Natives Are Restless

              The bloodied blue tarp no longer covered the near-naked forest dweller. Rodrigo opened his mouth to explain about postmortem spasms, and his mouth remained open, but no words came out because instead he could only stare in disbelief. 
            He was a doctor, a researcher, so he had seen disease, suffering, death, all stages of life, but what he saw before him had no name, no words, no explanation...this tribesman his men had killed couldn’t have survived their attack because they had put round upon round into his body. Yet his eyes were open, the corneas opaque as if they were not receiving oxygen, moisture or blood flow; the pupils were dilated to a point of overtaking his irises with an unseeing blue-white haze, though they were indeed the eyes of a corpse, they were more in keeping with a body that had been a cadaver for far longer than the few minutes this man had been reposed in the back of this pickup, and the biggest problem was that he was no longer reposed.
            His movements couldn’t be dismissed as spasms because the feather-wearing native was trying to rise, to escape the confines of the contoured plastic bed-liner with its blood-streamed crevices, empty water bottles, and crumpled beer cans.  Thrashing from side to side, his movements violent in their neurological resurgence, he managed to tumble onto his side with his hands on the floor of the bed; downward dog, a mighty thrust and he was up, staggering in that same disjointed, awkward gait, as if he had never died.
            Walking as if he wasn’t already dead.   
            “Zombie,” Carlos cried, putting into words what no one else had dared to even think.
            “Mãe de Deus, nos proteja,” Jose muttered, backing away, Mother of God, protect us, the media mogul in him dug instinctively in his pocket with shaky fingers, fumbling for a cell with a camera. 

I hope you enjoyed this week's snippet! Please visit the many wonderful Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday Authors!