By Vexen Crabtree 2003
Occurred: 2003 Aug 12
We're on an expedition. There is snow and snow dunes in every direction forever. There are occasional trees. To survive, we build a camp by digging a hole a few feet deep and store our stuff and sleep there. It acts as a wind barrier.
One day one of us dies with a look of horror on his face. When we came to making a grave, we couldn't find the body. It unnerved us. We travelled in a snow jeep to a new location and made a new camp. After a few days we realize our dead friend has crawled across the snow, his flesh black and purple, to come get us. He bites one of us. It's like a zombie film, anyone who is bitten or shares blood with one of the dead becomes one of them.
We all run away a long way and form a new camp. We keep lookouts and call for help. Help arrives, and they decide to stay to study what is going on. Time and time again we're all forced to flee, as the numbers of the living dead increase around us. Anyone who dies becomes one of them.
We decide to retreat to the medical centre, the Antarctica main base. On the way we are constantly besieged by the restless dead, including a child and a dog. We fight and evade constantly. All of us are eventually overwhelmed, stabbed, bitten or suffocated by the dead. I go the rest of the way alone and get to the station.
Inside, there is blood on the walls and only the undead to greet me. I wonder around aimlessly, avoiding them all. In the front reception, a nurse and a tramp are arguing. The tramp attacks me with a drawing pin that he was cutting himself with. I can't hold him off, and he breaks my skin. Then he laughs and staggers away. The nurse shouts at him and tells him to go tidy his room, and they both laughed because they know it's pointless and meaningless for them to be tidy. There is no-one alive in this station.
The last undead are running out of energy and dropping to the floor; now all the living are dead, their job is done. I will turn into one soon; I'm dead. It's getting very quiet. I produce a Christmas card, and as I'm writing it a living friend, Orinoco, is with me. He sniggers at my black humour as I address and finish the simple card:
"Dear Hellraiser and God:
I hate you
From Vexen & everyone".
Throughout the dream I had felt that Hellraiser & his subversive pleasures were the cause for the humans losing their lives. It was only a bit scary... maybe if this summer heat continues, I'll have some better ones :-)