Apocalypse 4: Corpse

A zombie shifted from the muck of civilisation. Crawling, writhing, contorting itself from the earthen grave. The movements forced by nothing man could explain. It was the last strand of life the moved and twitched, every spasm bringing it to freedom. Flesh that seemed rotten, strings holding what seemed like a body together.
The air was nothing that its lungs could cope with. It was not air, but dust, sand and stone, thrown up from the withered and broken crust.
Yet there was a mind, working with the organs of the body to force this mutated creature to survive. With sounds lost in the dense atmosphere, the creature that was once a man, once a noble, once a prince, released itself from the prison of his own homeworld. And there, in the remains, he lay, bleeding, broken and almost dismembered. A frightening image, a frightening thought and a frightening reminder of what had happened.
Bony fingers parted and the mind preformed a well practised skill. The lands were still radiating energy, raw, vicious power and drawing upon this, minute orbs appeared on the tips of the thing’s fingers. They shone, brightly, yet dull against the red air. Then the orbs shot forth, ripping through more than the physical wreck of the world and opened a doorway. He lurched once more.
And he was gone.