Living in the Aftermath

[Slaughter]

This is one of the contributions to a fan-fiction contest we had some time ago. It used to be a part of the Aftermath site, and will soon be part of the StrategyCore site. In the meantime I'm posting it here.

 

Written by Skonar.

 

The public telephone handset hung loosely from its

cable. It hummed helplessly. No one seemed to care

anymore.

A young man came around the corner, bandana tied

around his head, rifle held loosely in his left hand

while he checked each phone's card slot or coin return

cup. He paused to stare up at the murky sun, tear the

bandana from his head and wipe away the sweat.

"I think, I think it's gonna happen again. It's

darker than it was yesterday. It's hotter, too."

Another slightly older man rounded the corner,

keeping the muzzle of his own rifle, black and sleek,

low. He watched the corners, eyes sweeping over

dessicated and dead trees, abandoned cars, the still

flickers of sunlight on broken building windows.

"Hush up" The older man hissed, watching the streets

carefully.

The young man frowned, taking hold of his rifle's

barrel, setting the stock against the ground, leaning

on it. "There's nothing here, old man. Stop trying to

scare me, let's just try and find some food before we

have to go back to the others."

The older man shook his head, lowering his rifle

slightly. "You quit worrying about that, and you just

think about them. The enemy."

The young man shook his head, his face crumpling with

misery. He continued along the row of phones, checking

each one. "I don't wanna find any of those things, old

man. I just wanna eat tonight."

"Like I said. Quit your whining. We haven't run out

of food yet, and we're sentries, not foragers."

A gust of wind whispered down the street. In the

building across the street, broken shards of glass

were disturbed in their windowpanes. Fragile slivers

tumbled free, scattering light as they fell. Old wood

crunched, the sound filtering through the windows and

into the streets below.

Both men looked up. The older began across the

street, sweeping his eyes across the urban landscape

intently.

"It's probably nothing. The wind just disturbed

something. ... Damnit! Don't leave me here"

 

The office block was a tomb. Bulletin boards posted

up with department memos and ads told the story as

surely as any grave marker or epitaph. Instant

photographs pinned up of flashing lights in the sky.

News clippings, photographs of the dimming sky. Images

of the alien spores as they grew and multiplied in the

clouds, drifted to earth like a steadily expanding

biological rain. Beyond that it was as empty as the

choking nothingness the world had become.

Life stirred, and boarded-over plate glass windows

lost one board, dull orange sunlight stabbing through,

illuminating motes of dust. More boards were pulled

away, until the balcony door could be opened.

The older man tucked a crowbar back into his rucksack

and slung it over his shoulders. Picked up his rifle,

and advanced through.

The young man pulled himself up the fire escape after

the older man, rifle hanging from his back. "We

shouldn't be here," he whispered.

The older man stalked down the rows of desks,

ignoring the dead computer terminals, the abandoned

litter, the shaggy rags slumped in a chair that had

once been a body.

The young man stepped through after the older man,

touching the dusty keyboards as he went past. "I was

studying to do computer engineering," he whispered.

His gaze moved on. His breath caught in his throat as

he saw what had passed for a human being once.

The older man continued on, pulled open the corridor

doorway. He stepped on into the gloom even as the

young man ran after him. The older man counted

doorways. He held his rifle steady with his right

hand, approached the second to last doorway and

reached for its doorknob with his left.

The young man pulled in a gasping breath, afraid in

the darkness. "... Old man?"

The older man had his hand on the doorknob. He turned

his head, and hissed, "Quiet, you fool! Something will

hear yo-"

His words were cut off by a heavy coughing bark,

flakes of bone and flesh chipping through the door's

wood in hollow crunches, a sickening slap of impacts

on flesh. The shuddering inhalation of lungs filling

with blood.

The young man stared helplessly at the older man.

"Hel... help..."

The young man took two steps closer, spasming hand of

the old man pulled at the younger man, twisted in the

dangling strap of the young man's rifle.

Leathery flesh brushed against the door, scraping

against the wood, the weight cracking it.

The older man gasped, his breaths bubbling through

his ribs. "Puh... Please... Hel... Help..."

The young man pulled away frantically, out of the

rifle's strap to get away. He ran down the corridor.

The door gave way, and a mangle of human limbs pulled

through.

The young man pulled open another door at random,

glancing back as the older man tried to scream through

the blood.

The thing pulled through that broken doorway, a

twisted mass of flesh and limbs, slack-jawed faces

staring from its bulk in silent screams. An orifice

quivered, and the flesh shook as it coughed again,

bone and oozing flesh tearing through the remnants of

the old man.

The young man pulled the doorway shut behind him. He

could hear that thing, rustling as it moved.

He hauled breath into his shaking body, and shoved a

desk in front of the door. He backed away from it as

the rustling neared, jerking in fright as his back hit

the wall.

He looked up at the passive features of Christ on the

cross, immortalized in a glossy wall poster. The young

man fell to his knees, clasping his hands in front of

him. Tears dripped down his nose, he leaned his

forehead against the wall in resignation.

"Our Lord, who art in heaven..."

The desk shook and dragged over the tiling as the

doorway pushed in.

"Ha... Hallowed be thy name..."

The door broke inwards.

He looked up at the poster, and sobbed.

"Please help me... Someone..."