Wednesday, August 24, 2011

The Day that Death Died

The day death died, I stood beside a dirt road. Behind me lay crumpled heaps of metal. Reminders of a technology that no longer served a purpose.

The day that death died, I looked across a field of wheat and saw the animals fall to the ground. Over taken with a sickness that knew no bounds, even the flies would not invade their space.

The day that death died, I prayed to the heavens. I asked for an answer. I sought out safety. I wanted death.

But death had died.

I walked down the dirt road with nothing but memories to keep me company. A shot gun held in my hands, ready to shoot whatever noise or movement that grabbed my attention. I was beyond waiting to see what emerged from behind the tree. What made the bushes shake. Too many times it was nothing more than the dead that death had released from its grip. I'd shoot at anything. I was done with asking questions.

The day that death died, I learned that I could survive anything. As I walked the desolate dirt road with the stench of decay floating in the air, I pushed back the memory of the dead feeding on my family. I removed the sight of my friends running for their lives, only to head into an ambush by the corpses that craved them, from my mind. The tears had long dried by the time the sun fell from the sky. Pain turned to energy which propelled my legs to walk, or run, into the unknown.

The day that death died began like any other day. With me waking to an alarm clock that sounded before I was ready. With me leaving my husband to the demands of two young children as I got ready for work. With me staring into the mirror and studying my reflection as it stared back when I head the screams. The screams signaled the changing of the tides. The screams told me something was wrong with the beginning of my day. The screams froze me in place. They turned my legs into cement as my husband let out a sound that I had never heard him, or any other animal, make. It wasn't until the children's cries of terror subsided that I was able to move. I did not move far. The undead were making their way towards me.

The day that death died saw me climb out a window and run frantically to my car. No keys. So, I ran until I found help. There were four of us. Four of us inside a car. A car that sped out of control until it flipped over onto it's hood, vomiting most of its occupants out into the open. It was not the undead that killed my companions. It was lack of seat belts.
The day that death died, I shoplifted for the very first time. Something came over me as I saw people dying all around. The old. The young. The strong. The weak. Screams seeping through the air. The buildings emitting sounds of terror. The trees wailing in horror. The sun falling and the sky becoming black. I went into the pawn shop on a street corner that no longer resembled a corner; but now had become a war zone. I armed myself with weaponry that I knew nothing about. Shotguns. Handguns. Grenades. Knives. Bullets. I traded the house coat that I was wearing for sensible clothes. Clothes that would see me out here on this dirt road.

The day that death died saw the end of mankind in a matter of hours. Whoever is left have remained indoors. Windows are boarded up. No charity is given. Trespassers are shot on sight. The old murder the young. The weak are shooting the strong.

And I am walking down this dirt road. On the day that death died.

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