Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Lividium
Word Count: 442
The moment you decided to hold your ground was the moment your life ended.
You realize that, now. It wasn't misinformation that killed you, or the carelessness of your companions, or even something as vague as a higher power betraying an ultimate promise of redemption for the worthy. You chose morals over survival, let the grip of humanity squeeze your heart too tightly, and that was the end of it.
The gun pressed against your forehead sears your skin, heated by the sun that beats down on the parched grass around you. It was a golf course once, this place, but like the rest of the city, the rest of everything, it's fallen to ruin. You still remember hitting the driving range with your younger brother. You don't want to, but you do.
It's been five minutes.
The torn flesh on your arm stings and burns, and the fever trembles through you, heatstroke and something deeper, uglier, surging through your veins. The twice-dead thing on the ground at your feet is still twitching, a swatch of black cotton from the sleeve of your shirt hooked in its teeth. This is what you get, you realize, for trying to save anything. A hole in your arm and your best friend's gun against your forehead.
The syringe floats in your vision.
"Take it," he tells you. The contents swirl, a murky, syrupy red. His voice is shaking as much as the hand holding the gun against your head.
Six minutes. The sunburned youngster in the tiger-striped pajamas, the one you broke rank to save, the one you defied orders to save, the one you tried so fucking hard to save, is a crumpled mess on the ground, limbs askew and half their head missing.
You tried, and you failed, and this is what you get.
"Take it," he begs. Tears in his eyes. Your legs are starting to shake, muscles spasming as the infection takes hold. Your vision is swimming, your skin is drenched in sweat, your ears are bleeding.
Seven minutes. He's prepared to shoot you. You made him promise that if the time came, you had to make the decision for yourself or he'd let you die on your feet.
You made a lot of promises to each other. Part of you foolishly believed you'd never have to make good on any of them. But now you're faced with it and despite your horror, you want to live. You need to live.
Your fingers twitch as you reach for the syringe and some tiny little human part inside of you is screaming, Not like this.
Please, God.
Not like this.
Word Count: 442
The moment you decided to hold your ground was the moment your life ended.
You realize that, now. It wasn't misinformation that killed you, or the carelessness of your companions, or even something as vague as a higher power betraying an ultimate promise of redemption for the worthy. You chose morals over survival, let the grip of humanity squeeze your heart too tightly, and that was the end of it.
The gun pressed against your forehead sears your skin, heated by the sun that beats down on the parched grass around you. It was a golf course once, this place, but like the rest of the city, the rest of everything, it's fallen to ruin. You still remember hitting the driving range with your younger brother. You don't want to, but you do.
It's been five minutes.
The torn flesh on your arm stings and burns, and the fever trembles through you, heatstroke and something deeper, uglier, surging through your veins. The twice-dead thing on the ground at your feet is still twitching, a swatch of black cotton from the sleeve of your shirt hooked in its teeth. This is what you get, you realize, for trying to save anything. A hole in your arm and your best friend's gun against your forehead.
The syringe floats in your vision.
"Take it," he tells you. The contents swirl, a murky, syrupy red. His voice is shaking as much as the hand holding the gun against your head.
Six minutes. The sunburned youngster in the tiger-striped pajamas, the one you broke rank to save, the one you defied orders to save, the one you tried so fucking hard to save, is a crumpled mess on the ground, limbs askew and half their head missing.
You tried, and you failed, and this is what you get.
"Take it," he begs. Tears in his eyes. Your legs are starting to shake, muscles spasming as the infection takes hold. Your vision is swimming, your skin is drenched in sweat, your ears are bleeding.
Seven minutes. He's prepared to shoot you. You made him promise that if the time came, you had to make the decision for yourself or he'd let you die on your feet.
You made a lot of promises to each other. Part of you foolishly believed you'd never have to make good on any of them. But now you're faced with it and despite your horror, you want to live. You need to live.
Your fingers twitch as you reach for the syringe and some tiny little human part inside of you is screaming, Not like this.
Please, God.
Not like this.