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The world will end with fire.
Posted By: SeverianofUrth<residentpark@aol.com>
Date: 6 May 2004, 2:04 AM
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Silence.
The flatfilm screen is displaying currently the mission parameters for the 'cleansing' of this little city. Of which I am the only survivor, subsisting on freeze-dried ship rations and recycled piss and water. A generator, whirling, rests in the corner along with the water/air recycler; a food-stocker stands in the other corner, and a pile of army-jackets is used as my bed.
And of course, the dead body.
The body is that of Mary Kant, the other survivor of this frightful mess. Was the other survivor. She is dead. I killed her. Why? She was eating up too much food, complaining, of the confinement, of how the green-blobs ate her parents, etc etc. The stupid girl, her pretty face streaked with claw marks.
Of course, her wounds festered.
Even as a corpse she lurches sometimes, convulsions that induces horrible breaks in her bones, her face swelling up slowly, the rotting eyes disappearing, tendrils poking out from her back, her hands slowly turning into tentacles. I realized that she was turning into one of those monsters; and although I should have burned the corpse, I watched with detached fascination as her corpse slowly transformed.
Of course, soon she would get back up and tear my face apart, but that time was not now, the future was distant, and one death was the same as another.
Of course, it doesn't matter now, to 'cleanse' this city of the monstrous infection that has mutated just about everyone else here now, the military is employing nucleics, plasmics, and finally scattering salt over the grounds and pissing on the remains.
And so, the time for bombing approaches.
And I watch the body slowly transform.
The world, I think, will end in fire.
I am...
monstrously aware of this situation. I'm dead, but I am not. This paradox confuses me to little tinny bits that makes me just want to scream. I can't see, but I can smell, the stale air, the smell of urine, and the man who killed me when I was living, the Mary Kant.
Yes, I am Mary Kant.
I'm dead, yes, but I am also filled with this energy that makes me want to jump and thrash around. Of course, my rotting muscles do not work. My vocal cords do not work.
And I fill a strong urge beginning to blossom in me, a hunger for something richer than this air, blood, blood, red oh red blood, blood, blood...
I don't remember how I died.
BUt I remember how one of those little eyeballs bit me in the leg, and how one of those little, no big blobs slashed me across the back with their claws. I watched my brother get eaten by those things. I don't want to remember more about what might have happened to my parents.
And I feel something starting to grow.
Little fingers and arms growing out of my decaying back, out of my chest, and such. I tremble, and those newly-growing limbs are the only things that move, and I want to cry, because I don't want those things to move. I want my legs, my arms, my neck to move. I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to laugh, and I want to die.
Living and dying at the same time is...
such a bother. You don't feel anything, but a living-dead body combines the energy of the living with the sheer deadness of the dead. It sucks.
The world better end soon, or make me live again.
I am a pilot.
My name is Carlos Hathcock, just to let you know. I am currently on a bombing run against La Marida, the small infected city on which I am to use all the nucleics on.
Poor souls. I know there are still survivors there; but the command came, that we simply could not risk of the disease infecting other cities. So I pilot this plane of doom, and I am no better than those who bombed Hiroshima.
The city approaches.
What will the bombing be like? Lurching seas of fire? Or instantaneous combustion of the human flesh? Fiery angels with flaming swords? God? Like Sodom and Gommorah?
Whatever it is, it will end in fire.
Pray, ye souls, God comes with his wrath.
And the world for the nameless man inside the shelter, the world for Mary Kant, ended in fire and painless agony. the final thought the nameless man had before dying was: I wonder what the body will grow next? For Mary Kant, her final thought was: I WANT TO LAUGH!
For Carlos Hathcock, he wasn't thinking.
He was pouring salt on the earth and pissing on it's remains.
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