#2.220 – A Creak On The Boards

#2.220 - Fighting Without A Spleen
#2.220 - back
sent from: London, UK. destination: Los Angeles, California, USA

He hoped he would’ve had more time before the monsters found him.
After the initial outbreak and attacks he’d found refuge in this place in the mountains with a small group of fellow survivors. Packed with food and other supplies, they figured they could see things through, till better times, or until the monsters were defeated by a common human disease, or water. Wasn’t that how these stories were supposed to end?
They were banging on the roof now, looking for a way in. The petrol long exhausted, cars sat in the car park, rusting. Slowly the survivors had dwindled in numbers, until here he was, the lone hero. Who’d have thought that the virus they’d released, that first attacked the spleen, exploited the body’s immune system, would have left him unaffected, given that he’d lost his years ago? He didn’t want to think about it – he had survivor guilt on top of the Catholic one, and now it was about making it all worth something, and that meant staying alive. For himself, and for whoever else was still out there, fighting the same fight.
A creak on the boards above.
They were inside now. Here we go, he thought.

2 thoughts on “#2.220 – A Creak On The Boards

  1. Hey! I'm the proud recipient of the card depicted above. Thanks, Juan Luis. Here's a continuation:

    How long had they been living among us, rat-sized pupae lurking in the traps of public toilets, deer-sized adults crouching behind basement furnaces? And what hidden event made them suddenly hostile?

    In the past 24 hours, the world had witnessed, through the miracle of YouTube, a few dozen victims destroyed by this new race of things. The dead were barely recognizable as human, resembling nothing so much as small, red Christmas trees.

    Just now the banging gave way to an arrhythmic fluttering, first from the upper story then gradually from the walls and floor as well. Sanko guessed there were between six and twenty that had come in through the broken dormer window, a room away from the landing at the top of the stairs. He strained to see any motion among the shadows but saw none. In his right hand, slick with sweat, he held his only weapon, a fluted, marble stalk of some kind.

    So he waited, ready to confront what he hoped was only a small band of murderous things, brandishing a small stone statue of the Holy Virgin.

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