Day 72 Writing Short Stories

Quest

Hell is other people. So the famous poet said. He didn’t mean it as it is pictured now, but immortality and imperfections reflected back at you from others’ eyes are what make a person remember how to lose one’s mind.

He had lost his mind a long time ago. Some could argue that in a good way. In a way that kept him alive. He would say poppycock. He’d rather not see shadows as they were and keep the fantasy of what it used to be. Now, the world had died. And there was nothing but scarcity and death. Death by chemicals that once were created to save humanity. What a dark reminder of fallacies and ego.

The green goo sloshed as he moved in the water that came to his hip height. The hazmat suit with reinforced linings kept the worst away, but the stink was still there. It burned his eyes and lungs, making him cough under his face mask.

The underground tunnels that used to be a tube system under the mall had flooded with toxic waste that had taken over the city and then the country. Occasionally, there in the goo, he found human body parts, half digested and preserved; the flesh unable to rot away. He’d rather not do this. Rather not be here. Those who had somehow managed to survive the apocalypse had taken up residence high in the tall buildings, recreating societies in the sky. But someone had to get the underground systems working for the buildings to support the expanding societies, and he had drawn the short straw.

He heard the goo slosh at the junction not too far from him. He stopped and shut off the light of his headlamp. The goo glowed green in the tunnels, illuminating the darkness. He clutched the sword he carried with him. He and the others had run out of bullets a long time ago.

He waited there, listening to the sloshing sounds come closer. He would have to trust his sword. There was no way he could turn around and run; not in the thick water.

Finally, what was coming emerged from the tunnel. He swallowed at the sight of the zombie. Its flesh had melted around his torso. It glowed green as the waste did. It wore a mask over its mouth, fused against its skin. Its dead eyes searched for the tunnels.

He hoped he was deep in the shadows, out of its sight.

The eyes stopped over him, and it let out a moan.

He drew the sword, ready.

But the zombie turned its back on him and continued toward the junction, leading it to the city canals.

He waited for it to pass before he dared to move again.

—

I’m happy with the piece, especially as I struggled to find a story at first. Okay, I wrote about zombies again—my happy place, but who cares. I watched a video by a comedian who explained that zombies represent modern people and their addiction to phones and social media, seeking endless entertainment. Yeah, there is that. But I think they are more than that. Zombies have a long history in our stories. It is about death, immortality, and morals. Our stories seem to warn us not to reanimate our dead. Hmm… there’s a thought… It’s a conspiracy of galactic proportions!

Anyway, what I got today was a lyrical horror quest written in third person. I aimed to be lyrical without muddying the situation.

Thank you for reading! Have an unzombified day ❤