Theatheist of doom
November 27th, 2010, 07:22 PM
Throughout the once glimmering world some still call “New York City” there was one thing each person held in common. They had all lost something; whether it had been a sibling or an item this was the one thing that held them together the thing that had intertwined their fates with the city. And what had made them refuse to leave the city during the Nuclear War of 2050. And it’s why I now hide in this cave, hiding away from the radiation that had produced the zombie-like creatures. This is what led to me, isolated from what used to be the world, with only about 10 refugees of all ethnicities and only fear in my heart. The fear that one day, I would die and become one of them, be just like those unholy cretins
This is a dangerous prospect to think about. Dangerous, but It was the only thing that still held my interest. Nothing else. At least… anymore, the refugees have been reduced to hiding away in our little caves. One has very little to think about when his survival hinges upon his using a cave like a security blanket. Never exploring outside the “blanket”, never letting anyone else in, and CERTAINLY never letting anyone close to his heart again. Ironically, without the one thing that had caused the zombie apocalypse, no one would have survived it. Sticking together kept us alive and usually un-infected. And as I write these words I do my duty to this new society. I’m the scribe, I write about our endeavors to let anyone who discovers our camp without us occupying it, know who we were, the tragedies we suffer, and the fear in our heart.
The structure, that’s what we call our society. Because everything in our society is based on structure. The barricade, which protects us from the dead, the Breath Intake Specialist 1,000 (a fancy word for those pipes that bring air into mines), our specialties. These are the things, and we honor them by naming ourselves after them, a bit arrogant, but when your stuck in a mine shaft with 10 people you don’t have much to give. Speaking of getting reminds me of birthday parties, I remember everyone would receive all these gifts from all their friends and have a spectacular party. Now the only thing you receive is a beheading the day you die and a slap on the back for every year you don’t die, yep, that’s what my life is.
Bleak agony is the only thing I can use to describe my existence. I wonder why only 25 people have killed themselves down here during the apocalypse. Seems like it should be higher. Suicidal, that’s how I feel right now. Except I’ve decided I won’t give them the pleasure of chopping my head off. I’m going to kill them all. Tonight when the rusty digital clock strikes one I set out, killing all in my path and then ultimately killing humanity and myself. Let this be a message to… T-tooooo… No one, you’re all going to be either zombies or dead. So, like everything else in my life, writing this has wasted my time. Good-bye non-existent humanity.
This is my first time writing a short story on a bleak apocalypse, tell me your thoughts. The inspiration came out of the blue
This is a dangerous prospect to think about. Dangerous, but It was the only thing that still held my interest. Nothing else. At least… anymore, the refugees have been reduced to hiding away in our little caves. One has very little to think about when his survival hinges upon his using a cave like a security blanket. Never exploring outside the “blanket”, never letting anyone else in, and CERTAINLY never letting anyone close to his heart again. Ironically, without the one thing that had caused the zombie apocalypse, no one would have survived it. Sticking together kept us alive and usually un-infected. And as I write these words I do my duty to this new society. I’m the scribe, I write about our endeavors to let anyone who discovers our camp without us occupying it, know who we were, the tragedies we suffer, and the fear in our heart.
The structure, that’s what we call our society. Because everything in our society is based on structure. The barricade, which protects us from the dead, the Breath Intake Specialist 1,000 (a fancy word for those pipes that bring air into mines), our specialties. These are the things, and we honor them by naming ourselves after them, a bit arrogant, but when your stuck in a mine shaft with 10 people you don’t have much to give. Speaking of getting reminds me of birthday parties, I remember everyone would receive all these gifts from all their friends and have a spectacular party. Now the only thing you receive is a beheading the day you die and a slap on the back for every year you don’t die, yep, that’s what my life is.
Bleak agony is the only thing I can use to describe my existence. I wonder why only 25 people have killed themselves down here during the apocalypse. Seems like it should be higher. Suicidal, that’s how I feel right now. Except I’ve decided I won’t give them the pleasure of chopping my head off. I’m going to kill them all. Tonight when the rusty digital clock strikes one I set out, killing all in my path and then ultimately killing humanity and myself. Let this be a message to… T-tooooo… No one, you’re all going to be either zombies or dead. So, like everything else in my life, writing this has wasted my time. Good-bye non-existent humanity.
This is my first time writing a short story on a bleak apocalypse, tell me your thoughts. The inspiration came out of the blue