People who read with a straight back are suspicious. So are those who like Titanic. That one time I asked to have some hand sanitizer from a lady, she said no, how fucking embarrassing is that. Would I look better with different hair? I’ve only been kissed once. What if I will never be happier than this, and I’m not even that happy right now? To earn a living from horses. iPad. Does anyone use pencils anymore?
I stood at the edge of a forest Fear grabbing my neck Passion burning at my feet I sank my hands into the soil, yearning to grow
When I first found my fire It kept me warm, it gave me life But as the night fell darker it started to fade I cut down trees with my teeth to keep it alive I had to I had to My stomach turned as I watched the fire rise deep into the black sky I needed to reach higher higher higher higher it was burning me alive until -
The morning sun showed me, I was standing in a desert And I looked at my feet and asked Why aren’t you burning from passion And they said, Because fear isn’t grabbing your neck anymore
I was commissioned to Area 0 because of my medical background in the military. The Area is located in the north, mountains rising on each border to provide a natural hindrance to those trying to escape. We’ve been here for over a year now, and there’s not that many contaminated ones left. Once in a while we come across healthy ones, but they refuse to leave the sick behind. That’s when we have to shoot them both. It’s amazing how long some have survived out there, with no electricity or food deliveries. The days are quiet, mostly spent in the car, driving around empty neighborhoods. The windows and doorways are covered with thick plastic, I can hear the wind trying to tear them violently.
After our round, I go to have my blood tested. We haven’t encountered anyone this time, but we’re still testing, every time, every round. At first it was terrifying, waiting to see if my blood had been contaminated or not. Soon we got new information about the virus: it only transitioned if the contaminated blood touched your skin. This time too, my blood comes out clean. It’s still a relief.
Before the next round, I do a routine check on my gun. We use electrical bullets to prevent the contaminated from bleeding. One bullet is for slowing them down, and two is enough for an electrical shock to make the heart stop. Three if it’s someone with heavier body weight.
We’ve gotten intel that there’s been movement around the beach. I don’t understand it, the lake there doesn’t lead to anywhere. Who would try to escape that way? Either the remaining ones have gotten more desperate, or they know something we don’t.
As we quietly arrive to the beach, we see a group of seven carrying a boat to the water. We surround them from both sides. My parter shoots first, which makes the man closest to me drop the boat and start running towards me. That means only one thing: two shots. Third for him looking so scared. As the man falls on his knees in front of me, I see my partner aim his gun at a six-year-old girl. He notices she’s bleeding from the nose and eyes. That means only one thing: one bullet. For her, one is enough.
We carefully collect the bodies for extermination, and load them up in our car. I can smell the fear, even when they’re dead.
I walk my usual route to my assigned home. I walk inside, through the apartment to the back door, and out again. I continue over the field, through the woods, to a neighborhood that’s been quiet for a long time. I walk to an apartment building, take the stairs to the seventh floor, open the seven locks, and step in. Inside, reading books as usual, is my little brother. Or as I would put it professionally: a contaminated one. He lifts his eyes to greet me with a smile.
I mean, before it had usually been something mellow like, “It’s going to rain on Thursday” or “The bus will not come tomorrow” or “Your neighbor will destroy your flowers.” Nobody thought anything of them, they we’re merely seen as heartfelt anecdotes to make the ones left behind think that their passing loved ones would see their future as they would be there even when they were dead. So nobody really thought anything of it when their dying aunt said, “The ducks are coming.” But the ducks didn’t come, which was a little unsettling, but then again, a time frame wasn’t mentioned. Then soon after, it happened again - someone’s sister, again - someone’s daughter, again - someone’s co-worker. Within two months everyone was talking about ducks.
The stores started to run out of bread as everybody wanted to be ready for the ducks. See, if it was going to rain on Thursday, your loved one would be in the rain; or they would be standing with you at the bus stop waiting for the bus that never came; they would be drawn in the footsteps of your neighbor walking over your flowerbed. Everyone wanted to feed their loved one. Masses of people started hovering around ponds and lakes. Everywhere you went you could hear someone using a duck-whistle. Some became more obsessed than others, but they all were obsessed nevertheless. Some said: “Maybe the dead are coming back.”
With all the bread being thrown into the water, more ducks did come, of course. Unfortunately, they all died of eating too much. The waters turned into porridge, if you will. The ducks didn’t so much come on their own - they were called, summoned. To some, it made no difference - the ducks had come. But others couldn’t let go: these were the same ducks they’d seen by the pond. Where were the new ducks?
Then one day, a roaring came. It started low, from someplace far. The streets started to fill up with people as the roaring grew. Everyone was bringing out their bread, some was even violently stolen by those who had thought the ducks already came but now realized - they must have been wrong! The roaring kept getting louder and louder until everybody had to keep their hands to their ears, until everyone was looking at the sky, silent. And then they came - the ducks. Wide, black, army based fighter planes - with ducks painted on their sides. I guess it was an inside joke to keep the birds at bay, to blend in. The dead indeed came back - but not to eat the bread, but to get the ones that were left behind.
