|I found this. I hope it is non-human.|
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Dry Bones - philosophical zombie flash fiction.
The sun drifts untouched across its sky as birds fly beneath it unaware or uncaring of the changed world beneath them. Morning has again followed night. Survival has again followed fighting. Another day alive on a world with millions of pale, putrid eyes searching without pause for the few clear ones left.
How many more days like this? you wonder. The massive horde of undead has shambled past you for over two hours. You listen to every faltering step and scratchy moan trying to guess if your hiding spot was discovered. It sounds like the flow is thinning, but you don’t dare look. One misplaced footfall would call down a rending flood of tooth and nail. A year? Five years? Twenty? One day old age will catch you, even if the dead don’t. More likely they will team up with injury and sickness to finally end you. Either way, death is all that awaits you at the end of your struggles. A small chuckle escapes you. It wasn’t waiting for me before all this? That much, at least, hadn’t changed. It was cold comfort, but some comfort is always better than none. Yet, the thought behind it all would not be silenced: what now, what tomorrow? Survival is not living. Drawing breath was not the same as being alive.
Your enemy is unburdened by such thoughts. Their philosophy is simple and enviously complete: Consume or Convert. It’s the clarity one would expect from the simplistic strength of a virus. It was a virus, right? You heard that from the early reports of the first outbreak. Seemed logical enough at the time, but it yielded so many unanswered questions afterward it was an explanation almost not worth having at all. A virus from where, for starters. And why? Most people you encountered (those who didn’t covet your provisions like the dead coveted your body) didn’t care about the how.
“Cat’s out of the bag. Too late to care about where the bag came from.” they said.
Maybe. But the knowing, to you, of ‘how’ was important. The balance of how/why you could not shake. Something so big should have an equally large why, right?