|Murder Them I Murder Them
Author: Lunar Cresta PM
No excuses...and no apologies.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror/Tragedy - Words: 989 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 3 - Published: 04-08-11 - Status: Complete - id: 6887468
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
No excuse will suffice.
A carbine assault rifle rests casually on my lap. I am rotating the fire selector switch with my thumb. I do it so gently that you could not even hear the clicking with rabbit ears. Quietly…softly I am flipping through fire modes on my little high-tech weapon; from safety to semi-auto…and then to fully automatic. The first bullet is already ready to go. Twenty-nine more wait to be spring loaded.
Now, both the carbine and myself are primed killers.
My full title: Dr. Colonel Robert Johnson Neville PhD – the last man on earth – homicidal maniac.
I sit CALMLY in the DARKNESS.
Both those facts are significant. I AM calm. And it is very dark out. And I am sitting fairly out in the open. But it really doesn't matter because…
…I AM going to murder them.
They creep around me like ghosts of the dead.
But they don't know it yet.
Ugly distorted shells of what human beings are supposed to be. Homus Sapiens? Homus Virulens. Infected to a lethal degree and yet still walking. Can't stop walking. Not even lying down to sleep. Just standing in hives…panting at three times normal resting rate.
No rest for the weary…no sleep for the DEAD.
Not even the rest of death for them. They got cured to death years ago. All of them. No, they'll never get cancer. In exchange they will never see the sun again. Not see it and live.
But that's okay. I am about to light up their lives.
They creep around me like half-dead, fiending junkies. Needing that blood fix. And they can smell my fresh human plasma from hundreds of yards away…if the wind is right. And the wind is right tonight. Blowing right into the city off the cool waters of the East River. And taking my bloody scent right down the streets of New York. Right past their angry hungry little noses.
Always angry. Always biting.
They want blood.
And blood will be gotten tonight.
Because I sit calmly…and still at the end of the of the South Street Seaport pier. Seated at my desk near the water's edge as I always have for the last three years. Usually I sit here at high noon waiting for people who never EVER come.
They are coming now.
But they are not people…
They are the undead forms of a species that died out three years ago.
We ALL died that night. That night when the great Krippen Virus jumped species one again
They are all around me now. A tension is in the air.
They stalk my blood in mob formation. They are close enough that if I blink, I will be dead. They are that close. And they are that deadly.
But they are focusing on the blood. And their visions are locking on my seated form at the end of the dock.
But I am not really there. I am right next to them as they creep past. So close. An arm's length away.
Out the windshield looms only half a span of the once mighty Brooklyn Bridge. The other half was bombed into the water that fateful night in an attempt to quarantine a whole city.
It was too late. THEY were already on the other side! It was too late for everybody.
Now they are SURE they see me. And they KNOW they smell me. My thick red life fluid is filling their lungs with hunger and filling their bellies with blood lust.
My form is trapped out on the edge of the pier. Seated vulnerably with no way to escape. Trapped. They know they have me. They pounce.
Marble white zombies run at my form like a collective mob. There is no way off this pier…for anyone.
I start the ignition and charge the roof flood lights. Distorted jaws gasp at the roar of noise and the explosion of light behind them. There is no way off this pier.
"DIIIIIEEEEEE!" I am screaming
The SUV is in Drive.
I thrust my foot down so hard that it would go through were it not for steel reinforcement on the floor.
The SUV lurches forward. The first impacts will be milliseconds away.
If I were not insane now…I would laugh.
One…two…three…four…five…six…seven solid impacts so fast that they are all almost one AWFUL collision!
That's for Sam!
Eight…nine…ten…eleven…twelve…thirteen. Equally grouped together. The infected eat the chrome grille.
For my wife!
Whoomp…whoomp…whoomp…whooomp…whooomp…whoomp…whoomp! Mangled undead corpses fly everywhere. It's more than even their boddies can sustain. Yeah.
The SUV crashes through the desk and the seated mannequin that was posing as me, impacting with the cement pylons at the very end of the pier, and comingt to a stop. A crushed vial of my aromatic bait-blood goes flying into the water.
That was good. So good.
That evil night I made a promise to Marley.
"Daddy's gonna make the monsters go away. Okay, baby?"
I meant I was going to cure them. I meant I was going to stop the spread. I meant I was going to fix this.
…And then I sent her away on the last helicopter out of New York City.
That was three years ago. Three fucking years ago.
They are still around. She is still dead.
I throw the SUV into reverse. I go to full acceleration.
I am crushing a poor infected hemocyte between the SUV and a light post: Cuz I have late promises to keep.
I am making monsters go away, baby.
I murder THEM