Narrative #3

The aged stack of glowing televisions casted a jaundiced glow on the boy’s body leaning against the brick wall of an abandoned electronics store. Worried French fell out of an older gentleman’s mustachiod lips, hair looking messed and untended and completely unsuited for a news anchor on live television, his voice like a cheap radio in a car shaking and stuttering over rocky terrain. But none of this concerned the body of the dead young man; in fact, he did not mind the old man’s repeating commentary at all. Someone at the broadcasting booth managed to set a loop of the same recycled message before the Grippe took his ragged breath and was only playing now for the hundredth or thousandth or millionth time.

The television’s warnings were of a standard, simple affair; do not panic, remain calm, the sky is falling and we need the petty crowd to remain in the streets so they don’t notice the better of society sneaking off underground. Standard disaster business.

The emaciated remains of what was once a boy named Nathan concerned itself as one of the luckier victims of the Grippe. For reasons unknown, his immune system took one look of the invading virus, threw down its arms, and shouted, “Take the bastard if you’d like, we quit!” and the virus immediately obliged by striking him down quickly and comparatively painlessly. Compared to the others, of course, who got the pleasure of drowning in their own mucus if their throat didn’t swell and close on its own, of course. Everything is about comparisons.

Across the empty street in front of Nathan’s propped corpse, another body was sprawled across the concrete. She lied face down, arms and legs awkwardly splayed across the ground as if attempting to hug the entire city. Or strangle it. He figured, based off what was left of her, she must have been beautiful at one point. Of course, death has a way of taking a chisel to what we hold dear and then stomping on it like a mad bull, laughing crazily while He does it.

The sacred remains of Nathan attempted to talk to her, but it proved near impossible. Her face was buried in the hard ground, and all that came out was some muffled reply. No breath left his or her lips, being dead and all, but the dead have a way of talking to one another in ways few understand.

With the suddenness of a bomb detonating, the nervous old man caught in an infinite loop of mass deceit flickered off for a moment to be replaced by harsh static the next. If Nathan could still feel, he was positive it would have quickly given him a migraine. One of the many perks being dead, he imagined.

A fat crow lazily hopped by, its fragile twiggy legs barely supporting its body. The Grippe was of no concern for the local wildlife. The birds and scavengers were becoming obese and lethargic, food now being in great abundance without those pesky people hoarding it all away. Nathan felt no resentment for them, though. Pick up where the losers left off has been the way of the world since the dawn of time, and humans were fools to believe their radios and microwave dinners somehow kept the world on its tilt.

Like a rush of déjà vu, Nathan saw himself as he once way. Blood flowing, heart ticking, motor skills under his almost complete control. There was a faint feeling of remorse but it was mostly pity. It was no different than feeling shame for the beauty of the young woman in front of him melting away in death. There was no point in regretting what was inevitable. He accepted that everyone had to die at some point. The only surprise was that it seemed to come for everyone the same few weeks. One can never predict life any more than they can predict death.

Still, a flash like lightning shot through his still nervous system, and almost clear as the crisp night air, he could picture himself and the little lady across the way. Maybe they had met before, no more than passing one another while rushing to work. Maybe they even spoke once. If they had, he wished he had grabbed her hips and kissed her there, get the chance before the Grippe stole it from them. Of course, in his fantasy, their lips never managed to touch. They always drew closer, yet never touched, like the unending hallway that once haunted his nightmares. If you go half the distance between you and your goal, how many steps would it take to reach it? An infinite, which is a nice way of saying it won’t ever happen, sunshine, pick up the dice and roll again and see if you can get a thirteen.

No, he was not going to reach across the street. Death offered many perks, no more pain, no need for food or drink, no waiting in line for anything, and certainly no nine to five job, if you discount his now permanent guard duty of his empty brick store, window lined with now snowy screens and flickering lights.

A hopeless prayer crossed through his mind and dribbled onto the ground like a fallen dream, a hope that there were people still left alive somewhere, and that they got a chance for one more kiss. A kiss goodbye for mankind, perhaps, or just one more beautiful moment before humanity gets coughed at like a wad of phlegm in the throat of the planet.

And if they did kiss, he hoped they remembered to remove their face masks first. Even the coldness of the Grippe cannot interfere with the love of a simple kiss.

The televisions flickered off.