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Passions in Poetry

The Heat

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since 02-08-2015
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New Jersey

0 posted 02-08-2015 12:00 PM       View Profile for Squilliam   Email Squilliam   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for Squilliam

The Heat
His eyes blurring and breathing slowing down, he feels the change, the insatiable thirst, the hunger.
Eric reached for the charred thermos he had managed to salvage from the remains of his parents’ home. His throat itched and burned, coughing had become common among those who were still stuck around the remnants of villages and cities. This had made it incredibly hard to differentiate between those who had contracted HMO5 and those who simply had ash in their lungs. It was only 4 days after the outbreak that the army had begun to set “controlled” fires to the neighborhoods where the virus was reported. After one week, the fires were no longer “controlled” but spreading rampant like the virus that preceded it. Food, any food, was a delicacy and it only took a few days for water to become more valuable than gold.
It is amazing how in a matter of hours everything you think of as important becomes less than a distant memory, and basic survival instincts replace everything you have been taught and grown accustomed to.
Eric had been on the move for almost two weeks. He had been fortunate to have been visiting his uncle Henry in Abington when the outbreak went public. His return to Dunstable, just north of London, had been a quick and grim one. His mother, father, and younger sister were dead and already charred a crispy black in the living room by the time he returned with Henry. Eric grabbed what was intact and could still be of use and hurried outside. His uncle came to tears and refused to leave; he stuck his .45 in his mouth that night, but Eric would never know for sure what became of him.
He made the decision to continue north, to the countryside, in hopes that the fires and outbreak would not have reached there as viciously as the South. Henry was the last living human he had come into contact with who had not been turned, and that was about one week ago. He spent his days riding north by bicycle, evading the undead and scavenging for food and water when he had the chance.
Eric reckoned he was three days of riding away from Henry’s cottage. He dug himself a quick foxhole in the ashy earth and turned it into a protective bubble using a satellite dish he had recovered hours earlier. He woke in the morning to the sound of fingernails scratching against metal. As Eric scrambled to load his revolver, cold grey-blue fingers pried beneath the dish. He could hear their hunger for him like a baby crying for a mother’s attention. This was the first time he had thought of his mother since he saw her on the living room floor. The image burned into his head and stung more than the ripping of his skin by undead fingers.
Eric feels the memories fade along with his human instincts, replaced by an even more basic primal need than that of a person. His fingers cold and lifeless while his head rages with great fire.

© Copyright 2015 William Taylor - All Rights Reserved
Bluesy Socrateaser
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since 11-07-2002
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In The Mirror

1 posted 04-04-2018 03:32 PM       View Profile for Bluesy Socrateaser   Email Bluesy Socrateaser   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for Bluesy Socrateaser

Stunning imagery and an interesting close.

...just bein' Bluesy

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