The sickness hit hard, and it hit fast. Before long the dead piled up with few left to tend to their decomposing bodies. The handful of us that remained-and could still walk-left town a week after the initial wave of sickness swept through. There were six of us, now there are two. Only John and I remain, and John is coughing up blood.
We’ve not seen another living thing since we started on our journey-not even a bird. I find myself wondering what I’ll do when John is gone. Why carry on when the world is dead?
August 13th, 2014 at 8:51 AM
Adam, Good story. Sounds kind of hopeless. I hope some type of help arrives before it’s too late. Well written as always. :) —Susan
August 13th, 2014 at 9:20 AM
So sad and I wonder if this is not a fear that is gripping the hearts of many in Africa just now.
August 13th, 2014 at 5:23 PM
Wow that is dark.
August 14th, 2014 at 11:46 AM
Seems like a continuation of your Friday Fictioneers story from last week. Obsessed with plagues these days, are we? ;-) Well written as usual, Adam.
Your favorite minion,
Marie Gail (the wannabe lush who is settling for a virgin Cuba libre at the moment)