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ipressthebuttons

Maybe They'll Live, a short story by me

4 posts in this topic

I made this extremely vague on purpose, so don't complain about that. Also it's a short story, so don't expect an explanatory sequel.

	It wasn't an option. I was never given a choice. I was never warned. Nobody even came to my door and told me that it would happen. It just happened. It happened, and there's no way to get rid of the scars. It's a memory now, yes, but a memory that stings when it reaches the surface. I'd love to say that it's faded, that it's just another memory that's getting dimmer and more fuzzy over time, but it's not. No, it's only become easier to remember things. 

	Things that happen every day remind me of it. I was armed with nothing but my bare hands. They only had their bare hands, but to be fair they were more like knives. I can remember struggling with one of them, and I can remember the stabs of pain in my arms as it cut into me. Of course I threw it off me, of course I got away, I'm here today. There is no mystery as to whether or not I survived. But I am filled with just the same fear every time when the visions come to me.

	Every night at my house, as I turn off the lights and go to sleep, I have to walk the house one last time with a flashlight in hand. I have to make sure they won't come back, I have to make sure they won't crawl out of the vents and onto my bed and eviscerate me in my sleep. They still might. 

	I left them so far away, but that doesn't mean they couldn't follow me. I remember as I fled in the dark, down the corridors, with those things chasing after me. I remember seeing the blade go through me, and I remember the soldiers, I remember the guns. I remember the man saying "It's going to be alright, we're going to get you out of this alive," and I can remember seeing the blood trail I left on the floor as I hobbled out. 

	I could tell others, I could try to get a gun, but people would just think of me as crazy. It's hard to explain to your friends and family when you come back from an experience like that. It's hard to explain to them that it wasn't the fire that caused all those deaths, that it wasn't a bomb. It's difficult to explain that what happened wasn't human in any way, and was in no way of human origin. To explain to them that the bodies were only burned to cover up the real wounds, to describe that the building was only set ablaze so the flames would devour the contamination.

	Maybe one day I'll tell them all. Maybe I'll tell them what is really happening, tell them what is really killing people. Maybe I'll tell them what they'll refuse to believe, and then maybe as they lay in their bed at night laughing and joking about me, calling me crazy and taunting me, they'll be forced to believe me. Maybe they'll be visited, like we were; maybe they'll feel the pain, maybe they'll feel the horror. Maybe they'll watch their flesh being torn apart, watch their limbs being thrown around, watch their loved ones being cut open and turned inside out, and maybe they will all be killed; or maybe even worse. Maybe they will survive.

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