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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Horror/Scary · #2079661
A twist on the undead tale.

-by Danny Wayne Evans

He drove across the desolate landscape looking across with the span of eons.

Every now and then, he thought he had seen movement in the distance, but he wasn't for sure; his dash-a-phone, now useless in this subtly radioactive wasteland. He had to drive slower, but he did not want to tarry long in this longevity of Death.

He listen to his engine's rise and falls, it's rises and falls, until the past superimposed itself before what was real before his eyes, before what was real was covered over by what was really real.

It was like stuck in rush hour traffic, so surreal was thus feeling, that he felt like he was going crazy; like time had left him behind. Left him behind upon this abomination of desolations.
He remembered all the people that he still loved, or used to love; to all the people he never got a chance to ever love. He hated to feel this way, fated forever to feel this way. It seemed like weeks since he had any contact with any being, dead or otherwise, on this foreboding (world) road. The last person he met was deliriously starved out of his mind, of food and water and movements and peace, the tears streamed out of imprisoned (mind) eyes, until he was actually laughing and thanking whatever gods were left, as he gladly let him blow out whatever there was left of his aching squirming brains.
For he had began to change, you see.......

(The time's awesome mist descended, and so did the undead, that darksome morning when even the floor of the earth was being removed. He pulled his children and wife into that cellar force below, and, thinking them safe, went back into his crumbling house before him. He hadn't even gone seven steps before he heard them screaming, OH MY GOD, THEY'RE COMING OUT OF THE EARTH, OUT OF THE EARTH, OUT OF THE EARRRRRRRRRTH, he turned, and ran and heard how his family was being eaten. He threw open the cellar door just in time to see his wife and youngest son being eaten, their arms were out imploring him, the eyes were quizzical about what and why was happening to them. Out of both mouths came the screaming of a thousand screams, crying, he shot them both.
He shot them both.
He shot them both.........)

It was on the fourth week of not having any contact whatsoever that he had began to believe in one thing. He began to realize THIS is what happens to the ultimate survivor, if ultimate survivor he need be........the prize, yes, you have won, but no, no one else made it. He started singing frantically any song he may have had once heard, but for the life of him, he could only remember snatches,........ghosts.

He started crying, when he saw a reflection in the dying glass. He saw as how he grinned, his lips pulled back in a rictus, his eyes blazing madly ahead.
© Copyright 2016 Danny Wayne Evans (doc007gonz at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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