By Alastair Robertson
Photos by Alastair Robertson
Alex turned to see a young woman. She was pretty.
“It’s just ‘cause your eyes are changing.” She said.
“Who are you?” He asked.
“Lisa, baby. It’s me.” She was pretty but she looked sad.
“Lisa.” I don’t remember anybody named Lisa, Alex thought, but she seemed nice. He looked out the window again. The fog was getting closer. A wall of muted grey swallowing trees and silhouetting houses.
“There’s a fog coming in.” He repeated.
“You just can’t see as far as you used to, baby. You got bit.”
The pretty girl was changing a bandage on the back of his leg. Blood poured out of the wound like a damn had burst. The person started crying, saying something like they just couldn’t do it anymore.
“I’m bitten?” He asked. But the person he was talking to was gone.
Alex watched as his sister cut her hair short, each lock falling faster until it’s just a blur and no one knows what she looked like before. He wanted time to stop, to keep her beautiful. To stop time and go backward, to keep them safe before the bad guys come.
There is a monster in the closet.
In that same room a scared little boy tries to wake his grandma and cannot. He wants grandma to protect him and explain why his mother, who once held him and let him play with her sun drenched hair, had changed. Why she couldn’t hear his voice anymore. Why her eyes changed from green and white that rewarded him with love to terrifying red and yellow that didn’t recognise him at all. For the first time in his life she had hit him. And it scratched his face so badly that he was bleeding. He was now doomed and too young to understand it. He would go from birth to unnatural, abominable death in just 8 indifferent years.
His only instinct was to hide in the closet, to close his eyes very tightly, and pray someone big and strong would come. And someone did, but it was too late. His only instinct then was to attack and feed.
His companions were already gathered at the van waiting to depart. He knew they would have to discuss shooting him.
“I’m bitten.” He said, but the people he was talking to were already gone.
The barest fragments of a mind left, he saw something moving around him.
The bandage person?
No, it’s three people. Gas masks, goggles, guns... initials on their vests.
A fourth person.
Different from the shock troops.
Syringes, taking blood. badge...
Department of Post-Human Resources.