Black clothes itch my pock-marked skin as two marines dressed in grey stack me on top of the piled cart. The man beneath me feels cold. No heartbeat. Masked doctors all in white flock about the sterile room, peering onto one another’s clipboards. None of them ever look in my direction. Another limp body is placed on top. My lungs compress under the weight and they gasp. The person above me is boiling. Sweat bleeds through the black fabric. I try to call for help but my lips won’t move to form the words. I want to scream. They have to know I’m not dead. This is all a terrible mistake. A sharp clack sounds somewhere above my head and I pray it’s an order to stop. Doctor Parson’s aged voice is slow, his words deliberate.
New York, London and Tokyo are repeating near zero populations.
A buzz-cut man with combat boots and military grey looms over me. Most of his face is covered by the same mask the doctors wear. His eyes hold something close to pity and when his gloved hands reach out to me, the light from above gives him a halo.
So far, we have been able to keep ahead of the virus with a marginal number of casualties.
He traces the scar along my left hand before removing the wedding band from my finger. Brushing the hair from my face, he checks my ears before moving on to the bodies below me. Muttered words from the doctors and he retreats to the muted browns of the side wall.
Every precaution is being taken. Everything that can be done is being done.
I struggle as the white ones wheel me over to a latched metal door. Only my shoulders obey. One of the doctors opens the gate and the added heat radiating from the chamber makes my head spin. Help. Please. For pity’s sake, someone help me.
To ensure the best chance of survival, we are placing ourselves under quarantine
The military man returns with a wide broom. He disappears into the chamber for a moment. Mounds of bone fragments and small bits of metal come sweeping out in front of him. I try to scream as the cart wheels towards the oven. The cart jerks forward and we all go toppling in. The weight of them all crushes me.
Let the record state that November 16th, 2018 is quarantine day one.
Moans echo throughout the chamber. How many of us are still alive? A fine layer of the sandpaper ash clogs my throat but my lungs are too weak to cough. Muffled tears on my back. A small hand fists up my shirt. The door swings shut. A soft metallic click is all it takes to plunge us into dark silence. Into hell. We are meant to be here.
Incineration in three… two… one…
May God have mercy on our souls.
(So proud of this! Wooo! I'm putting this up because it all started with a prompt from my teacher. She told us to try and write in-scene details with a lot of emotion in only two pages. Voila!)
No comments:
Post a Comment