Aftermath, No. 1
July 12, 2041
Bodies are everywhere. They smell like pitch; they smell like rotten eggs and rotted wood. Their faces sink back when I walk past, like they're afraid. But they aren't afraid; they're dead. I have to remind myself that they are, because they make hissing sounds and slump over into odd angles. The smell is terrible, it's almost alive, it's definably angry. Defiance keeps my stomach from turning itself inside out. I've seen plenty of people choke on the smell of death; I don't want to be like plenty of people, I refuse to be. My stomach, for the moment, stays put.
The city is in tatters, and most of the buildings have been torn down. They said the plague is over now, and it's no longer trapped in the dirt. I tug the mask tighter on my face, and hope they're right. I know the mask wouldn't help me for long if I did come across a gall.
The street crunches underfoot. It's been torn off the ground and scattered between the piles of rubble that used to be buildings. Initially, it looks like the ground is covered in snow, but it's ash. Some of the other work-gangs have said that the ash is from burned bodies, but I can't believe that. The same work-gangs say that the plague turned its victims to ashes. They were drunk at the time.
I can't blame them.
Bodies are everywhere. They smell like pitch; they smell like rotten eggs and rotted wood. Their faces sink back when I walk past, like they're afraid. But they aren't afraid; they're dead. I have to remind myself that they are, because they make hissing sounds and slump over into odd angles. The smell is terrible, it's almost alive, it's definably angry. Defiance keeps my stomach from turning itself inside out. I've seen plenty of people choke on the smell of death; I don't want to be like plenty of people, I refuse to be. My stomach, for the moment, stays put.
The city is in tatters, and most of the buildings have been torn down. They said the plague is over now, and it's no longer trapped in the dirt. I tug the mask tighter on my face, and hope they're right. I know the mask wouldn't help me for long if I did come across a gall.
The street crunches underfoot. It's been torn off the ground and scattered between the piles of rubble that used to be buildings. Initially, it looks like the ground is covered in snow, but it's ash. Some of the other work-gangs have said that the ash is from burned bodies, but I can't believe that. The same work-gangs say that the plague turned its victims to ashes. They were drunk at the time.
I can't blame them.
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