For Children of Sands

It is hard to tell when it all had began. Maybe on a Saturday at 6pm, a Monday morning before school or maybe a nice Sunday morning; just before the kids began screaming on the streets, just before the routine replay of old cartoons and talk shows would appear on the fuzzy TV screen.

No one knew when, not the day, not the month or even the year. All they know is that the world as they knew it became the thin milky membrane that separated dream and reality. Who knew what was better; days haunted by the infected, the dead and the dying, nights disturbed by dreams gone bad, people lost or maybe some just didn’t dream at all. There was no point.

It became the world where you would not spit at the street preachers who would stand on their pathetic plastic creaking stools, holding up their wrinkled leather bound testaments commanding you to seek the Lord before the end comes. But one where you would look over at them and consider, just for a moment.

What if?

Maybe you would be spared. He would look down, see a ‘kindred’ soul and save you from the massacre to come.

No such luck.

It seemed He wanted to see the blood, the hate, the world going up in flames, this faceless God.

Then you either you run, leave all you knew behind, become a criminal, learn how to shoot the deadliest bullet spitting machinery you can find or be gnawed to a bloody pulp which would rise in a day with a peculiar, quantitative lack of muscle and skin. You would become the undead; a walking and groaning parasite which would gradually wear away over time or feast on human flesh.

No time for salvation. Not today. Or tomorrow. Or ever.

No one knew how it began. The end of the world as many have called it. Maybe it was the Soviets, planning their version of the world domination. Maybe an escaped disease from the labs came over from Cuba on ships? Many still blamed the Japanese and Chinese. They refused to consider the USA, despite knowing that the largest colonies of the undead had centered in the US. America was never to blame, any that pointed the finger were quickly overpowered by God-fearing patriots.

An evacuation had been started when there was still hope. The danger zones known as Washington and New York were completely shutdown, the government could not put the rest of the states at risk. They ignored the pleas of the survivors, the desperate souls crying to an ignorant nation. The United States! Of course. To the rest, they turned and said that this was an act of mercy. To keep them safe.

For who the government still had hope: they were carted out beyond the US border; into Canada. Many small towns had been left, forgotten or ignored. They held little importance, only holding farm girls, the aged and fresh young boys of no use to America or its salvation.

After the first year of the outbreak, three waves and one government shutdown later, people began to realise that they could no longer rely on the safety of skyscrapers and malls, many still tried but were soon overpowered by the sheer numbers. In the space of the next three months people began to realize they needed to disperse out into the suburban towns, out into deserts, the uncivilized untouched lands in the desperate need of safety.

With this, that was that. And that was all the other that was.

Notes