K-6
Dakota Taylor The sunlight poured into me and immediately I shielded my sunken eyes. My head pounded like Neil Pert’s bass drum as I forced myself to balance my shaky legs. The streets were vacant with the exception of crumpled government flyers that rolled past the abandoned buildings like tumble weeds. The few cars that were still left parked were down to their last scraps of metal and were only identifiable by the patches of paint still clinging to the steel frame. The K-6 infection killed everything in the largest cities. Even the cracks in the asphalt were unable to inhabit weeds trying to sprout through.
My bare knees scraped on the sidewalk when my legs could no longer support my weight. I spit the pacifier out of my mouth and watched it fall into a murky puddle. My knees were shaking violently as I waited to fall every five feet that I tried to run. Tiny gems of glass from storefront windows stabbed into my bare feet and felt like wasp stings with every hard slap on the sidewalk. My stomach churned and hot spurts of vomit shot out of me like a geyser. The puke stained my boxers and clung to my tiny chest hairs. The one major flaw of the K-6 Correction team is that they always underestimate the substance fiend. The sedative was already working on me and combining with the other drugs in my system to poison me; their harmless tranquilizer dart was going to kill me, but like a wounded animal I wasn’t going to just lie down. The bastards would revive me and take me to quarantine for interrogation. The news was that we were the last rave warehouse in New York and they were going to hit us harder than anywhere else. We were the only resistance left to the K-6 Correction team and because we had immunity to the
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