THEY ALL LIE Joshua Kraus Know what a dead planet looks like from far away? A clump of dust. A booger rolled in lint. Something you‘d flick from your sweater in disgust as you dressed in front of a mirror. You never stop to think where the dirty little spec came from. You don‘t remind yourself that the dirty little spec wasn‘t always a dirty little spec, that it‘s merely an accumulation of what used to be living tissues and organic plant matter and fertile soil and cigarette ash. I‘m looking at the spec right now. So is Damian. Ortega‘s conscious again, not that it matters. Melba has finally stopped crying, thank god, but I think her mind is gone. That‘s probably for the best. Splitlip looks like he wants to eat someone. I say go for it. I say start with me, what do I care. I think I‘ll close my eyes soon. The trouble started this morning. Actually no, that‘s incorrect. That‘s completely false. The trouble started ten years ago when the Enemy made their grand introduction to the human race by hurling rockets at Beijing. They went for the most populated cities first – Dehli, Tokyo, Moscow – then worked their way out. Last was farm country, which was afforded a more patient and methodical military campaign. The only reason I‘m still alive is because when it happened, I was driving down some back road in South Dakota. I quickly holed up with this guy I‘d passed at a gas station named Gibbs. He and his family had a bomb shelter. We waited a few days, then got on the TravCom and heard about a bunch of people—military and civilian—banding together near a beryllium mine about a hundred miles west. Somehow we made it.
Published on Nov 27, 2014
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