First draft Lives of the dead

They were burning burning alive they made such awful

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in flames were the noises of the animals. They were burning, burning alive, they made such awful noises. Their screams striking some primordial and primal part of me, some gray area between humanity and beast was bridged. It spoke of eons of terror and fear and pain and it haunted me. These animals trapped in a womb of fire, giving birth to nothing but ash and charred remains. Womb, the womb and ash. Nine years ago in a hospital. I talk to the doctor, he tells me my wife is in that room on the left. I enter quietly. She is holding an empty blanket. She is weeping, her sorrow is inhumane. “Where were you?” I can hear the accusation in her voice. “There was .... traffic.” She just cries harder. “We could..try again” I suggest, it is a lie. I will never touch my wife again, how could I? She produces only death, she is repugnant. The womb is repugnant, a disgusting crushing prison. I whisper “I'm sorry Max; I wasn't here to...see you.” My wife just cries. My entire family died in that hospital room. Kincaid is screaming at her soldiers, but it is useless. They are being slaughtered, the civilians run, scattered like pigeons. Kincaid turns to me. “This is all your fault, you goddamned coward!” “We can here for safety” I mumble to no one in particular. “You came here to be subjugated!” She turned her back on me, barking more orders at her soldiers. I felt a fury well up in me, the last protest against the death that was all around me. I reached into my pocket. While Kincaid was distracted by commanding her troops I spun her around and drove the blade of the Swiss army knife into her belly several times. She was a trained soldier though, and I was just some guy with a Swiss Army knife. She broke my arm so swiftly and violently that the bones of my wrist suddenly burst through my forearm, splashing Kincaid in the face with a warm spray of blood. I fell backwards staring at my injury in awe. Kincaid grabber her injured stomach and looked down at me. “Are you satisfied?” The infected were beginning to reach stage now, the soldiers had fled. Kincaid observed the scene removed her piston from its holster placed it under her chin, before she pulled the trigger she made eye contact with me “Pathetic.” She pulled the trigger, her face a mask of ecstasy that only self inflected death can produce. I struggled no longer. I ran no longer. I sought protection no longer. I laid in the middle of the stage and waited. I was going to be with my family. I was going to be with my son. I was going to be with Max. When the infected climbed onto the stage I greeted them not with cries of terror but shouts of exultation.
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  • Spring '11
  • Benavides
  • Max, 2007 singles, 2005 albums, If You Have to Ask

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