Montpellier WA, 2167

Montpellier WA, 2167

A Story by Elaenor Aisling
"

My attempt at a post-apocolyptic zombie story. Written by request for a friend.

"

All was quiet in the dim hotel room. The last light of the dying red sun was dripping down the balcony railings and outlined the few sky scrapers left standing.  He took a swig from the last of  the cokes plundered from the vending machine down the hall.  The brown liquid was stale and flat, and left an unpleasant carmalized feel in his mouth. He’d made them last for as long as he could, but they never quenched his overwhelming thirst.           

He looked towards the window, shrouded in dusty blinds and tattered curtains. There had been no blue sky behind them when he got there, and there still wasn't. He new there never would be. But somewhere there was blue sky. He dared not let himself wander down that train of thought. Even if he could make it out of the building without an encounter, the streets, he knew, were full of  the skelital, bloodied, yet still walking corpses. He recalled the first few months when he had planned to make it out and get across the Canadian border. He’d foolishly believed it possible. Even if by some perposterours miracle he got to the wall, he’d be shot as soon as he touched it. He’d dreamed about that scene several times in the past few months. His palm smacking the concrete, the rush of relief, but then the pain, as the first shot hit his calf. The helicopter whirred above him, and soon there was nothing but pain and blackness. His mind would linger in the dark, but then he could feel the hands. Talon-like nails tearing into his flesh, though his eyes refused to open and his limbs refused to move. Then came the teeth. But then the pain subsided. He would find he could move his right hand, but then his eyes would open, and he would awaken, sweating under the thin, musty sheet.

He sighed and sat down heavily on the bed. He set his elbows on his knees, and felt the bones press together. His stomach rumbled, and the growl seemed to echo in the bare room. Well here’s a hell of a way to go. Survive WWIII, the War with China, and the Virus to end up starving to death. 

 He’d holed himself up in the hotel a few days after the Virus hit Montpellier. It spread quickly, and only a few hundred had managed to get a spot on the helicopters and planes. The power went out. The water stopped. After about a week the stench rose thorough the city. The worst sewers and cesspools paled in comparison. He’d helped with the clean up operation for the first Chinese attack, but even 1500 bodies burned beyond recognition smelled like fresh air compared to the countless corpses that walked the street.

He didn’t know what death was anymore. He’d been to funerals in his younger days, killed a few men in his time. He’d thought that death was the nothingness beyond life, unnamed by science. Yet here were death and life existing at the same time, in the same place, and the result was ghastly. He rose and walked to the window, peering down into the darkening street below. It seemed to be crawling from the height he was at. He checked his watch. 7:30. They were always more active at dusk. They made noise then, a quiet mumbling which morphed into a droning hum. The organs still functioned, the muscles too, but with only each other’s flesh to eat, they declined rapidly. Most of them were stick thin, their bones protruding from jaundiced skin, numerous festering bites punctuating arms, legs, and neck. Their eyes were glazed over and bloodshot from dryness, they never blinked.

Even in their grotesqueness, he found himself envying them. They were unaware of their state. Freed from the bonds of sociality and morality, they had been thrown into the bottom caste of life. There were only the instincts to kill and eat. Not even a fight or flight response. Only about a fourth of their brain was functional, if not less. They didn’t have to be weighted down by emotions. They did not feel the fear and pain he felt. For them, there was no loneliness, no worry, no despair. They did not feel thirst. He glanced back at the empty coke bottle again, lying on the floor, a plastic skeleton. He kicked it and it bounced into the door with a hollow bang. He went to retrieve it, but instead of picking it up, he edged it aside, and unbolted the lock.

Slowly, he turned the silver handle, the metal cool on his dry palm. He pulled the door open and stepped into the hall, not even bothering to check if it was clear. His feet carried him to the right towards the stairwell. The droning hum was louder now, but he didn’t notice. His first step into the stairway echoed loudly, and the smell of rubber flooring and decomposition filled his nostrils. The scent sent him a rush of adrenaline and he sprinted down the six remaining flights, ignoring the throb in his aching knees. When he got to the lobby, he found the glass doors broken in, snowflakes of shards covering the marble floor. He walked over them, his boots crunching them into smaller and smaller remnants.

He vaguely saw the blur of thousands of moving shapes in the dark before he threw open the one remaining in tact door and stepped onto the street. The hum was deafening. It took only a few steps before he was set upon. He felt the talon-like nails dig into his flesh, he saw the blackness of the city, and felt the teeth sink in. He threw his head back and laughed. 

© 2012 Elaenor Aisling


Author's Note

Elaenor Aisling
Forgive any grammatical errors, I didn't feel like editing. :p

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register




Reviews

"...Even in their grostesqueness, he found himself envying them..."
I got halfway through the story when that line punched me in the gut! I usually avoid zombie stories, what with "THE WALKING DEAD" series being on TV and all. I think they are being so overdone lately. But you really made this interesting and unique. Good reading!

Posted 12 Years Ago


This is goood.

Posted 12 Years Ago


Editing is a hard job - and to do it for something you really didn't want to do in the first place makes it harder. Sigh - and yeah, this one does need it though.

The despair runs through the story... and the only heroic figures are the uncaring dead... You tied a variety of vague but believable events together in a short scenario. And though "flawed," I did turn the page to see where you were taking me.

Posted 12 Years Ago



Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

375 Views
3 Reviews
Added on April 16, 2012
Last Updated on July 3, 2012
Tags: zombies, end of the world, death, dying, virus, apocalypse, war, disease, hotel, flesh, wound, sickness.

Author

Elaenor Aisling
Elaenor Aisling

Limerick, Ireland....I wish.



About
I am currently a student. I write mainly poetry, a few short stories here and there. I love to read and write. Favorite authors include, Victor Hugo, J.R.R. Tolkien, Tolstoy, Wilde, Alcott, C.S. Lewis.. more..

Writing