Sunday 9 November 2014

Damn Dirty Bullets



It was eighteen hours after society had collapsed.

I was running from a mob. I managed to climb up a fire escape and pull it up behind me, but it was only going to buy me a few minutes. I climbed into the apartment and there he was.

I probably would have been star struck, and told him who he was and how I’d seen him on TV, but he was dead so I didn’t. Instead, I chuckled as I began to take his gun from his cold, dead hands.

Shame rigor mortis still held him, might have survived otherwise.

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