Blue Moon

Short Story: Veins

As a child, war had been a game he played. He spent hours investing his adolescence into video games, leveling up his virtual self, unlocking new weapons and perks. War wasn't real to him then; it had been a distant fantasy.

He sat staring at the single black vein traveling slowly up his right arm, away from the oozing bite mark. His chest heaved from exhaustion.

A body lay before him at his feet. The life was slowly draining out of it in thick, black pools. He was unable to tell if the infected had been a male or female prior to becoming diseased, due to its badly decomposed state. 

He had been forced to nearly decapitate the infected to get it to release his arm from the grip of its jagged teeth. He watched its chest slowly rise and fall as it steadily died. His rusted machete lay in his left hand. A new chip in the blade caught his attention. He was surprised to find that he wasn't worried about it. The growing dullness of his most prized possession didn't faze him; how odd that felt.

The black vein reached the crease of his inner elbow. In the distance, shrieks of more infected echoed through the empty, crumbling building. He no longer shivered at their screams. Goosebumps no longer formed on his neck and arms. He was strangely unaffected by the imminent danger.

The infected dying before him released a shallow shriek as the life left inside its mutilated body faded away.

He lifted his left hand and reached into his canvas satchel at his side. Inside his bloody fingers found its cold metal; his last resort, a Ruger LCR double-action Revolver. He removed it from its previous home. He had never pulled its silver trigger. Guns were certain death in his world. They were too loud and attracted too many dangers: scavengers, murderers, and the diseased.

He thought of his childhood, those games of war. Had he known what his future held, he would've spent more time with his parents and little sister. He could still see her blonde curls shining in the summer sun. He had long since forgotten their faces. The last time he saw them had been in the mountains during a cold winter. His mom and sister became diseased, his father went insane due to lack of food and water, or from their loss, he wasn't sure. His father threw himself from a cliff, while he watched. He could still remember his father's maniacal laughter as he dove off the rock.

He examined the small pistol. Inside 3 of the 5 slots were filled with a golden bullet. The black vein now disappeared beneath his short sleeve t-shirt. His right hand was covered in small black veins. The virus performing quickly.

He tried to recall a memory that made him feel as though his life had held meaning, but it was no use. He had done nothing honorable or worth remembering. He had merely survived, by cowering, stealing, and avoiding other people altogether. His world was cruel and dark.

After the War of the Moon, his family had retreated into the mountains to avoid the flooding. He could still remember the side of the moon exploding into massive fragments that had later crashed into the Earth. Luckily the immense flooding had protected most of the Earth's surface from the meteors.

He pulled the collar of his shirt to reveal his right shoulder, the black vein hadn't reached it yet. Already he felt feverish and shaky, signs of the virus. His heart began to speed up at the thought of being infected.

He slammed his infected hand into the concrete ground, his family should have gone underground with the rest of the people they knew; they might have survived that way.

Those aliens, those damn Volkov. He spat at the thought of their name. They were to blame, for everything: the moon exploding, the flooding, the virus, the pollution of their planet. He hoped they all died, painfully.

He examined the dead diseased's mouth, searching for the sign of a Volkov's enormous canine teeth. Thank God he hadn't been changed by a Volkov!

He laid his head back against the brick wall behind him. Dirt flaked from the wall and fell into his eyes.

He wondered how much longer he had. The virus was known for working quickly.

The building was growing brighter as the sun rose into the sky. He longed to watch the sunrise but moving made the virus work even faster.

Closer this time, he heard the shrieks of the infected, most likely smelling the freshly dead that lay in front of him.

He'd better get this over with before they found him and the dead infected.

He sighed, wishing he had more time, even though he had nothing to live for. He had no one. There was no future for him. He had known this would happen. He should've made peace with this a long time ago, but how do you make peace with death when you are too busy worrying about staying alive. 

The building was now visible to him. It was severely dirty. The blood of the infected pooled all around him, soaking his boots and jeans. He knew that it would not be long, either he would succumb, or more infected would find him.

He checked his shoulder again, the vein was there. He knew once it reached his brain he was done for. Amputation had been tried by the early victims when people were more common than infected, but it had never been successful.

There was only one solution for being infected.

He cocked the revolver and held it to the left side of his head. He said a silent prayer for all the humans left alive.

He closed his eyes imagining the sunrise, a new day.

Then he pulled the trigger.