Il y a aussi une petite fiction.
The wheels groan and creak underneath us. We’ve been cooped up in here for 3 days now. My eyes are tired, staring at this glowing display for hours on end. Whatever legacy this leaves, if there’s anyone to leave it to, let me be clear… They’re no longer human, that’s for damn sure.
At least not to me.
Shape after shape emerges from the alleyways. The recorded message blasting from the horn draws them out. It’s muffled, but I can recite it by heart now. There is some consolation in that I can’t make out most of the faces, either too mangled or too blurry. Another three rounds down range. Another crumpled mess. I remind myself to aim for the head, not center-mass, or they just keep crawling around…
That’s not the worst part. The worst part is how much ammunition is left in the rear. I’m sure we have enough for another week of this. Surely this will be over in a week. It’s only hit a few cities, and we’re deployed in full force, at least that was what we heard. The last radio trasmission crackled in from a passing bird. They were extracting civilians, a few bite victims. That was 32 hours ago.
A few bits of garbled static pour through; once a yell and a struggle. Some gunfire on another. We occasionally broadcast wide. No response. We’re told not to respond to “survivor”. We certainly can’t bring any on board. We’re told to shoot on sight, and I do. “They’re all infected.”, they told us. Some don’t look it… but I’m no corpsman.
We stopped for fuel awhile back, in a clear intersection. If it weren’t the incessant moans of the crowds a block over, the city would be… Well, peaceful. I’ve had the same feeling, a cold night in a blizzard back home in CT, the power went out. I went for a drive. Got stuck, walked home along the eery streets. Same feeling, less zed.
I’ve only had to use my sidearm once. The SPC used his a few more times… On the same corpse. I’ll tell you what though, I don’t need to be a corpsman to tell he’s losing it, cramped up inside here all day. He keeps muttering about his ‘rolling tomb’. He’s convinced we’re doomed sweep the streets until we run out of ammo, or food. Whichever comes first. Maybe.
I’ll tell you what we really are.
This melody of creaking wheels, the rythmic hum of the man on the microphone, the echoing symphony of my M2… With our chorus we draw the dead into our mist, again and again I smash them against our rocks.
We’re the Sirens of the apocalypse, doomed to sing our siren song.