Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
I can feel the sickness ripping open bonds between my cells as I fumble the bullet out of the ammo box. It’s a sickeningly pleasant sensation.
The sneaky thing about the virus is that it steps on your endorphin throttle pretty hard as it goes to work. Capillaries unzip, organs start growing roots into each other, and skin starts to turn into a body-wide blister. All the while, it feels like great sex and good memories all rolled into one.
I leave puddles of mucous and blood when I walk. It feels like ferrets are fighting in my stomach. My bones are becoming more and more pliable. Soon, my fingers will be like cooked spaghetti and my arms will be rubber. I’ve seen it happen to the others. I need to kill myself before I lose the capability of movement.
I wish it didn’t feel so good.
All anyone knows is that it came up from the south. A government installation is suspected but nothing’s been confirmed. The television stopped broadcasting anything other than the Emergency Broadcasting Signal two days ago.
I’m chuckling as I slot that beautiful bullet into the clip. It’s a bit of a contest between my fingertips and the metal. Mostly, my fingertips lose but the bullet snaps into place when it hits the bone.
There’s a thrill across my back and thighs like a lover’s breath. I have a stiff erection that is the only part of me that shows no sign of softening. I’ve been turned on for days.
Outside, what’s left of humanity is melting into puddles of basic biological matter. The race is composting. Anyone that still has the capability to move is either trying to have sex with each other or kill themselves. Some are mixing the two. It was raining bodies outside up until this morning. There was seriously a lineup two floors down the stairwell from the roof; a patient queue waiting for the sixty-storey diving board.
I guess there aren’t very many people left. Bodies are only coming past my window about twice every half hour now. I can hear their laughter Doppler past.
I ram the cartridge into the base of the gun. I feel something give way in my wrist and sheer ecstasy washes up that arm. I sigh deeply and giggle. I know I’ll have to do the rest with my other hand.
I turn the gun around so that it’s pointing at my eye.
I want to feel bad but I can’t. I just keep smiling.
I keep it steady. I pull the trigger.