Reality Bites
A panicking man runs into a store where activists are handing out pro-revenant leaflets. He brings a warning. Will they heed it?
Written for the March Madness writing challenge. Come and join us!
“Run! Run! Get out of here!”
Everyone turned to look at the sweaty disheveled man.
“They're coming! Lock this door and block it up!”
Standing near the centre aisle was a group of young people wearing t-shirts with slogans including, “Post-vivants just want to make a living” above a green, yellow, and grey flag. They were handing out leaflets and engaging passers-by in conversation. One of them strode towards the man.
“Where are you going, Gwen?” a man with an asymmetric haircut dyed bright cherry red asked.
She nodded, her blue hair swaying. “I'm going to deal with him.” She marched right up to the man and asked, “What's going on?”
He panted as he spoke, gasping for breath. “Peeves. A great horde of them. They're coming this way.”
The shoppers stopped and turned to face them.
Gwen folded her arms and glared at him. “Post-vivants are people just like us. Respiratorily challenged, yes, but they're just as human as we are.”
“Look, lady…”
“My name is Gwen Aveyie, and I'm nobody's ‘lady.’”
“I'm not surprised,” he said sourly. “You're not the brightest spark in the fire, are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You believe what you're told don't you? Don't think for yourself. You don't ask questions, do you? Never the kind that might get you into trouble.”
Gwen jabbed his flabby chest with her finger. “Did you run all this way just to insult me?”
He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her outside. “Look.”
Lurching towards them at varying speeds was a horde of bloodied undead; arms up, fingers clawed. The blood was deep red and shiny on their clothes. Still wet. The sounds of their moaning grew louder.
She turned to go back inside.
He barred her way.
“Excuse me, I want to go back inside.”
“Where it's safe from the zombies.”
“Post…”
“They just surrounded and ate my wife.”
“Let me pass.”
“Are you going to keep on handing out those leaflets while they surround us, trying to force their way into the store so they can eat us too?”
“Let me pass.”
A hand tapped his shoulder. An older man with a jagged scar on his cheek. “I know she's an idiot, son, but you should let her in.”
“To hand out more of those leaflets?”
“This is America, son. We have freedom of speech here, didn't you know?”
The revenants were nearer now, their stink pervading the air, making them gag. Their moans were louder, drowning all other sounds.
Fear raised the pitch of Gwen's voice. She scrabbled at the man who was barring her way. “Let me in!”
“Those things killed my wife! And you say they are human, just like us. Well, perhaps you can issue a strongly-worded statement on the futility of violence in pursuit of one's goals. Go on, talk to them. Ask if they'd be kind enough to vomit up my wife so I can bury her.”
Gwen's eyes widened. She shivered, her mouth dry, her heart pounding, her voice soft and high. The post-vivants were closing in. “Please.”
He got out of her way, and she slipped past him, running to her friends.
He turned around. “How do you lock these doors?”
A man in a white shirt, wearing a badge, took out a set of keys and locked the doors. He pushed a button. The shutter rolled down. “I'm going to call the authorities,” he said. “Assuming there is anyone who can help us.”
This story follows History's Actors. Read the sequel, Sound Bites.
Great story, looking forward to more.