Post by ddhlee on Jun 1, 2006 21:31:57 GMT -5
Once upon a time, there was a reason to care.
That's what Genepe told himself every time he cleaned his gun. There was meaning behind those words that told a tragic story, but now it was a mantra he used to make the firearm cleaning go faster. Time had a way of doing that, of jading memories into snapshot sayings. But that was life in the wilderness when you were marked. Marked was another nice saying: genetically diseased was the proper term for it.
Genepe held the shotgun, old in his rough hands and familiar the same way it always felt for the past few years. The badlands of the Southern Jersey barrens were far from dangerous with wolves at this time of the year, Genepe learned that long ago. Still, at this time of year, sometimes bears liked to come around, hunting for the food that was left by the dead, or maybe even to eat the dead. Graverobbing wasn't hard when there were so many dead to be found, all the same, lying in random positions held through wood-hard rigor mortis and shirts marked with old brown blood from the purple pocks that scarred their chests.
Looking at those things always made him want to scratch his own chest, at those marks, but that would make it worse. Clean shirts became scarce over time. The problem was the way people died, the way they would struggle to live and stained their houses with the last of their blood before lying in their rooms and their houses were coffins in that way. Genepe was a graverobber, and no one cared because there was no one living to care.
There were sometimes cans of food still edible, sometimes there was ammunition. Sometimes dead pets and sometimes cannibal pets. Sometimes it would be empty, and those were the times he enjoyed a chance to sleep in a real bed.
And then the nightmares would come.
Five years jades one from their past, but never hides it totally. The antagonism becomes monsters, death scenes come to life only to die again so that their bloodstained disease would bleed the callouses of mental wounds. And then Genepe would wake up and remember why it was not a home as he would clean his gun.
Somewhere, there was a world still untouched by the virus, where people cared little enough about their undiseased mortality to kill others willingly. Somewhere, their police still looked through files for a man, not thinking of looking for a man in a borrowed coat with an old rucksack and a murder weapon in his hand that sometimes doubled as a cane; but no one touched the world that was marked with the disease that their war brought to the innocent.
Somewhere, a family slowly died in a city. Then, their neighbors began to contract it. An entire apartment filled with an epidemic became a block before infecting a street. Before the televisions of the world told of a genetic weapon breaking loose, panic ate at a city the same way the virus ate the flesh of its victims.
A lucky few never were part of this story, and some that were were only there to offer friendly words; friendly words to those stricken were funeral rites. Friendly words still rested on an immortal building for dead bodies somewhere in an untouched city. Genepe always remembered that part of the story, and then he would remember hunger, the dirt on his gun, blood that began to stain to his shirt.
Once upon a time, there was a reason to care.
That's what Genepe told himself every time he cleaned his gun. There was meaning behind those words that told a tragic story, but now it was a mantra he used to make the firearm cleaning go faster. Time had a way of doing that, of jading memories into snapshot sayings. But that was life in the wilderness when you were marked. Marked was another nice saying: genetically diseased was the proper term for it.
Genepe held the shotgun, old in his rough hands and familiar the same way it always felt for the past few years. The badlands of the Southern Jersey barrens were far from dangerous with wolves at this time of the year, Genepe learned that long ago. Still, at this time of year, sometimes bears liked to come around, hunting for the food that was left by the dead, or maybe even to eat the dead. Graverobbing wasn't hard when there were so many dead to be found, all the same, lying in random positions held through wood-hard rigor mortis and shirts marked with old brown blood from the purple pocks that scarred their chests.
Looking at those things always made him want to scratch his own chest, at those marks, but that would make it worse. Clean shirts became scarce over time. The problem was the way people died, the way they would struggle to live and stained their houses with the last of their blood before lying in their rooms and their houses were coffins in that way. Genepe was a graverobber, and no one cared because there was no one living to care.
There were sometimes cans of food still edible, sometimes there was ammunition. Sometimes dead pets and sometimes cannibal pets. Sometimes it would be empty, and those were the times he enjoyed a chance to sleep in a real bed.
And then the nightmares would come.
Five years jades one from their past, but never hides it totally. The antagonism becomes monsters, death scenes come to life only to die again so that their bloodstained disease would bleed the callouses of mental wounds. And then Genepe would wake up and remember why it was not a home as he would clean his gun.
Somewhere, there was a world still untouched by the virus, where people cared little enough about their undiseased mortality to kill others willingly. Somewhere, their police still looked through files for a man, not thinking of looking for a man in a borrowed coat with an old rucksack and a murder weapon in his hand that sometimes doubled as a cane; but no one touched the world that was marked with the disease that their war brought to the innocent.
Somewhere, a family slowly died in a city. Then, their neighbors began to contract it. An entire apartment filled with an epidemic became a block before infecting a street. Before the televisions of the world told of a genetic weapon breaking loose, panic ate at a city the same way the virus ate the flesh of its victims.
A lucky few never were part of this story, and some that were were only there to offer friendly words; friendly words to those stricken were funeral rites. Friendly words still rested on an immortal building for dead bodies somewhere in an untouched city. Genepe always remembered that part of the story, and then he would remember hunger, the dirt on his gun, blood that began to stain to his shirt.
Once upon a time, there was a reason to care.