It’s the end of the world and Franklin is putting on his
makeup.
Outside, thousands have died, and
countless more will join them. Inside, Franklin stares at a mirror and tries to
get white cream makeup distributed evenly across his face.
The country is in shambles, they
say the president was eaten alive by a reporter from CNN during a presser. Franklin’s state of Arizona is in panic, they
say the desert dwellers’ water supply has been tainted. Franklin’s hometown,
Canto Estrano
has been overrun by crazed hordes of undead murderers.
Distantly, Franklin thinks about
all these things. When he begins painting on bold blue shapes around his eyes
he speaks to himself. “We all got to go
sometime.” Franklin began talking to himself two days ago. All things
considered, this was a minor decent into insanity. Like a gull skimming the
water for that one gulp of fish, then rising back to the sky. The gull has no
choice but to ingest some sea water to satiate itself.
He hadn’t gotten very good at the
lips. Franklin’s hand wasn’t practiced enough, but slowly and shakily bright
red coated the area around his mouth.
Franklin thinks some more about
that seagull. What purpose does it serve?
And for that matter, what about the fish? As far as he can tell, the gull is
just a consumer, a mouth to be fed, sticking its open beak out to Mother Nature
expecting a handout. And the fish? A consumable
product of nature, born to sustain the life of another creature.
Franklin’s got this all figured out.
Smacking, then pouting his lips he
grabs a satchel and a hand axe before heading out the door.
As a precaution, Franklin peers out
the kitchen window. The neighborhood was quiet. He didn’t see anyone out of
sorts. No mother running away from the snapping jaws of her own children, no
commuter with head slumped against a steering wheel being eaten through a
shattered windshield. It was all clear. As far as he could tell.
Once outside, Franklin’s eyes
reacted to the sun. He dug into the satchel which hung low over his shoulder.
After fishing out sunglasses, he slipped them over his eyes and glared straight
at the sun. The sun didn’t flinch. Franklin didn’t either, at first.
The neighborhood was still. The sun
bright, promising. Franklin stared at it and decided it was lying. Then he
blinked and looked away. He was distracted long enough that a man approached
from behind and slapped a hand over his shoulder. Franklin turned and buried
the axe in the man’s skull without question. Franklin looked over him as he
wrenched the axe out of bone and brain. There were no spasmic jitters as the
man lay on the ground. He had on a suit, caked with dried blood, more of it now
his own.
Franklin wondered if the man had
noticed his makeup. Shrugging, he headed toward his destination.
Ironwood Elementary School. He knew
there were people holed up inside. It was set up as a haphazard rescue center,
but that quickly turned bad. One of the last reports he saw on television
warned people that it was no longer a viable option for medical treatment. Doctors
and volunteers had been forced to seal the building, locking themselves inside
when the place had been overrun.
It’s true that depending on how it
unfolded the survivors could now be all massacred but Franklin thought
otherwise. The people that were inside were intelligent. They all served some
purpose, they were skilled, knowledgeable…useful.
As he approached the school,
Franklin quickly surveyed the grounds. There were several of them moaning and
banging at the school’s doors and windows. Though he noted this seemed to be
isolated to one side of the building, maybe even a single room.
Franklin had come prepared.
Searching his satchel, he removed an item wrapped in butcher paper about the
size of two fists. He began screaming and waving his arms like a lunatic. That
got their attention. Slowly, lethargically, the masses began to turn their
attention from the doors and move towards him. A crusty line up of suburbanites
wrapped in death shrouds, their lips rotted away making their teeth look even
bigger. The heat hadn’t been kind to them. Franklin wouldn’t be either.
He rounded the school running,
skipping, hopping as he butchered lyrics to a half dozen rap songs. The crowd followed, some struggling to keep
up, some straggling, and a few keeping pace, which is exactly what he wanted.
Before Franklin knew it he had made two and a half trips around the perimeter
of the school.
When he was reasonably confident he
had them in a manageable formation, he dropped a portion of what was concealed
in the butcher’s paper on the playground, right near the tetherball court. He
was panting and sweat had gathered on his brow and around his neck. A
combination of heat and sweat had begun to cause his face paint to run. Franklin
was smiling ear to ear. The smile only broadened as he drew a stick of dynamite
from the satchel. From the pocket of his
cargo shorts he produced a lighter.
He gave them a few moments to
gather around the chunk of raw, bloodied meat. Franklin shuddered, his mind
briefly drifting back to yesterday, and how he had come about the sample. He knew it wouldn’t last long
given their numbers. When he felt he had the timing right he lit the fuse and
lobbed it towards the ravenous group. Then, despite the sweat from the heat, he
ran like hell.
The explosion was not as loud as
the movies made them out to be and Franklin said a quick prayer, hoping to keep
his ears from being damaged. When he turned to look behind him, he saw smoke,
body parts and what looked like (and most probably was) gallons of blood
painted across the cement. There were more than a few left standing. Some of the
more unfortunate ones had become legless due to the blast.
Franklin dispatched the remaining
few with his hand axe. It was messy, tiring work. The last one was crawling
towards him, minus its right leg, and most of its left. Behind it viscera
dangled and a red trail coated the ground where it had crawled like some
apocalyptic snail. He lined up the axe and the thing’s skull. He struck.
It still crawled, but now with a
deep gash decorating its forehead. Franklin blinked sweat from his eyes and
swung again, this time lopping off its ear. He reasoned he had tired from all
the action. His tongue felt like a chunk of cordwood in his throat. Finally,
Franklin aimed once more. With strength and focus he targeted the gash he had
already created. This time the blow broke through the skull and hit the brain.
The thing ceased moving immediately.
Franklin eyed the school’s entrance
once more. He thought about the sound of the dynamite, and whether or not it
would attract more attention, either here outside or within. He answered
himself by shrugging.
