Zocopalypse
“I say. She trips anyway. Over a charred arm, no longer attached to a body. “Like that.”
She straightens herself, smoothing her shirt. Looking around she says, in a wavering voice, “How can you be so calm about all of this?”
“Do we really have any other choice?”
She’s wrong. I’m not calm. Underneath the surface I’m at a near epic level of terror and panic. There are bodies everywhere, like the aftermath of a battle. With every step I search for that red patch. For Paul’s black hair. When I don’t find either I can’t decide if I feel better or worse. Is it better to be alive at this point or dead? As we approach the bridge I’m not sure.
The smoke from the fire billowed for hours, finally settling into a slow burn. The stench is terrible. I have no doubt that the odor has seeped into my skin, my hair…definitely my clothes. It’s as though we’ve become the dead ourselves.
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