Credit to Critique Circle
Prompt:
A massive plague has killed everyone on earth, as far as you know except for yourself because of some unknown immunity. What are you going to do? Are you going to try to look for survivors? Remember, there is no one out there to help you.
Since this shares similar elements with Sunder, I thought it would be fun to take a completely different approach to the theme.
| Darrel dashed across the avenue to crouch behind a bus stop bench. Although the dogs growled among themselves over the corpse's jerky covered bones, he knew from experience they preferred fresh meat. He, himself, was so hungry he could eat a dog. Over the next hour, he crept through the city streets, jumping whenever a gust of wind disturbed the debris littering the pavement. The weeks of solitude had stretched his nerves thin. It did not help that he had not eaten since his provisions ran out six days past. To continue on, he needed food. More than food, he needed a drink. A stiff one. Up ahead, a neon sign jutting from a row of buildings grabbed his attention. Vic's Place. The name carried an air of sweaty vinyl bar stools and cigar smoke. Darrel kept his expectations in check. Like the dozens of bars he had stumbled across over the last week, this one was certain to disappoint. If not closed due to the plague, the bartender would be either dead or cheating his employer with an extended break. Back at the first bar Darrel had found open, he had waited patiently for a drink amid the stench of rotting corpses for six long hours. The bartender had remained out of sight until Darrel gave up and moved on. Darrel learned his lesson and, after visiting three more bars, he made it his policy to wait no longer than an hour for any bartender to offer him service. Obviously the plague was having deleterious effects on people's work ethics as Darrel had suffered the identical neglect in each of the subsequent bars and markets he attempted to patronize. Despite his run of bad luck, a tinge of hope sparked within him at the open sign in the bar window. Darrel pushed the door ajar and peeked inside. The bartender was nowhere in sight and the room reeked of spoiled meat. A dozen rats scattered from three crumpled corpses as he stepped inside. Broken glass and several overturned stools lay on the floor. Not a good sign. A decent bartender would never keep such an untidy bar. Darrel seated himself at the bar and scanned the rows of liquor bottles lining the serving station wall. Scavenging his pockets, he brought forth the last coins to his name. One seventy-eight. He gazed down at the rotting patrons. None of them would be offering to buy him a drink; of that he was certain. He doubted his chances of credit to be good as well. He rose up on the foot rail and peered over the bar. Nothing. No dead bartender lay there. Proof of another employee's dereliction of duty. Darrel steamed at the poor service. It would serve the bartender right if he helped himself to a drink and left without paying. The owner could take the money out of the bartender’s wages for all he cared. Darrel slipped behind the bar to choose his poison. Since the bartender was buying, why not have something special. He selected a sixteen year old Bushmills scotch whiskey and set it on the bar. After staring at the bottle for a minute, he placed it back on the shelf. It would be just his luck to be caught and accused of stealing. A radio sat at the end of the shelf. He switched it on and dialed through the static to the channel he knew by heart. “...sees no end in sight as the death toll continues to rise. Now back to the mellow sounds of K-Tunes.” Darrel smiled. They were still sending him their message. Although the message never varied, it was all the proof he needed that there were people out there besides the useless bartenders and clerks. He would find the K-Tune folk eventually, if he didn't die of thirst before hand. | ||
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