Apocalypse

‘The boycott stands. I’m sorry.’

The voice was stern, on a loudspeaker. Coming from outside my home. I peeked out the front window to see four police cars parked crookedly on the street. Neighbours’ curtains were pulled partially aside to give them a view of what was going on.

I wonder which one called the police. Can’t say I blame them. The zombie apocalypse has turned everyone on high alert. Music is a signifier, too, hence the boycott. And the police at my home.

‘M’am,’ the gruff male voice said. ‘Could you please turn off the music?’

‘Of course,’ I responded. ‘I’m not one of them.’ Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, it sounded forced. Wrong. Maybe I am a zombie. Do you know if you’ve become a zombie? Any memory at all?

I switched off the music.

‘M’am,’ the policeman said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lillian,’ I answered.

‘Step outside please.’

I opened the front door. Stepped into sunlight. I held my hand over my eyes to protect them from the ray’s glare. The police officers gasped at the same time as each neighbours’ curtains dropped back into place. I turned to catch a glimpse of my reflection in my front door: red eyes, pale, blotchy skin, dishevelled hair.

No longer my impeccable self.

But so much fresh blood, right in front of me.

 

 

 

Photo by Nathan Wright on Unsplash