Hunger Aches
The scene repeats across the globe; we were given no chance to adapt. This is the story of the end, or perhaps, the end of history itself.
Everyone runs in desperation, clawing and shoving anyone in their path. Screams and sobs form the background choir. I am struck by the metallic stench of blood flooding the air. Their only concern is finding sanctuary from the bloodthirsty horde—creatures who, not long ago, were their friends and kin. Many stumble, only to be trampled under the boots of those behind them. Others simply aren't fast enough to flee, and no beast in this world makes distinctions of age when it comes time to feed.
No one stops for the laggards; they push and heave, desperate to save themselves. In this chaos, one’s true nature is laid bare. Kindness brings only death to the naive soul who dares to practice it.
I keep running, eyes locked forward. I don’t slow down, not even a fraction. I can’t. Something deep within drives me with a primal vehemence. I don’t need to look back; nothing good remains there.
Finally, after a long stretch, I reach my nearest mark and tackle them to the ground. Their hands scramble, doing everything possible to slip my grasp, but their body tenses in agony as my teeth tear away ribbons of their vitality. Blood mingles with the tears of us both. The others continue their marathon of death while I indulge in a grotesque banquet of someone who feels hauntingly familiar. I am conscious of my actions, yet my body cares for nothing but sating the worst kind of gluttony.
Guilt? Of course I feel it. I take no pleasure in this. But I also feel a hunger—a painfully thundering hunger—that finds peace only in the warmth of human flesh. We are survivors too; it’s just that we are a different kind now...
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