empty. They were here. He knows they were here, but now they're not here. His mind no longer has a firm grasp on the concept of time, but the randomly firing mass of flesh still works well enough to tell him that the people must have gone somewhere since he last saw them.
But where?
His head jerks up at a distant sound carried on the breeze. Some kind of high pitched feedback squeal, somewhere far away. He turns his head this way and that, trying to home in on the noise. It seems to be coming from everywhere, bouncing through the streets and echoing off the walls. There's no way to tell—
No, wait. There it is. It's coming from somewhere ahead. Through the broken line of cars and down the long, straight road. Whatever it is it's coming from that direction. That's where he has to go. He can feel that fizzing sensation return.
His head spins around at another sound behind him, but he quickly sees that it's nothing to get excited about. It's just another one of them. Hungry. Angry. Excited. Can't eat it, though. The smell isn't right. Another one appears from behind a car, and then another off in the distance from around a corner, far behind. They all heard the sound, and they're all moving in the same direction. Some can move faster than him. Some aren't so broken. Some don't have to drag a useless foot behind them. It makes him angry to see them walking faster. Jealous. The other ones might get there before him, and all the food will be gone.
He sets off as quickly as he can move, dragging himself towards the distant sound. It's stopped now but he remembers the direction it came from. All he can hear now is the slow, steady click and grind of his bone against the asphalt, and the low, curious groans of the others quickly catching up to him.
He's excited now, but he doesn't know how to show it. His mouth doesn't seem to work like it used to. He wants to speak, but all he can do is groan.
No matter. He'll get to eat soon.
I can't help but think of 9/11.
I remember I'd turned eleven years old a few days earlier, and my party had marked the end of a long, glorious, lazy summer. The school year had officially begun the previous day, September 10th, but my first day back been postponed for a week thanks to some emergency with the plumbing in the cafeteria. I didn't really give a damn about the reason, I was just over the moon to get a bonus vacation week. It felt like magical extra time had been conjured up out of thin air, just like when as an adult you wake up thinking it's time for work, then feel that soft, warm little thrill when you look at the clock and realize you still have two more hours to sleep. It was fucking fantastic. One more precious week of waking up late and watching cartoons in my pajamas
Unfortunately my mother had other plans. She had to go to work, and since couldn't find a sitter on short notice I was packed off to my great uncle's deli on Fulton Street, a weird little place that stank to high heaven of pickled beets and, forever creeping from the little cubby behind the stock room, stale cigar smoke. Mom said a week of honest work would be character building, much more valuable than anything I'd learn at school, and she was right. By the start of my second day I'd already learned an important life lesson: the smell of pickled beets and old cigar smoke makes me gag.
I was sneaking in a quick nap on the toilet when Flight 11 hit the north tower, really stretching out that first crap of the day as long as I could, hoping my uncle wouldn't knock on the door and make me help out in the store. I'd been in there for twenty minutes when I heard a dull rumble and felt the room shake a little. I remember the mirror trembled on the wall, and my reflection blurred for a moment. I had no clue what was going on, of course. No one did, not when it started.
At first I thought a transformer might have blown somewhere nearby. That was usually the answer to any
But where?
His head jerks up at a distant sound carried on the breeze. Some kind of high pitched feedback squeal, somewhere far away. He turns his head this way and that, trying to home in on the noise. It seems to be coming from everywhere, bouncing through the streets and echoing off the walls. There's no way to tell—
No, wait. There it is. It's coming from somewhere ahead. Through the broken line of cars and down the long, straight road. Whatever it is it's coming from that direction. That's where he has to go. He can feel that fizzing sensation return.
His head spins around at another sound behind him, but he quickly sees that it's nothing to get excited about. It's just another one of them. Hungry. Angry. Excited. Can't eat it, though. The smell isn't right. Another one appears from behind a car, and then another off in the distance from around a corner, far behind. They all heard the sound, and they're all moving in the same direction. Some can move faster than him. Some aren't so broken. Some don't have to drag a useless foot behind them. It makes him angry to see them walking faster. Jealous. The other ones might get there before him, and all the food will be gone.
He sets off as quickly as he can move, dragging himself towards the distant sound. It's stopped now but he remembers the direction it came from. All he can hear now is the slow, steady click and grind of his bone against the asphalt, and the low, curious groans of the others quickly catching up to him.
He's excited now, but he doesn't know how to show it. His mouth doesn't seem to work like it used to. He wants to speak, but all he can do is groan.
No matter. He'll get to eat soon.
I can't help but think of 9/11.
I remember I'd turned eleven years old a few days earlier, and my party had marked the end of a long, glorious, lazy summer. The school year had officially begun the previous day, September 10th, but my first day back been postponed for a week thanks to some emergency with the plumbing in the cafeteria. I didn't really give a damn about the reason, I was just over the moon to get a bonus vacation week. It felt like magical extra time had been conjured up out of thin air, just like when as an adult you wake up thinking it's time for work, then feel that soft, warm little thrill when you look at the clock and realize you still have two more hours to sleep. It was fucking fantastic. One more precious week of waking up late and watching cartoons in my pajamas
Unfortunately my mother had other plans. She had to go to work, and since couldn't find a sitter on short notice I was packed off to my great uncle's deli on Fulton Street, a weird little place that stank to high heaven of pickled beets and, forever creeping from the little cubby behind the stock room, stale cigar smoke. Mom said a week of honest work would be character building, much more valuable than anything I'd learn at school, and she was right. By the start of my second day I'd already learned an important life lesson: the smell of pickled beets and old cigar smoke makes me gag.
I was sneaking in a quick nap on the toilet when Flight 11 hit the north tower, really stretching out that first crap of the day as long as I could, hoping my uncle wouldn't knock on the door and make me help out in the store. I'd been in there for twenty minutes when I heard a dull rumble and felt the room shake a little. I remember the mirror trembled on the wall, and my reflection blurred for a moment. I had no clue what was going on, of course. No one did, not when it started.
At first I thought a transformer might have blown somewhere nearby. That was usually the answer to any
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