Title: The Cleansing
Author: late edition
Rating: R or M
Summary: Mankind has nearly been wiped off the earth. Eight survivors remain, Spencer and Ashley among them. Ashley is sick and most certainly going to die, but Spencer is determined to beat the odds and save her. The clock is ticking and time's running out.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I started this story after watching I Am Legend and feeling inspired. My girlfriend, Julie came to visit me and we found this story buried deep in the files of my computer. With her help, this prologue was edited and reworked to start a story I will hopefully actually finish. Goodness knows, that girl has gotten me to do harder things before. This one will actually be beta'd by the GF, so it should be a painless read for you grammar geeks out there. Except the A/N because I'm a nice GF and I don't make her edit those! :) This is a bit different from my usual style, so please don't be alarmed. Although I'm sure the occasional wisecrack should find its way into the dialogue. Feedback is appreciated and constructive criticism is my crack
Without further ado, onto the story!
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PROLOGUE ; PROMISES, PROMISES
There's a virus inside all of us.
I've seen it–I've seen it in my family, in my friends and in her.
It's a virus that lives, that breathes, that devours the human body, until there's nothing left but bone, tissue, and red, red blood. Until there's nothing but a cold, lifeless shell–an empty casing reverberating emptiness and solitude.
For what good is a body without a soul?
The virus has yet to take me, but it will eventually — any day now. My life is lived through a measure of how many days I can survive before . . . before the end.
I can feel it coming; it's at the edge of my vision like a constant, hulking shadow.
It's waiting.
We're all waiting now, though. Not just the virus, but all of us — we're just waiting. The eight survivors – the last people – those who have defied death and plan on slipping him a rather apologetic tardy note later like students making amends for playing hooky.
Who would have thought any of us would survive? Better yet, who could have imagined we would have lasted this long? Eleven long years have gone by and here we are, the chosen ones–the lucky ones. Who decides we're lucky? I don't even know. I don't think any of us can be considered lucky, we're anything but that–each day we wake up in total terror, unsure if this day is our last. Each night we go to bed, afraid that we won't wake up in the morning.
I can tell you that this is no way to live.
At least the dead can claim they are finally at peace. In this world, for the living, there is no peace.
Eleven years later and we still remain like bedraggled, befuddled ships in the prevaricating eye of a wild hurricane.
Who could have thought such a thing? Certainly not the refugees themselves – they ambled along the vast, empty world like dreamers within a nightmare, protected by a hidden, unseen force. Their eyes are landscapes of wide openness, as if in a state of invariant surprise – the nonchalance directed toward life was no longer available – no longer offered. It's hard for them–for us–to believe that they're still here–that we're still here.
We, once known as ignorant, selfish beings, have finally begun to understand what a precious thing the ability to live is. We as human beings know that being able to breathe and to be of a conscious state of mind are the ultimate abilities–the ultimate gifts. We know this because we have been lying in purgatory for so long–trapped in a state of nothingness, of complete and utter absence from the world around us. Flowers still bloom, trees still sway in the autumn breeze, and animals still hold court in meadows and forests everywhere. Only us, the humans, the undeserving, were affected in the great purge of mankind.
And yet – we, the survivors, are all still just waiting — just waiting to die. We know the gift of our lives, but we no longer want them.
We're so tired but we cannot rest, not truly. Our guilt weights upon our lids, prying them open and forcing them to stare out at the world we no longer want to inhabit. Not without the others . . . Oh, those poor innocent people–long dead, long gone, but so many of us miss them so. Sometimes, some nights, it feels like they're still here. Parents, lovers, friends–we miss them all, we see them like flickering candlelight through a sheer veil. So close and yet untouchable, unreachable.
We're sick but we cannot heal. All doctors are dead. They, strangely, were the first to go ... My mother among them. Oh, Mom . . .
We're cold but we cannot warm. The sun has burnt out, and yet there is light. Ever present, awful artificial light.
We live in the land of the unsatisfied when we should count ourselves lucky ... lucky to even breathe the air.
Most of us have already succumbed to bittersweet fate but the unlucky ones . . . well, they still trudge on — waiting, waiting for something that we loathe and love in turmoil.
She's still here, barely. I can see the virus in her eyes – sweet honey becomes black, black becomes purple, and purple becomes blood red– a symbol of the life that has been taken, morphed, and turned into it's enemy: Death.
Death hangs on every word; death breathes in every mouth; death is the enemy, the comrade, and the trusted.
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Death is everywhere. I can feel it – see it – taste it. It's a friend and it's a foe.
The computer that I chronicle upon blinks, before it begins to fizzle away – dying slowly, like her, right before my naked eyes. It groans and I know it's pain! Oh, how I know! Every time I look at her! I can sense pain, and anguish, and a throbbing so deep it pounds and grinds my own limbs until they ache and creak like those of a woman thrice my age.
She's sleeping so soundly, with her crimson irises bold in the constant light – I wish she would close them, just for a short while, but I know it pains her. She wants to hide them so badly, for they're an ugly and mocking annotation to changing of her innocent beauty, but even the slightest wink sends her perfect, angelic face into a fit of agony.
I walk over to the bed, my slippered feet padding lightly on the hardwood floors. I want to say her name, but I think she does not know it anymore. She knows only the pain, and only the agony.
She is to lost me. I am lost to her. We are on separate islands, divided by an unseen and cowardly force.
The virus.
Oh, yes, I've almost forgotten the virus. It's so familiar now that one can almost just — just ignore it. It's a part of the scenery, like the hard, sepia-tinted ground or the more present smog. It's a concrete wall erected so long ago that we have forgotten it's true purpose.
I reach out, touch her, and feel the life ebbing slowly out of her. It isn't fair. I wasn't supposed to lose her, not so soon and never to such a cowardly parasite.
I close my eyes and swallow a painful sob. To cry now would to be accept defeat, and I cannot do that. Not when I'm so close . . .
So close to what?
A cure.
I have to find the cure. I have to be the one that saves us all. There has to be a reason I remain unaffected. I don't believe in pure coincidence; I don't believe in random acts of fate. I believe in purpose and in order and in God. I may not be the ideal Christian but I know that this isn't a godless world–there has to be a reason some of us are still left.
We must have a purpose. We must have something left to do. Why else would we be here? I cannot believe that we are left here simply to mourn and to wait.
I know my purpose, my something. My 'something' is to save this wheezing girl, to bring her back to me and hold her once again. I release her wrist and it falls limply to her side.
"I'll save you," I whisper, "I'll save you and bring you back to me."
I listen, hoping for some sort of sign she'd heard me. I hold my breath, my entire body stilling at my command. There! A twitch at her lips, a muffled groan–she heard me! She must have!
I lean down, kissing the corner that had moved and said, "I promise."
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Author's Note: That's it! Let me know what you think! Feedback (I repeat) is appreciated, even if it's: I luv story. Write more. PMS!!eleven!!one!
Sincerely,
late edition.