INTERLUDE

Hey everyone, as I have already told you, I'm busy. Here's something I wrote up as Writer's Craft project. The assignment was to create a short-story, and I just felt like sharing it with you. Think of it as an interlude.

Cigarette

By: Dmytro Lipchenko

Seven hours had passed since my appointment was due, and I am still sitting outside this worn-out sheet of metal of a door, waiting for the doctor to call me in. I have seventeen bruises, ten deep cuts, and I'm bleeding internally from at least two of my organs. Yet I'm not the sorriest of sobs waiting in line.

I always considered myself to be a faithful man, but when god throws this kind of crap at the world that he created, you can't help but doubt the guy. I've always wondered whether god was a guy or not, but now I'm sure of it.

Twenty or so years ago, I didn't think I would be sitting here, in the sorry shack of a hospital, in a puddle of my own blood, in contempt towards the man who has the power to save my life, but here I am.

A man walked out of the door, and an expression of relief seemed to define his face, but I can't really understand why he felt so relieved; with that broken arm he would be dead in a matter of hours anyways.

The man beside me started laughing in a gurgling voice, as if drowning in his own blood. Him and I were thinking of the same thing; why the hell are we here? I mean, not the cheesy question those damn philosophers keep asking themselves, trying to figure out the meaning behind life, but directed more literally; why are we in this hospital?

It's not a hospital, it's just some shop whose owner died, and was taken in by a doctor as a headquarters. But we all humor ourselves and call it a hospital.

The man with the busted right arm walked past me and into the broken up world outside the hospital. It makes no difference anymore; we all have the same fate, no matter how fit or healthy we are, we're all dead-meat, food.

I turned to the man beside me, the dying old man with a cigarette in his mouth, a bloody bandage around his head, and his right hand resting on the barrel of a shotgun. I have nothing better to do; I ask him how many he's had. My attention doesn't get drawn away from the beautiful smoke rising from his cigarette. It looks delicious.

He tries to answer me, but his lungs fail, thus so do his words. He gives off a satisfied smile as he coughs up some blood and lifts up three fingers.

Now I can't help but stare at him in astonishment. What a tough guy. To have three doses and still be himself isn't something any old man can do; most people, even the tough ones, lose their sanity after a single dose. Two doses, perhaps you still have some will and sanity to keep you human. But he's the only person I've met that's had three doses and still manages to put up a fight. What a tough guy.

The lights go out, and everyone falls to the floor out of reflex. The windows are boarded up, so we don't have to worry about anyone entering through them. But the door is no longer in its frame, and everyone points their guns and rifles at the entrance. Shadows rush past the door; it's night, but the fire outside still makes the creatures give off shadows. The rushing stopped, silence. Then a very quiet chatter. Most people have lost almost all hearing after the years of gunfire and explosions, but mine is still intact enough to hear them. I join the tips of my fingers and thumb together, and hold it up slightly to signal that I can hear the creatures talking; everyone knows the hand-sign, as well as various other tactical hand gestures set up by whatever is left of the human civilization. Everyone braced themselves.

The next moment came without warning, but as far as survivors go, even the wounded ones, reflex of the crowd was extraordinary. Every shot made by the old man beside me was out of pure instinct; the creatures move at a pace that's near impossible for a human eye to detect, but every time he pulled the trigger, another body flew at the wall and fell lifelessly to the ground. There are only a few seconds between the beginning and end of the raid, and those who survived are deemed worthy of their lives. But nobody truly wanted their life.

Humans have always stunned me; to develop from something so small and fragile like a baby into a supernatural killing machine. I guess it's not too surprising. I mean, the reason there is such a big gap between the baby and the adult, is because anybody weaker than those that are still human, are either not human anymore or dead. Still, I haven't seen a baby in years. A single human baby would restore all lost faith in humanity, but what are the chances of a pregnant woman surviving in a world gone this mad? In the end it's better that we don't have faith or a baby, then we won't have anything to lose.

I'm not sure how old I am, maybe seventeen, perhaps thirty. Even if I had a mirror I wouldn't be certain. The old man beside me is probably in his forties; very old considering the average age of death; twenty-four.

I still laugh at what people were thinking when they accepted the doses. A better world? Longer life? Ironic. Selfish.

I turn to the old man again, I'm thinking of asking him if he remembers the days when you didn't have to be a good shot in order to survive on Earth. I'm not too surprised by what I see.

The old man is slouched in his bloody chair. Eyes closed. Dead. The cigarette is sticking out of his satisfied smile. Judging by the ash build-up on his cigarette, he died just moments ago; when we were attacked. I looked over him, and didn't find any fresh wounds; he died of a heart attack. What a lucky bastard for dying a natural death. His cigarette is tempting, but I wouldn't dare touch the dead man's treat.

The doctor opens the door and points at the old man. After a moment of not receiving a reaction, his finger's point shifts from the old man to me. I don't hesitate; it's rare to find a doctor in today's world. Limping over to the man in an unclean white doctor's uniform, I have a last glance at the late and smiling old man. He did indeed feel lucky.

The doctor walks me into a room and sits me down on a chair that's less clean than those in the other room. He tells me to take off my shirt and stand up so that he can examine me; I comply accordingly.

After a series of quick examinations and automated motions, I have bandaging all over my body and some formula in a bottle that he instructs me to drink once every three hours. He tells me that I'll be recovered in two days and pushes me out the front door. I step out of his office and look at the strange vial of unclear liquid. The label reads various terms that I'm unfamiliar with, and wouldn't make much sense to me even if they were, as the bottle was reused several times and the current solution wasn't what the label read. But a few scribbles that the doctor had made on the label caused my heart to tingle with joy: forty percent alcohol.

I drink what I consider to be a couple of shots and put the rest of it in the inner pocket of my long coat. I rest my shotgun on my right shoulder and walk down the obliterated street with fading caution; alcohol works quickly on me.

Countless huge scraps of metal still lie all over the scarred and erupted asphalt; why wouldn't they? I decide to humor myself and imagine if I were the genius who figured out how to work these so-called cars. Then the people of the world would use that knowledge to their advantage and take the Earth back from the druggies. I'm too lost in my daydreaming to realize that I've walked into the wrong part of the neighborhood; the druggies part of the neighborhood. I grab on to the barrel of the shotgun with my left hand and start slowly backing away, shifting the sights from one ruined shop to another, expecting a druggie to jump out at any moment. I hear shuffling behind me and turn my head sideways to check if there's anything threatening moving behind me. I get a vague picture of three figures. I probably won't be able to get out of here, but I can take down at least one of them.

Every second takes a minute as I turn around. One of them has already lunged at me. I feel the presence coming up towards me; it's going to be the first thing I shoot.

I accidentally blink, but manage to shoot the thing head-on; not a single pellet from the shell missing its target.

A big shock wave comes from the barrel that lunged at me, and the barrel itself is torn to shards of metal from the combustion happening in the chemicals within. I get pierced throughout my body and fly a dozen meters back into the street. I'm dead.

The shotgun is lying in my severed hand few feet away from me. Smoke rising casually rising from the barrel. It looks delicious.

I wish I had one of the old man's cigarettes.