Scourge
By Matt Serey


Another light burns out.

It’s getting hard to see, and I need to move across the room to grab my duct tape and a can of food. Can I even make it to the other side without slicing my foot apart on glass? I don’t have anything to wrap a wound up, and I sure don’t have anything to clean it with. I drank all the alcohol ages ago.

Stale. This whole place is stale.

I leaned forward, and peeled back an inch of the tape covering the window. The golden sunrays instantly seared my retinas, and for a moment, I thought I was seeing the light. Goodbye world.

I was not so lucky.

Those little assholes were crawling all over my dying tree in the front yard. The house across the street seemed to be convulsing, with all of them squirming and crawling. They’re everywhere.

I flattened the tape against the wall, and leaned back again.

I’m going to have to leave to get food sometime.

I can’t think about that, not now. I’ll deal with it when the time comes.

I let my eyes adjust to the dim room again.

More and more trash came into focus.

More and more stains.

More and more filth.

So many questions, was I the last person alive? No, I can’t be. I’m sure help is somewhere.

Did my parents make it? Dad made it through Vietnam.

I wonder if my wife will haunt me from beyond the grave? She’d do the same if I tried to break in. I’m sure she understands.

I’m sorry Sarah.

I keep nodding off, thinking I’m dying, and then snap awake.

This repeats for days.

All of the food is out of reach. My stomach is eating itself. The rumbling stopped, I think my insides engulfed them.

Quickly. I have to get over there quickly. Then just snatch up the can, tape, and then back to home base.

I lunged forward. Like a steak knife to beef jerky, the glass wrestled its way into my foot. I stumbled, bounced off of the couch, and crash-landed on the tile floor, right by the can and tape.

Perfect.

Or not.

What’s that?

My eye caught something by the window. Did I not seal it up all the way? How could I?

The tiny black beetle came barreling through the tape, and was now scampering down the wall. The little black body slipped on the stain my drool made, and it plopped on the floor. Beady yellow eyes shot up from the tiny black body, and eyed me.

It came scampering across the carpet.

I lost it in the darkness. Everything is a black endless pit on the way to the kitchen. Grasping the can, I reeled back.

Then, the little bastard stepped on the white tile, and I launched it. The can smashed into the puny body. The crunching was a gunshot that rang out through the house, and the can rolled away. Red and yellow guts smeared across the tile, as a lone leg twitched feverishly. I couldn’t stare long.

By the window, another one came seeping in.

I sprang forward, grabbing the can again. I tried to find the beetle, as it disappeared onto the dark carpet within seconds.

The window.

More came pouring in.

I shouldn’t have left the window; I shouldn’t have opened it. That was stupid. So stupid.

There was a flood in my house.

Hundreds of them.

Thousands.

No.


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I'm currently studying Film at Columbia with a Fiction Writing minor. When I'm not doing school work, I'll usually be off writing or filming. When I'm not writing or filming, I'll usually be off drawing pictures, getting sunburnt, or listening to rock and roll.