The Replicator

“A tomb of a city, a cave for a home. It’s the sickening laughter of humanity that echoes out into the stratosphere. London is dead, forever live the new order, the new world…”

Schloyts at this point drinks from a brown bottle. He gags but keeps it all down inside, making sure that this time it’s for good.

Pandemonium…

This madness is infectious, the dammed walking bare foot through the city streets, London crumpling under them. Pedestrians falling into the gutter in laughing fits, looking directly into the sun as it tips its hat, no one is safe anymore.

Lunacy can get a hold of your collar and kick you in the groin, even if your one of the few left who is not infected. I’m surrounded by people without there own thoughts, without reason, only a chemical imbalance in the brain. How can the voice of sanity be heard over the screaming of the insane? I knew at some point they would look on me as if I was the crazy one for tying to save their helpless souls.

Two days ago I woke up at 7am to find my wife clawing at her face as she tried to empty the blisters filled with sand that appeared overnight. She had taken large chunks of flesh from her cheeks and forehead, I dressed the wounds and taped mitts to her hands.

I’m woken up at 3am last night, the shards of glass left in the window frame are dripping blood. On the pavement below is my wife, there are people in the street but they are in there own worlds, some running from hell daemons others following childhood treasure trails. I don’t even bother going down to see if she may have survived, I just pull the cupboard up against the window to dampen the wild sounds of the night outside.

They will not take care of me, they will not build me a road to the other side. No one in this world is the same anymore, I’m not.