Primal Instinct

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Survival is a primal instinct.

Submitted: August 26, 2017

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Submitted: August 26, 2017

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Primal Instinct.

You are infected. You know that, cannot deny it. You know that there is no treatment, no cure.

All you have got to look forward to is a quick death. But one that is so painful, so wretched, each minute is going to feel like an hour, a day.

You know you are infected and they know it too. They’ve seen you, and they are giving chase. Theirs is a mercy mission really; their aim is to stop the infection spreading, to provide a quick end to the suffering.

But you are not going to see it like that. Not now. All of your ability to think rationally is a thing of the past.

You are going to run, to hide. It’s a primal instinct, the one to fight to survive.

A head start, you’ll use it to your advantage if you can. Enter that building and look for a room that is open, that you can hide inside.

You take the stairs, two at a time, but already the sickness is spreading through your veins and slowing you down. Dizziness attacks....and pain. So much pain!

You hear them on the stairs now, can’t afford to slow. You just...have...to...keep....moving.

Arriving on the first floor all the doors are shut. You don’t have time to run along and push each one just to check. Those booted feet are not far behind.

Upwards, that’s the only way. You force yourself to hit the stairs, to fight on and continue climbing.

Second floor and an open door! You fling yourself inside, shutting it behind you as fast as you can. Look for things to push against it, to barricade yourself inside and keep them out.

The pain is increasing. Your sight is going from black to red; clearing for a second and then starting the cycle again.

The vomit forces it’s way up your throat and out of your mouth. You cannot fail to see the blood, there is so much of it.

But still you hide, try to hang on. Stay silent and listen for the approaching footsteps.

And here they come!

They’re not trying to be quiet. They bang on the doors, kick against them. But then they reach the door that you are behind. They know that it is where you are hiding.

How?

Open up!” one shouts. “We know you’re in there!”

But you simply cannot move. Instead, you hide, shaking and shivering. Partly from fear but mostly from the fever that is now raging and taking over your body.

A boot hits the door just beneath the lock, and the door swings in. Two soldiers enter, their rifles leading the way.

Come out! Show yourself. We’ll make sure it’s quick.”

Your breathing is getting raspy now, loud and ragged. They won’t need to see you, they’ll hear you. Again your mouth is full of blood, again it spatters the floor.

You somehow manage to find your feet, to bring yourself upright, to face your death.

Both soldiers, both rifles, are facing straight towards you.

Why do you want to fling yourself at them. You have a ‘need’ that is growing, one that shouts out to you to spread the infection first.

You fight against it, that primal need for survival. You stand tall and nod your head. Do you see the flash before the bullet hits. You are not alive to say.



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