He was sick of the damn sirens. Not to trivialize the end of the world, but It was always something, wasn’t it. The entire human race had been on red alert for the past five years — was all the obnoxious screaming really necessary?
Surely, the fear served as a constant reminder. Like a droning, biological alarm-system, triggered by the trip wire of collective paranoia. He strapped on his boots, gritting his teeth against the noise pollution.
There was a flutter of activity around him. Most of the refugees were retreating into the “flight” response. They scurried, in a not so orderly fashion, down to the bomb shelter. Clyde shook his head. Look at these fucking idiots. We’re already dead. This isn’t life; we’re decomposing as a species, he thought to himself.
Despite his cynicism, he was still arming himself with various weapons. His kind of idealism was communicated through a series of explosions, bullets, and on rare occasions… the noxious, sanctimonious breath of a temperamental flame-thrower; but only when he was feeling particularly expressive…
Let the scholars, if there were any still alive, dig through the context. Let the philosophers, if there were any still sane, ponder the meaning. Let the artists, if there were any still dreaming, interpret the feeling. Let the scribes sort the mess, of details. Clyde was simply a man of action.
Maybe at some point, someone would explain what they were fighting for… but the opportunity for discussion had passed. These were the End Times. There wasn’t going to be anyone left to benefit, or judge.
Well, maybe a handful of shell-shocked survivors. It was questionable though, whether or not, they would be able to survive on their own… when Great (Wo)Men were being used up like fodder — while everyone else cowered in the basement, screaming “Save us! Save Us!”
They wailed just like those stupid sirens.
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- pimpmysilence said: couldn’t help thinking Mad Max… ;-)
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- bluebell-the-rabbit said: I love it when you do little character pieces like these :)
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