A dream, a death

Quiet. Then in the rubble something moves. A finger touches a trigger, then lightly moves away to rest alongside the trigger guard.

Frank complains to his wife Betty about the high price of their mortgage payment. "We should have never gotten that adjustable-rate mortgage." "Yes dear."

Boot-clad feet slowly feel their way through the street. Eyes look around, looking for the glimpse, the flicker of movement, that means death is near.

"Bobby! Bring in your bicycle!" "Okay, Mom." "Right now, young man!" "I said okay! Jeez!"

A detached arm lies in the street, a bloated bloated reddish color. Raw meat spills out of the end once attached to a shoulder like sausage out of a sausage skin. Flies buzz around it and maggots wriggle. The smell of rotted meat, like hamburger meat left to rot for days in a trash can, fills the air.

Betty places the platter with steamed broccoli onto the table. "Not broccoli again!"

A movement. Without a word, multiple rifles open up on its source. Boots scramble to the side as the men disperse and give covering fire to the two men who charge directly at the place the movement happened.

"Man, I don't know what's happening at the office," Frank says. "They're not giving raises to, like, anybody. I hope the last round of funding didn't fall through."

A toe pushes a small face. "Another kid," says the man. He swings his rifle back up, eyes searching for movement, and moves away with his squad. Behind him, the flies are already finding their next meal on the exposed intestines of a young girl, perhaps five years old, whose torn body in a small pink dress lies half-buried by rubble.

"What's on the television tonight, hon?" "A new episode of Survivor!" "Great! Let's see who gets kicked off the island today."

And the flies buzz.

-- Badtux the Fiction Penguin