The Flood

January 31, 2017

Civilized society -- being only a figment of our modern imagination -- was wiped out the second the flood had hit.  The whole human race was to be completely eradicated within a few days; humans had never had to deal with a sudden, worldwide catastrophic event like this one -- it was almost biblical; Tokyo, in its entirety, was underwater, and the same was true to New York and its tallest skyscrapers; The Rocky Mountains was up to its shoulders, and only a couple of mountain peaks poked through the crest of the newly expanded ocean.  It was on these mountain tops that the last people on Earth lay turned and twisted under the brutal rain with their bones broken.  They had all been violently smashed against the rocks by the monstrous waves.  Most of them had lost consciousness, but of the thirty or so out of a hundred bodies whose eyes were still moving, their cries and moans rose up in a low and resonant hum, and as the hours went by and they started to lose more and more hope, they grew quiet.  The realization was setting upon them that wailing was useless with no one to help them.  And no one was there to help.  They could be heard by no one except each other in their little corner of the world.  If one were to swim out thirty feet, even they would not be able to hear the cries.  And so they stopped crying.  Theses people were part of a special group whose deaths would be remembered by no one, they were the bookend, the absolute finish, the bedrock of the human race.  The next thirty hours of their life would be their most useless -- they would spend it here, on this small drop of land, waiting in their own blood and waste to die.






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