The Last Floridian

It began with the fish.  The ones contaminated by the oil spill.  God knows what was already floating in that water, then the oil added to the mix.  The fish were still being caught and served as food.  The Food and Drug Administration, the FDA or what my grandpa calls the Federal Dumb Asses, said the fish was safe to eat.  We know better now.  They weren’t safe then and they definitely weren’t safe after the EPA started cleaning up.  Those “bad-air days” when they were spraying stuff into the water to control the oil, only added to the pollution going into the fish.  We should have known.  I mean, come on, on bad-air days, they made us all stay inside.  Why? Cause whatever was in that experimental mix they were spraying was no good for humans—and the damn fish.

I grew up here in Florida.  This is where I am from.  Do you know how many people have moved down here from somewhere else?  Not me.  Me and my family have been here for generations.  We used to own a farm near Ocala, until the stuff started happening.  Grandpa used to say that it started where everything starts, at the docks.  Malone was hauling in some shrimp and a few porgies in the mix bit him.  Heard tell there was so much blood, they thought he was bleeding out.  They rushed him to the hospital, patched him up and sent him home.  No big deal.  He seemed fine.  Still going out on the water, still being a jackass to everyone.  Still getting bit by porgies, but this time, he bit back.  It became something of a joke.  Bite Malone and he will bite you back.  He started to look a bit pale and infected but for the most part, he was fine.  Then he got into a fight with Charlie Moore.  Over money, over alcohol, over a woman, no one really remembers; but the fight ended when Malone took a chunk out of the other guy and seemed to relish the flavor.  He even went in for seconds and took another bite.

After that all hell seemed to break loose.  Charlie lost some blood but he healed.  Rather quickly.  Then Charlie and Malone seemed to be best friends; they hung out together, went hunting and fishing and seemed to like starting fights with the locals.  Grandpa thought they were starting one of those fight clubs, where everyone beat everyone else up because as soon as the fights ended, the guys who were hurt seemed to join the others and the group grew.  It was almost a home grown domestic terrorist group.  They spent countless hours finding ways to hurt others.  It was terrible.  The sheriff couldn’t control it; the group had no conscience.  Everyday people were starting to enjoy hurting others.  Fishermen with families, farmers, locals you grew up with would as soon try to kill you than say hello.  They were out of control.  Then during the homecoming football game, something happened that changed everything.  A player was sacked and badly hurt.  He was bleeding everywhere.  Suddenly, there was an uproar from the crowd and Malone, Charlie and the others stormed the field.  We thought, at first, that they were going to attack the opposing team for hurting one of our own.  But they stopped at our player and without warning started, well, eating him.

We looked on in horror, as they consumed the boy in less than ten minutes.  Everyone was frozen.  Some people got sick and started throwing up near the edge of the field.  The school’s Resource Officer shot one of the cannibals and we watched in disbelief as the bullet tore through his sickly flesh.  He looked down at the wound and went back to eating.  A few people broke out of their trance and tried to help but were attacked and consumed as well.  The officer kept shooting and one of the men took a bullet to the head, the leg and the chest but kept moving until he reached the officer.  I close my eyes even now and I can still hear the squishy sound of flesh tearing and the crunch of bone breaking.  Grandpa had grabbed my hand and dragged me away from the field.  We went home, locked the doors, turned out lights and hid in the basement.  We didn’t want to risk being out in the open.  We could hear the wail of the police sirens, then the screams and the gunfire followed by more screams.  I covered my ears and closed my eyes, not wanting to hear any more.

That was two months ago.  Now I am the only one left.  Grandpa left to get supplies a few days ago and he hasn’t returned.  We’ve taken turns leaving the basement to get water and food.  This time it was Grandpa’s turn and he is still not back.  I can hear them outside now.  They got in the house last night and I heard them tearing into our clothes and things.  I knew Grandpa was out there and I was afraid, but I could not cry.  If I did, they would hear me and then I would become one of them, the undead.  I have barricaded the door and the window to the basement, but I have left enough room to squeeze out if I have to.  I know they will find me.  This message is a warning.  Grandpa says if they are starved, they die.  We saw this.  One was trapped outside the window and we watched as it tried to get to us.  It stayed there for weeks while the others walked by and did not help it.  It eventually started to decompose and it died.  We think they need blood.  They have an insatiable thirst for it and I know I will be hunted in a few days.  I have just started my period.

~ by Adrianna Morgan on May 27, 2011.

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