Four Short Graybles

The time traveler leaned back in the chair and thought to himself, ‘I hate jumping spiders.’ The ivory handle with the long quartz rod at the end had been inserted into the reactor moments ago. The chair, like most furniture the time traveler preferred, was tall, leather upholstered, and would have gone well with a short book and cup of tea on any normal occasion.
***
Ms. Margery Kestin was known best for a series of pastoral and sexually explicit poems she had published in her early twenties. Her notoriety had tapered out in the seventeen years since. However in her hometown of San Francisco she retained her avant-garde celebrity status.
Ms. Kestin started off today like any other. She woke up, showered, shot-up, fed the cats and began her drive to work. But as Ms. Kestin was pulling onto the turnpike she struck a pedestrian. Naturally, Margery panicked. Only once before had her name been sullied in the news. And she’d certainly not let a little hit and run ruin her track record since.
Besides, who would miss a bum hiding out beneath an overpass? Or at least it looked like a bum. Could have been a walker. In any event, it had become commonplace for citizens to protect themselves by any means these days.
Margery’s father, Dr. Simon Kestin, was an accomplished pediatrician as well as a youth orchestra conductor until a public meltdown involving an underage cellist. The backlash had been humiliating for the family and young Margery was sent to boarding school in Vermont not long after. That was nearly thirty years ago.
***
So where were we?
Oh yeah, THUD. THUD. Front wheel, rear wheel.
And that’s where I come into the story: just a lonely zombie looking for brains underneath an overpass—minding his own business. And then WHAM! Some dolled up twit hits me with her Audi.
It’s hard being a zombie. Which isn’t to say it wasn’t hard being homeless before. And I suppose I’ve been homeless since too.
Ouch.
Don’t think so much.
Where was I? Oh yeah, “brains!”
You see, I’d tell you more about myself if I could. But I can’t honestly remember. I was one of the first infected. Well before the vaccinations hit the market.
You haven’t heard about the vaccines?
Jeez pal you’re out of the loop.
Not long after the break out a biotech company named Genentech adapted a chemotherapy drug called Avastin. But the panacea came at a cost. And those who had turned already were damned with or without the small fortune Genentech charged.
Those still alive and affluent enough receive daily injections that protect against the virus. Many reacted poorly at first though. Many died. The active immunosuppressant in Zastin, the OTC name, is a little devil called Alfalfa. Sounds harmless right?
Not so. It’s actually an analog of some random Aflatoxin—hence the name.
***
The time traveler pushed down on the handle with all his strength. But the quartz rod tapered down at the end and couldn’t withstand the force. It chipped.
The time traveler looked down in despair and then up in terror. They were closing in around the chair. He was far outnumbered. He knew what they wanted and almost wretched at the thought of it. To be eaten. Consumed.
The first Morlock, in angst, ran in headlong and was ousted by a swift kick to the temple. The second and third were luckier. Their teeth sank through the tweed jacket. The others, at the sight of blood, became daring and swarmed.
The time traveler, in cold shock, could not help but look down and watch as they devoured.