Flash Fiction: Blooms

The sky’s a calm, gloomy grey as Dad keeps our heads of saffron blooms at gunpoint.

The horde outside the gate collectively moans.

“Dad,” I beg, “We’re not like the weedheads! They don’t have flowers! We haven’t gone crazy!”

I sob as he shoves us out, cocking the gun. “Get out! Flowers or not, you’re infected! You’ll turn! Just like your mother did!”

“They’ll kill us!” I cry as he slams the gate.

My boyfriend holds me. I hold him. The horde swarms.

We’re ignored.

They rush the gate before Dad can finish latching it. I open my eyes as he fires futile shots, then succumbs to a wave of grasping hands.