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.
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.
Copyright © 2019 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
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