Margaret was the very model of a model neighbourhood mother, the perfect suburbanite and the last uninfected human in the entire north American continent. While she cooked, cleaned and maintained a picturesque household, hoards of the shambling never-dead peered through the stark white lace curtains in scorn.
They had already succumbed to, accepted and adapted to the world-ending apocalypse that left society little more than a shivering wreck of humans surrounded by the slowly decaying bodies of former loved ones. Some would argue that they were still loved ones only different - better in some ways and a lot cheaper to take care of. No more grocery shopping, trips to the doctors or dentists and no ailment that a little formaldehyde can't cure.
Margaret had no plans to become infected, no matter how the other mothers in the cul-de-sac tutted at her healthy and unblemished skin. Her family had already succumb to it and moved on from her into an infected-only suburb, sending her a rather curt letter which simply stated that if she wanted to be a part of this family then she'd better move with the times and move on from "living". Yes, living was in quotation marks, thanks to the new moral conundrum in defining where life ended. Quite the headache.
Still she carried on attending school meetings, book clubs, wine clubs and all manner of her usual social gatherings albeit at a marginally increased distance from her neighbours. Through their rigor-mortis clenched mouths and broken bodies that betrayed the violent nature of their rebirth they criticised Margaret and her stubborn desire to live.
Behind her back they placed bets on her eventual death day, after all, even mountains become sand.
They had already succumbed to, accepted and adapted to the world-ending apocalypse that left society little more than a shivering wreck of humans surrounded by the slowly decaying bodies of former loved ones. Some would argue that they were still loved ones only different - better in some ways and a lot cheaper to take care of. No more grocery shopping, trips to the doctors or dentists and no ailment that a little formaldehyde can't cure.
Margaret had no plans to become infected, no matter how the other mothers in the cul-de-sac tutted at her healthy and unblemished skin. Her family had already succumb to it and moved on from her into an infected-only suburb, sending her a rather curt letter which simply stated that if she wanted to be a part of this family then she'd better move with the times and move on from "living". Yes, living was in quotation marks, thanks to the new moral conundrum in defining where life ended. Quite the headache.
Still she carried on attending school meetings, book clubs, wine clubs and all manner of her usual social gatherings albeit at a marginally increased distance from her neighbours. Through their rigor-mortis clenched mouths and broken bodies that betrayed the violent nature of their rebirth they criticised Margaret and her stubborn desire to live.
Behind her back they placed bets on her eventual death day, after all, even mountains become sand.
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