They thought digging a pit around the city would keep everything out but all it did was seal everything in with them. What was once a nuisance at the best of times and a struggle at the worst was now a straight up battle for life over death for even the simplest of things.
Not even the milk and newspapers delivered every day were safe for human hands, not after the fungal-abominations-formerly-known-as-birds began to spore. Leaving the bottles and parcels alone wasn't an option either - it ran the risk of nests forming, not to mention potential infestations and spore-points right outside your home.
Utterly unthinkable.
Aside from the few who escaped into their own hidden doomsday bunkers to never be seen again, most folk either died before they turned or became so inhuman that their names were added to the list of casualties as soon as the symptoms began.
Some tried to make the most out of it, creating bingo cards for the all the signs and neurosis that accompanied the changes, forming clubs based on what people thought they would become when they finally finished turning and even working to make isolated habitats for themselves and their infected loved ones so they could remain together right until the end.
Of course the latter requires them to try to forget how easily confined creatures turn to cannibalism but it helped them sleep the few nights before they lost themselves entirely. In the end that's all they wanted, that one last moment of peace before their minds were rewritten by the infection and they became just as distorted as everyone else beyond the city limits.
Not even the milk and newspapers delivered every day were safe for human hands, not after the fungal-abominations-formerly-known-as-birds began to spore. Leaving the bottles and parcels alone wasn't an option either - it ran the risk of nests forming, not to mention potential infestations and spore-points right outside your home.
Utterly unthinkable.
Aside from the few who escaped into their own hidden doomsday bunkers to never be seen again, most folk either died before they turned or became so inhuman that their names were added to the list of casualties as soon as the symptoms began.
Some tried to make the most out of it, creating bingo cards for the all the signs and neurosis that accompanied the changes, forming clubs based on what people thought they would become when they finally finished turning and even working to make isolated habitats for themselves and their infected loved ones so they could remain together right until the end.
Of course the latter requires them to try to forget how easily confined creatures turn to cannibalism but it helped them sleep the few nights before they lost themselves entirely. In the end that's all they wanted, that one last moment of peace before their minds were rewritten by the infection and they became just as distorted as everyone else beyond the city limits.
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