He walked from the mouth of the subway station and joined the flow of bodies heading south into the city – crushed together in close proximity and yet oblivious of one another, each locked in the private prison of their thoughts.
The road intersected with another, larger highway and the stream of movement became a river, moving with a slow inevitability towards the towering peaks of the city.
He grunted as a youth wearing white headphones stumbled into him, but he managed to keep hold of the briefcase in his hand and continued with his journey towards the familiar grey concrete buildings. The same journey he performed every day, as routine as the rise of the sun.
The familiar tower of concrete and glass drew closer on his left hand side. Gripping his briefcase, he detached himself from the crowd and joined the line of others entering the office, shuffling forward one at a time through the small entrance into an atrium of polished glass, steel and marble.
He moved with the others. Some stood expectantly in front of the mirrored elevator doors, pushing the “Call” button every few moments, while the main stream headed towards the staircase in silence.
After a few floors he arrived at his department. Several of his colleagues were already here, sitting at their desks, the low clacking of keyboards filling the air. He found his cubicle and carefully placed his briefcase on the floor before sitting down, ready for the day’s work.
He gazed at the blackened and broken computer screen with his one good eye and moved his rotting hands across the lifeless keyboard in imitation of the life that he had once known, while crows flew in through the shattered windows and feasted on the decomposing flesh of his colleagues as they sat at their desks.
As the sky outside darkened he left his desk. The flow of bodies now headed out of the ruined city - back to the tube station. His briefcase gripped in his crumbling fingers, he stood on the edge of the platform, waiting for a train that would never arrive until the following sunrise.
Then his daily commute would start again.
______________________
©2010 Graeme Reynolds
Graeme Reynolds has been called many things over the years, most of which are unprintable. By day, he breaks computer programs for a living, but when the sun goes down he hunches over a laptop and thinks of new and interesting ways to offend people with delicate sensibilities.
He lives somewhere in England with two cats, three delinquent chickens and a girlfriend that is beginning to suspect that there is something deeply wrong with him.
You can visit him at http://www.graemereynolds.com
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Tags: Graeme Reynolds
May 25th, 2010 at 11:15 pm
Graeme, my dear horror friend, this makes me want to shoot myself, in the foot, so I don’t have to think about this poor man’s bleakness on repeat.
May 26th, 2010 at 6:29 am
That’s pretty much the response I was aiming for Jodi
Of course, if you think about it, there are millions of people that trudge into an office building and stare at a computer screen without any real purpose and then have to get up and do it all again the next day.
Not much difference, apart from the whole rotting undead thing really.
May 26th, 2010 at 8:14 am
The daily rot of lives, whether living or dead, in a bleak existence. How wonderfully depressing, Graeme!
May 26th, 2010 at 11:54 pm
Cool Graeme - evocative and atmospheric. One of your best.
May 27th, 2010 at 10:31 am
You know, I think this is my favourite FlashFiction story ever. Top Marks.
June 3rd, 2010 at 6:44 pm
Loved how the undead imitate the daily grind of the living in this one–a refreshing take on the somewhat tired, overdone zombie apocalypse theme. Well done.
June 7th, 2010 at 10:41 pm
Excellent story mate!