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One More Month

When the rich leave us to our death

By Brian PomphreyPublished 4 years ago 5 min read
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It was a beautiful morning. As beautiful as it could be in the year 2032. It is a time where everything the sun touches, it burns. Sam woke up four minutes before his alarm. He hoists himself to the side of the bed, where his feet aligned perfectly with his slippers. He pulled his curtains open to greet his dying lawn. Sam sat down to digitally read the paper. A front page headline reads “Only 1 month to go!!”.

“Ah nothing new I see.” He chuckled to himself. He takes another sip and smirks.

Sam pressed his feet through a large baggy red jumpsuit. Extra fabric coated along the sides of the legs reach up to the arms. This one was for fashion. Sam had so many before this, it became boring to have the regular plain blue ones. He tucked the bottom of his pant legs into his old boots, where they snapped tight holding them in place. Still less comfortable than laces, he thought. He slips on his thick leather gloves, and locks his new smaller dome helmet which was the appeal of the suit. No longer will he feel like a fish. It even has better oxygen levels, and will hold up for eight hours longer than the standard two.

Closing the door behind him, he drops his keys. The bulky material on the gloves are too big for anyone's hand. He picks them up unaware of the little strain in material on the back of his suit. Making his way to the sidewalk he spots his neighbors. Jack is walking his sickly looking dog.

“Hey Jack!” Spouted Sam. “He Cliff!’ He leaned down reaching his hand out to the ailing animal. Cliff the greyhound ducked his already sulking head, and vomited blue liquid. Sam pulled back awkwardly.

“Sorry Sam, Cliff’s on his way out.”

“No it's...it’s cool.”

Making his way down the block chipper and whistling. Though the trapped air fogs up his new helmet. He stops reluctantly. Taking him by surprise are the constant waves and hello’s he has been receiving as he makes his stroll. Each and everyone wearing their own style jumpsuits and helmets. No one on the block has the old fish bowls anymore.

A mile later, Sam walks up to his friend Manny’s convenience store.

“Hey Manny!” He yells walking into the store. It smelled like wet dog.

“What?” A grungy voice calls back from some unknown origin in the small but almost empty shelter.

“Manny it’s Sam!”

“Sam!? You fuck!”

“Woh! Whats up man?”

Manny came limping out from behind a large pallet stacked high with fruit juice. He used to have chubby grateful eyes, now its never ending sorrow. His breathing fogs up his helmet every few seconds. His suit had to be made specifically for his size.

“I’m sorry Sam. I’m just not ready for the end man, ya know?”

“I get it Manny.” Sam understood. It was over thirty years ago, the wealthy and powerful left the planet for Mars, because of a terrible airborne virus that hit the whole globe. It wasn’t long after that, they took the “essential” workers with them. Sam was a writer.

“I used to be so happy Sammy.” Manny’s eyes filled up. The end of times can make any man emotional.

“I worked my ass off for fifty three years, just to be told we are not good enough.” His voice cracked.

“Hey you are good enough. Your one of the best guys I know.” Sam said reassuringly.

“Not good enough to be on Mars! The people I gave most of my life to, told me I am not worth saving.”

It broke Sam’s heart a little to see a big man like Manny cry. He was right though. He used to sell cars, and then opened up his own store. The big corporations however sold what he had in bulk, and for better prices, migrated across deep space for the “good” of our race’s survival. The more Manny cried, the more Sam wanted to leave. He was never good at comforting people.

“It’s over soon huh?” Manny asked, his demeanor returning.

“Yeah.” Sam responded coldly. Not sure how else to put it.

“Anything you want, take it for free my friend.”

Sam placed an old wrinkled up fifty dollar bill in his chubby fist.

“Take it Manny. No matter how worthless all of this is, you are worth it man.”

Heading back, Sam passed a calm man, quietly standing over his two dead dogs. Both of them died just seconds ago. Right past him, a young man struggles with a large brown box he is carrying out of his home. Sam ran to help him. The strain he put into lifting the box seems to stretch the fabric on the back of his suit more.

The keys fall again. Bending down tears the fabric. He never notices. Within a few minutes walking in, Sam’s vision shakes like an earthquake. Seconds later, he realizes his breathing has stopped. Like a fish out of water, knocking picture frames off the walls, he slams the floor hard like a brick shattering his new helmet leaving glass in his face. Blood runs out his eyes like hot water burning. His body becomes paralyzed. Unfortunately, his screams are reduced to a loud gurgling. The phone rings. An old classic phone with an answering machine, because Sam was always the nostalgic type. The machine beeps.

“Hey Sammy.” The calm sound of Manny. “I was having a shit day. Thank you again.”

Sam’s limbs start crunching as they are forced inside his body.

“You really are one of the good one’s man.” The message continues. “Later my friend.”

The machine BEEPS while Sam’s eyes are violently torn out of his sockets. Small fractures of ribs and chunks of organs spew out of his mouth. Sam chokes out one last loud awful gurgling scream. His head hits the floor.

THE

END

psychological
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About the Creator

Brian Pomphrey

Lover of all things horror, action, scifi, and comedy.

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