The World Tumour
Flash Fiction
‘Please. Please, just –‘ Clara’s labored breath caught in her throat. Her skin was pallid, twisting, stretching thin upon an already fragile frame. She took my hand in hers, a clammy, loose grip, and I stared deep into those frightened eyes as she whispered, ‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Hush, my love.’ I held her tight, for I did not know what was to become of us, of the world. She began to cough, a violent, wet noise, and spat more blood into her handkerchief.
We would die here, one way or another. In our small home, our first since marriage. We will pass in each other's arms, a story for future historians, if any were to survive. The politicians probably will — trapped in their luxury bunkers, locked in with all the food they could ever want, their wine, and their riches. They’ll emerge once the rest of us are gone, and congratulate themselves for conquering an issue they were happy to ignore.
I’m not even sure how it started, I just saw the warnings in the papers and carried on with my life. What other choice did I have? The bills needed paying, my wife needed feeding.
UNKNOWN FUNGUS BAFFLES SCIENTISTS. PUBLIC WARNED TO STAY AWAY.
But of course, the public couldn’t. Whether it was curiosity or sheer stupidity I’ll never know, but they couldn’t resist a poke, or a slice to take home, or a selfie to slap on the internet. And then those fools grew deathly ill.
But then the fungus wasn’t a fungus. It was something more, unidentifiable. And it spread faster than we could control, climbing up walls and seeping under doors, the fleshy tendrils pulsing red, alive. A new team was devised, colloquially called ‘The Scrapers’ — it was their job to don the hazmat suits and peel the infections from the walls, not that it did a lot of good. It would spread twice as fast overnight, and the more who fell ill, the less there were to contain it.
Clara tried to speak again, but I hushed her and held her close. She didn’t have long left, we both knew it. I didn’t want her to struggle in her final moments, I wanted her to feel that she was not alone. We were together, and for that, I will be forever grateful. ‘I love you,’ I told her, stroking her back, gently, ‘I will always love you.’
She let her eyes close, and I pretended not to notice the way her breath shook, that deathly rattle consuming her lungs, her final breath before she faded. In a way, I was glad she had been taken first. She hadn’t had to deal with the sorrow alone. She wouldn’t have to lay with a corpse.
I let my body drift, fell back against the pillows of our king-sized bed, and hoped I would follow her soon.
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