Week 6 entry...
The dead stood in the fields, their gray eyes turned towards the cottage at the forest edge.
Inside, a man eased himself up from his rocking chair, taking his cane from its hook on the nearby wall. He realized he hadn't eaten in quite some time, but it scarcely mattered. It was so easy, now, to forget to eat, to drink, to sleep.
The kitchen shelves held a few simple items: rice, oats, dried beans, a few spices. Battered pots and pans sat on the stove, used only to boil water or heat the simple stews the man made. His weekly delivery of fresh fruits had dwindled, here towards the end of the week, to just a single pomegranate. It sat in the wooden tray at the edge of the table, silent and patient as the dead outside as the man remembered.
He had been eating a pomegranate on that day so long ago, the day his creation was tested for the first time on a living human. The airborne viral agent, which would lie dormant within the body once inhaled, could be triggered at a specific time days or weeks after infection. Once activated, the agent would render a subject paralyzed almost instantaneously. A new age in modern warfare, where wars could be waged without death, where victory could be gained without needless suffering and pain. His superiors informed him the final modifications to his viral strain were minor, nothing more than a few adjustments to make the resulting paralysis less lengthy, the recovery period less painful. These were the things he'd been told as he worked deep in the mountain's underground laboratories.
It had all been lies.
The freshly-cut pomegranate half was in his hand as the viral agent was triggered for the test subject in the cubicle. The man knew something was wrong immediately, the caged woman beginning to writhe and scream before him. This should not be happening, the man thought. Paralysis should already be taking over, she should be immobilized. He watched, struck dumb with shock, as she fell, blood pouring from her ears, her eyes, her nose. The forgotten half of the fruit dropped from his hand, its red arils pouring over the floor much like the blood in the cubicle. As the last beads of red seed rolled to a stop, the woman's body ceased twitching, her eyes locked on his in recognition. You, her eyes said. This was you.
They'd come for him moments later, not even bothering to claim anything had gone wrong; he knew the result had been everything they'd wanted. I've killed someone was the only thought his dazed brain could process as he was transferred to a car, then to a helicopter that brought him to the cottage at the forest edge. He'd barely heard the voice telling him he would be kept here until needed again, warning him not to try to escape, detailing the many security measures to prevent unauthorized exit or entry to the property.
Security measures, unsurprisingly, meant nothing to the dead. The caged woman had arrived a few days later, standing where the gravel yard turned to field, watching as he moved about the cottage. The man knew it was only a matter of time before the agent was released against an entire population. How many more will come, he had wondered as he looked back at the woman.
Standing in the tiny cottage kitchen now, the forgotten pomegranate still sitting before him, the man looked out at the answer. Over the years, people of all races, all nationalities, adults and children alike had come, thousands upon thousands of them, until the fields that stretched for miles were filled with their silent forms. They never left, they never tired. They simply stood, watching, making sure he never forgot why they were there.
You. This was you.
This is my entry for the sixth week of Season 8 of therealljidol. The prompt this week was 'food memory.' As always, thanks for reading.
Oh, and if you don't know what pomegranates are, you can learn about them here.