People Are The Real Monsters

As the sun sank below the horizon, and the long shadows stretched, two men leaned on a weathered wooden fence, gazing at the distant silhouette of an abandoned city.

“That’s what they took from us.” Finch slumped, weary from another day’s work in the fields. “Damn virus. God Damn zombies.”

“Yeah,” sighed Ike. “You know what I miss?”

Finch glanced over. “What’s that?”

“Strips clubs.”

Finch snorted, then, pondering this a bit, nodded in somber silence.

“Course if you think about it,” Ike continued. “We’re the real monsters.”

“Yeah…” Finch nodded along then cocked his head. “Come again?”

“People.”

“People who go to strip clubs are the real monsters?” Finch scratched his chin. “I mean sure, if you don’t tip…”

“No, fool. People-people. Everybody.” Ike twirled his hand. “People are the real monsters.”

“Oh.” Finch blinked. “Well, now see, that’s a funny thing to say too, on account I always reckoned that the rotting, shambling cannibals who readily devour innocent children are the real monsters.”

“That’s not-”

“They even ate my grandma.” Finch thumped his chest and raised his fist. “R.I.P. Meemaw.”

“Look, everybody knows somebody who got ate, alright?” Ike waved him off. “Fact is, that was a mercy.”

“A mercy?!” Finch stammered.

“At least she didn’t have to live through all this.” Ike gestured broadly.

“Live through what?” Finch scoffed in a mix of disbelief and agitation. “That was my Meemaw!”

Ike shrugged.

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” He was asking an earnest question, but what he really wanted to do was pop this Meemaw-disrespecter in the mouth.

“For now.” Ike lowered his voice. “But sooner or later, supplies will get low. This is a survival scenario. People turn on each other. Lord of the Flies.”

“Supplies?” Finch repeated, incredulous. “We’ve been farming corn, potatoes, and more for half a decade. We’re practically self-sufficient.”

“That just makes us a target,” Ike continued, undeterred. “And practically isn’t totally.”

“A target?” Finch balked. “We trade what we need with the local colonies. Hell, the Intercolonial Fall Harvest Dance is coming up next week!”

“A perfect opportunity for marauders to launch a raid.”

“Marauders?” Finch’s voice rose. “What marauder?!”

“A roving band of post-apocalyptic plunderers,” Ike intoned. “Like a deranged cult. Or a sadistic motorcycle gang.'

“What cult? What gang?” Finch yelped. “Reverend Thompson travels from colony to colony spreading the Good Word, and the Road Wolves provide security detail. They helped us deliver a shipment upstate just last week!”

“But can we really trust them?” Ike whispered “Or their leader?”

“Big Martha,” Finch dead-panned.

Ike nodded.

“You’re concerned about Big Martha.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“She has a crush on you!” Finch spluttered.

“I already told you, this is a survival scenario.” Ike averted his eyes. “Love is a liability.”

“She asked you to the dance and you said Yes!” Finch shrieked, utterly confounded. “You rode bitch seat on her hog yesterday!”

“A moment of weakness.” Ike gazed out at the city, his eyes burning with a grave intensity. “At any moment, for any reason, when we are at our most vulnerable, anyone can betray anyone. Maybe even you. Maybe even me.”

Finch stared at the man beside him, baffled.

“You’ll see. One day, you’ll be staring like that down the barrel of a gun. Or maybe they’ll throw us off one of those buildings.” Ike pointed to the city. “People are the real monsters,” he repeated with unwavering resolve.

“You’re crazy!” Finch smacked the post and stomped off back to the colony. “Maybe we should throw you off a building!” He shouted back.

Ike closed his eyes and nodded. “I knew this day would come.” Ω