Hand-Outs

Dirty. Stinking. Hobbling.

The creatures, as I've come to think of them, drag their semi-lifeless and drooping forms down sidewalks and across streets. They seem to have no care for common courtesy, much less legal pedestrian behavior. Jaywalking is a foreign concept to these things.

I don't know if they used to be people. It's entirely possible that each of these wretches carries an endoskeleton of human meat and bone within. All you can see of them is the cloth-like, soiled "flesh" of their costumes. The fabric is so slick and grimy that one could easily mistake it for organic skin.

A Kebab passed my window this morning, scraping pavement with the metal rod that ran through its ass and out through the top of its head. A single, impossibly large gangrenous eyeball sat between the brown faux-meat blobs piled onto the skewer. Even though the eye itself wasn't real… couldn't BE real… it rotated lazily as if searching the cityscape for its next target.

I can't imagine where they're getting the fliers. Each crumpled, red-stained sheet of paper seems to have yellowed with age even before human blood marred its surface. These fliers bear illogical, meaningless messages, clumps of unrelated numbers and letters, or single words scrawled in large, scratchy letters.

They keep sticking the things to my door. Hundreds of them.

"Believe me when I talk."

"Everyone follow me."

"This is not scary."

The most disturbing one simply read "LONGING." I don't know why that got to me more than any of the others.

They've begun to paper over my windows, and I have to double my trips outside just to ensure I'll be able to see the creatures on days when I need to gather provisions. A lumbering, filth-encrusted squeeze bottle of Mustard spent the good part of Saturday covering every square inch of glass with "Relax, I'm helpful.", "Don't scream if you please.", and the like. I had to break one of the panes just to reach out and tear enough off to check my surroundings.

I don't think the creatures intend to kill people.

I want to think it's accidental.

When they see a survivor… a non-costume… they mass on the poor bastard like children around a broken pinata. Fliers fill the air. They're shoved into hands, mouth, eyes, everywhere. In the end, however, people seem to simply suffocate under the frantic mass of repulsive, greasy cloth bodies.

Then, the things just wander away in different directions. Giant salmon with a rusted and gore-snagged hook in its face, tremendous birthday cake with flames erupting from its crooked candles, even a mold-splotched banana-man inexplicably dressed in ninja attire.

It's risky to sell or trade products. That makes it much more difficult for people like me to find what I need. Everyone seemed to associate the coming of these freakish abominations with the concept of commercialism and Capitalism. People died. Ad men and CEOs were dragged into the street and sacrificed in the hope it would appease whatever dark, secret Gods had been antagonized by our greed.

It didn't work, though I can't say I was was above such things. I kept an ear open for any word of who could be responsible and where they might be holed up. I would've turned someone in immediately if I had received the right information.

Dressing like the creatures isn't a great idea, either. I'm sure everyone thought of that, but it only took a few botched revenge killings to realize it wasn't smart to mix innocent survivors in with the sources of our pain.

For the most part, I think I have things under control. I feel like I can make it through this… IF there's an end to it. I keep my head down, I only go out when absolutely necessary, and I'm willing to take from someone else in order to keep myself alive.

The only real threat is the ant. It crawls along in a deceptively "aimless" way, looming tall over the other monstrosities. You can still make out the remains of a driver in the inverted pest control van attached to its back. "Bug You! Pest Control", I think. It's hard to read the company name when it's upside-down and constantly moving.

The ant seems to sense activity inside buildings… something the others seem incapable of. On its own, the construct of plaster and rebar probably wouldn't do much damage. The van, however, gives it a metal shell of sorts that makes for an effective battering ram. Once a wall is opened, the rest of the creatures flood in. Then, there's only screaming and gunfire.

I'd probably find a group to settle in with, if it weren't for the ant. I'm hoping the thing breaks apart under its own weight, soon… and that it isn't replaced by something equally distressing. I know I saw an ice cream truck doing rounds before all of this went to Hell. I'm not sure what it's doing right now.

There's a sushi roll at my window, now, and he's papering it over once more.

"Everyone will have fun."

"Take my hand, please."

"I care about your happiness."

Every flier is a distinct snowflake of verbal diarrhea. No two are exactly the same in their awfulness. What never changes, though, is the company logo emblazoned on a random corner of each page.

A hand, with an eye set in its palm, beside stern, humorless block lettering.

"The Faceless Corporation"

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.5 License.