Purification

lips. His head ached and all that he could hear was the sound of his own laboured, rasping breathing echoing around his facemask and the constant hum and buzz of insects which seemed, in his disorientated state, to swarm around the room like circling vultures, waiting for him to die. The end had to be close now.
    Lying there and waiting for the inevitable was, bizarrely, beginning to get easier in some ways. The first hours he’d spent in this quiet little room had been long, difficult, painful and confusing. When he’d first shut himself away in here he had still been able to believe that there might have been some slight ray of hope for him. In his tired mind he’d explored every escape route and potential outcome. He’d thought about trying to get back to the underground base he’d originally come from and had made mental plans to take one of the trucks and drive back there alone. But he didn’t know whether any of the vehicles had enough fuel and he didn’t know how he’d get the gate open and get through the bodies and… and he could come up with a multitude of reasons why every plan he considered would be impossible to follow through. He could still have gone with the others to the island, but what would have happened to him there? He could have done what Kelly Harcourt had done and enjoyed one final breath of fresh air but he knew that he had neither the physical or mental strength to be able to take the final step and remove his mask. No matter how desperate, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything like that.
    Kilgore was tired. He’d had enough. He wanted it to stop now. He wanted to fall asleep and not wake up again.
    He had been hallucinating since early morning, and now there seemed to have been a sudden and dramatic increase in the strength and ferocity of the freakish sights which surrounded him. About half an hour ago he thought he’d been visited by his dead mother and father and one of his teachers from school. In his confused mind the three of them had stood over him and critically discussed his general lack of progress in life. An hour before that and the room he was lying in had appeared to lose all structure and form. The ceiling above him had drooped and dripped down until it had almost touched the floor and the windows on the wall opposite had seemed to close up until they’d disappeared and the room had become dark as night.
    The windows were clear again now.
    Another
    hallucination.
    He could see Kelly Harcourt in the distance.
    Kilgore watched as she came closer. He could tell that it was her because she was wearing the same kind of protective suit that he still wore. He could see her long blonde hair being blown around in the wind. She didn’t have her facemask on. Christ, she could breathe! For one irrational moment he forgot everything that had happened in the days leading up to today. And if she could breathe, he thought, then maybe he could too? Groaning with effort he slowly sat up and lifted his hand to his mask. Then he stopped and remembered.
    Harcourt continued to come closer. She walked slowly and awkwardly with her head listing over to one side and her arms and legs appearing clumsy, unresponsive and stiff.
    She must have been hurt. She was dragging her right foot along the ground behind her, not even able to lift it up. And then the sun illuminated her face. A cold and lifeless mask with sunken cheeks and dark, hollowed eyes. Her mouth moved constantly as she approached, seeming to form silent words and moans. Despite his lack of strength and energy, Kilgore forced himself to stand up and walk towards her. His legs as heavy and uncoordinated as his dead colleague’s, he hobbled painfully across the room and leant against the window exhausted. Seconds later Harcourt’s body clattered against the other side of the glass and for a split second he stood face to face with her before the sudden noise and vibration sent him reeling backwards.
    Swaying unsteadily for a moment, he watched as the corpse turned and began to walk away.
    Each step forward took huge amounts of effort, but Kilgore found himself instinctively trying to follow Harcourt’s shell-like cadaver. He wasn’t sure why; was it fear, inquisitiveness or nervousness which drove him to do it? Was it that he wanted to properly see what he might still become? He waited in the doorway for a moment to catch his breath before pushing forward again and leaving the building where he’d presumed he’d die.