(first person)
The corridor stretched ahead like the throat of some long-dead beast, filled with dust and grit that rasped beneath my boots. Every step kicked up a ghost of the world before. Dirt had piled in drifts against the walls, like the wind had been trying to bury the place in shame. The once-pristine research wing was now just another tomb in the carcass of the state of Illinois.
I hadn't lived here—Illinois, I mean. Just visited when I had work. My real home was a cramped apartment in New York, half-packed and always noisy, where I could walk to a taco stand and hear four different languages before breakfast. It was strange, standing in a place I used to work, where I used to matter, and feeling like an intruder in my own memory.
My throat tightened unexpectedly. I thought of Goldy.
She'd been a dumb little goldfish in a plastic bag—won at a rigged carnival game I was never supposed to beat. But I did. I had aimed that stupid basketball, dead tired and over caffeinated, and by some miracle, it went in. They handed me the bag like it was a joke, but to me, it was a trophy. I named her Goldy—not exactly original, I know, but I was proud. She was mine.
I used to feed her while humming old Frank Sinatra songs. I swore she liked them. Some days, when I came home late, exhausted, she was the only thing I talked to. Just this flicker of life in a bowl, always swimming, always there.
And Howard—my dog—God, I missed him. He had these eyes that always looked mildly confused, like he'd just remembered something important but couldn't say what. He'd sleep on my shoes, follow me from room to room like I was the moon and he was gravity-bound. I used to scold him for snoring, but right now, I would've given up sleep to hear it again.
Three years. That's a long time for anything.
I doubt it, but… if they were still alive somehow, by some miracle, I'd like to see them again. Just once. Just to say hi. Just to say I was sorry for being gone so long.
The air shifted
A new scent, foul and thick, crept into my nose like a living thing. I gagged. The tang of decay hit me like a wave. Not the dry, sterile must of old dust—but something wetter. Organic. Rotten. Food. Or what used to be food. My stomach clenched in protest.
I followed the smell, reluctant but curious. The corridor bled into a deeper shadow, and I squinted, trying to force my eyes to adjust. No good. It was pitch black ahead—dense enough to swallow sound. But my memory kicked in. The layout hadn't changed. If the scent was right, the kitchen was just a few feet away.
I stepped inside, letting my hands skim the peeling walls. My fingers brushed against something cool and jutted—plastic. A switch.
I hesitated. Part of me didn't want to see. Didn't want to illuminate whatever horror had been festering here for three years. But curiosity wins battles that common sense refuses to fight.
Click.
The lights hummed to life overhead, stuttering in protest, and then—sickly fluorescence. Pale, green-tinged light bathed the room, revealing the full scope of the aftermath.
God help me.