A rustle through the leaves. Crouching, grinding away at a cluster of mushrooms, attempting to free what they’re growing on, I almost miss it. The wind? I wonder. Something else? In the gloomy light of the phosphorescent mutated flora, contours are blurry. I peer at the darkness, head turning left and right in the hope of seeing anything that would explain the sound I’ve just heard. There are other mushrooms arrays scattered around, portions of cracked pavement, the remains of a bus stop, a sign reading “Métropolitain” above a flooded staircase, illuminated by what must have been waterlilies. A clearing in the forest, now dead silent.
Despite my uneasiness, I keep rummaging among the growth, while straining my neck, struggling to get a good look of the place in spite of the limited field of view of my hazmat suit, managing to remove the final layers of plants. My fingers follow the jut of a hipbone, trying not to think about what I’m touching. There’s fabric over the desiccated thing, thick enough to not have completely rotted away and relief competes with anxiety as I close my hand around a wallet.
Paranoia, I decide, turning back to my prize, no longer searching for a potential threat, eager to be done. And a driving license falls into my lap. Perfect. On it, every detail I need. First name, surname, date of birth. A full identification. As I store each information in my brain to recount it later, I cannot help but wonder what it’d be like for my family to have my life summed up to a laundry list. Ariane Filipowski. Birth: March 2nd 2086.
And then, something rasps against metal.
Perched on the “Métropolitain” sign, a tall, lanky silhouette bent in two balances precariously on the thin piece of painted iron, hind legs digging into it, front limbs with hands-like paws and nightmares claws tapping excitedly at the prospect of its next meal… A face, still human enough to be smiling at me, razors fangs on display, drool dripping into the pool below. There’s not a chance in the world I can make a run for it. The freezing realization makes its way from my brain down my neck, to my back, my guts, cascading to the sole of my feet, rooting me in place while, above, death is bracing for take off.
That’s when the waterlilies strike. Two tentacles shoot up, flowers hungry for blood, petals turning to lethal hooks, pistils acting as suckers, seizing the creature and bringing it down to the water. It fights for its life, limbs flailing, claws trying to gain purchase but the corroded metal just breaks apart and, in a flash, the monster disappears below the surface. There’s a struggle in the depths, some bubbles and then nothing.
It’s not the dead you need to fear in the Paris Exclusion Zone. It’s what survived the meteorite’s impact. With a last look at the driving license, I start to make my way back.
The Dead Collection by Alizé Gabaude is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
Alizé Gabaude 