The Plants that Crept and Swallowed

The Plants that Crept and Swallowed









As the foliage rapidly swelled up and swallowed everything around it, only one city was not overrun thanks to the hasty planning and construction of a surrounding fortress. Now the city’s walls are vineless; its floor, rootless.

The last citizens of the world reside here, protected by a powerful current of electricity and a wall of steel. Guards patrol this wall, standing in the towers and watching over the endless jungle that surrounds The Last City. They ensure that one single creeper does not somehow begin to hungrily inch its way up in an attempt to feed.

Every single meter of Earth outside of The Last City is a dense, twisted jungle of sickly green and crimson and ebony. Enormous mounds of foliage erupt from the ground forming vast mountains across the landscape as far as the eye can see. Huge, twisted shapes shoot into the sky like natural, gnarled skyscrapers, and oceans brim with submerged vines, their surfaces a permanent myrtle.

More walls had been planned for the other cities. Messengers had been sent out in jeeps and helicopters carrying specifications for other civilizations to be turned into fortresses. Some of the vehicles did not make it, pinned to the floor by lightning fast vines, or driving unsuspecting into a hidden pad or mouth disguised as a part of a dirt track. In both cases, the passengers did not last long. The plants learned that these steel vessels contained rich meat if they spent enough time tearing them open. Or sometimes they would just wait with the vehicle in their jaws, slowly breaking the metal down with their gastric juices as its helpless occupant screamed in horror.

That was back then when it was possible to leave the city. Even though venturing outside of the fortress walls was a great danger, it was still possible. Still an option. Now, every inch of the earth is a tangled mess of roots and vines and tendrils and trunks. The slightest vibration on the earth from a foot or a tyre will bring curious and hungry attention. No one ever leaves The Last City wilfully.

A place that had once been Edinburgh had been constructing a similar fortress, and had almost completed it. The walls had been set up, within them the conductors were ready to be activated. Unfortunately, there had been a design flaw. The circuit had not been built properly and the electricity refused to flow through it in its incomplete state. The plants rushed the walls before this wrong could be righted, and in no time at all the citizens were no more.

News of this tragedy was brought by a single survivor who had escaped on his motorcycle. If it were not for this vehicle, he would have been eaten. Now the bike lies neglected somewhere in an alleyway, a rusted shell. All vehicles are useless without petrol, and most were abandoned in the streets or yards. Petrol, now a dwindling and controlled substance, is exclusive to the higher-ups.

*

At first, The Last City had been self-sufficient. Its farms and water treatment facilities generated enough resources to keep its population alive. And the plants, well, ironically they produced enough carbon dioxide to keep everyone breathing - when they weren‘t wrapped around someone‘s neck that is. However, as the years rolled by and the population boomed, rationing of the food was taken into effect. Dinners shrunk, and people thinned. They began to litter the streets, skeletal and dying and begging. The higher-ups seen them as a mess, an eyesore in their beautiful town. They decided that action would have to be taken.

Couples were limited to one child each. Any violation of this law would see the entire family thrown to the plants from The Bridge. The first offenders were a young twenty-something couple who stumbled upon their second pregnancy by accident. They walked The Bridge’s short length over and away from the city to where the road abruptly stopped. Then they were ordered to jump. If they did not go with honour they would be pushed or shot. This couple both jumped together. Their four year old child, who was promised a new home and a new family, was thrown in after them.

*

Mayor Banks sits in his office and gazes through the great window that takes up the entire front wall. With a keen eye, he watches the city and the vast landscape of plants closely. His hands are clasped, his thick eyebrows knitted together. His view of the vegetative landscape no longer seems so clear. Instead of watching it and trying to work out a solution to the problem, he finds his eyes navigating the endless tight streets of the city, watching the people stumble around below him.

A few days ago, he had personally seen to it that some parents-to-be did not get away with their infraction of his law - even though they had offered to abort the baby. He had an example to set, and, to really drill it into the people’s minds, he had the entire population up on The Bridge to watch the execution. It had been mandatory. If anyone had infracted this he would have had them dragged from their homes to first watch the couple, and then join them. No one did. Banks was disappointed that no one else was to be made an example of, but pleased to see that he had such tyrannical control over his people.

His people. God, he loves referring to them as that. His people, there to do what he wants to do with them, and with no one standing up to him. Well, at least no one yet. If anyone does though, he will have them dealt with by his secret police, the team he had assembled to do his darkest and most personal biddings in exchange for the finest luxuries and the best homes. In fact, speaking of which, there is that security guard Bennett who hesitated when asked to throw that little girl into the plants after their parents. Banks does not need men like that under his command. He wants robots, programmed to serve under his every command without objection or personal thought.

He reaches into his desk drawer and sees that his bottle of whiskey is empty. He will have to fetch another from the stash, and he might as well get some food while he’s there.

*

This is no way to live, thinks Alex Straub, previously Father Alex Straub before Christianity had been aborted and prohibited. He reluctantly shares his rationed scraps with his wife and child. Scraps that are hardly enough to nourish even one of them. His family are withering, and all he can do is watch. His son is weak and dying, and his ribs protrude painfully from his chest. He does not have long left.

Alex curses himself for thinking that the death of his son will mean more food. He curses himself for wanting to put his hand over his son’s mouth and nose and speed up the process. What has that bastard Banks done to him? What has this harsh government done to everyone? He rubs his forehead, at the pain in his skull. The instinct to survive is taking over, and soon he thinks he will not be able to stop it.

How had all this started? he wonders. How on Earth had the plants gained such a sentience and thirst for blood? What had made them swell so unstoppably, and why had no one been able to do anything about it? Suddenly, he remembers. It was the foods. Genetically modified foods. Scientists poking their fingers where they shouldn’t have been poking them. That’s what started all of this. Those idiots.

He has been having crazy thoughts lately, a sign of his deteriorating sanity. And his wife, she doesn’t even speak anymore. Just sits and stares. Their love was lost long gone, and so was their hope. All of them, whether they wanted to accept or not, were just waiting to die. This was no way for a family to exist.

Would he kill his own son with a blade if he were promised a decent meal every day? A part of him says NO! God no, are you crazy? Who do you think I am? Some sort of animal?

But another part of him says yes.

Things have to change, Alex thinks as he gazes over the pitiful image of his family. Someone has to do something. A messiah; a saviour. To deliver all of us who deserve it to heaven and escape this hell. Well, he thinks, I know just the man to do it. And when the opportunity comes, there will be no holding back.

In the name of the Lord, I will kill that pitiful excuse for a man, Banks, and send him straight to the devil.

*

The mayor is staring across the city at the top of the old news building, at the landing pad that is never used anymore. Four helicopters are spread discarded across its surface. Banks shakes his head. No one ever used helicopters these days. He misses seeing them whoosh by, hearing their propellers rattle overhead. They are useless, moribund. There is nowhere to fly to, now that the other cities are no more. It is a shame, he used to love flying. Perhaps he will take the helicopter out one day. No, in fact, he will not. The citizens will see it as a waste of an already dwindling resource. They will have to stay grounded forever. Perhaps he should have them destroyed. That would be fun to watch.

A knock at the door. Come in, Banks says. The doors open and General Black enters wearing the distinctive navy uniform of the Mayor’s Guard. You wanted to speak to me, sir? Yes, I did, Black. Have a seat. The officer sits down in front of Banks’ desk. Banks pours himself a whiskey.

Whiskey. How Banks loves whiskey. Extinct to the population of the city, but plentiful to himself and his most closest men. And for when the whiskey runs out in thirty or so years, there was plenty of vodka. But Banks does not care about what happens in thirty years time, for he will be dead and someone else will be in charge of this great city. So, for the time being, he will keep on going the way he is going until his favourite spirit runs dry.

Captain Black, he says, sipping at his drink. One of your men, a Callum Bennett, is negligent of his duties and unfit for service in the Mayor’s Guard. He hesitated when given a direct order in front of the public this morning. What kind of an image does that give out? What does that make me look like? We can’t have such an unprofessional presence in such an elite unit, Captain. He is dragging the team down. I want him throw out immediately. Understood? Yes, sir. Good. You’re an exceptional officer, Black. Keep it up. That is all. Dismissed.

Black leaves the room and Banks nods to himself. A good man, he thinks. Did not hesitate when I told him to abandon one of his own. If he had, I would have had him fired. A possible candidate for the Secret Police. Banks smiles to himself, spins in his chair and gazes over The City. His city. He feels warm inside, a combination of the fact that he is in control of so much, and the whiskey.

*

Darren sits alone in the shadows while slits of light from the old shades of his brother’s house lie over him. It is the last day before the building is repossessed and given to another family and he still has the keys. Him being only the only relative still alive, they were given to him so he could plunder whatever items that he wanted for sentiment’s sake or otherwise. However, he was supposed to hand the keys back hours ago, before nightfall. He will pay for this. Probably have his rationing severely depleted to a level that is almost impossible to survive on. He does not care, does not count on being alive for much longer anyway.

In his hand he holds a jar of home-brewed spirit. Strong enough to take the face right off you, his brother used to say. He sips at it, his vision becoming more clouded with every slosh and gulp. My brother, he thinks. My own brother, and my sister-in-law, and my nephew. He takes another drink. My nephews, he corrects. Sick, sick, sick. That bastard Banks. I’m going to make him pay. Him and all the others who just stood and watched and let this city turn into the horror that it is.

My brother… he thinks. He begins to weep. My only brother, the man who carried me on his back when I was half his height. The man who carried me away from those plants as they tore up everyone behind us. The man who saved me. The man who is responsible for me still existing in this miserable world.

I’ll get them, he thinks. For my brother. When I am on maintenance duty one day when there is another inspection by Banks. I can get close to him then. Yeah… they picked the wrong guy to mess with. I’ll get them…

*

Mayor Banks is alone in his office still gazing over the city. To him it is like a model, one that he sculpted himself. One that he has complete control over. Such power! He feels that with a single click of his fingers he could have any building he wanted destroyed. Ants, he thinks, gazing at his tiny model people. Ants, and I am the queen of this nest.

He congratulates himself with another whiskey for the new law he brought in, and is pleased that it will be included in the city’s yearly magazine. Now, thanks to him, every three months each female citizen must report to government set-ups in the city centre to be checked for pregnancy. If anyone failed to turn up, they would receive a visit from the police and forcefully examined. Already, they had caught thirteen women in the set-ups, and three through home invasion. This law couldn‘t be any more efficient, thinks Banks. Not only will the population be more strictly in check, but now children will no longer be born in secrecy. Banks smiles. This also means that there will be more executions, more occasions for Banks to turn up and smirk and lick his lips as he watches the disrespecting citizens fall to their death from The Bridge.

A knock at the door again. Come in. Captain Black enters the room again. Ah, Captain. Have a seat. Did you do what I told you to do? Yes, sir. Officer Bennett is no longer under our occupation. Excellent. Have a drink, Captain. No thank you, sir. I am still on duty. Outstanding, Captain. That’s an attitude I am proud to have serving under me. You are heading the right way for a promotion. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. No, thank you, Captain. Keep it up. Dismissed.

Black leaves the room and once again Banks turns to the window. Ants, he thinks. So easy to control. So easy to crush. His eyes go to a young woman making her way across one of the deserted roads. So easy to take…

*

The city’s population begins to fall into control again. Rationing is increased, but only just. Most of the food ends up in the store. Just in case, reasons Banks between mouthfuls.

His secret police is now complete and at full efficiency. An army of non-thinking robots, or at least the closest thing to. These men are some of the most evil and conscious-free that the city has to offer. Banks decided that Captain Black excelled above and beyond, and now leads the entire secret police. He has one of the largest homes in the city, one that looks over the streets with its great glass window, second only to the mayor’s.

Boy, do these secret police come in handy, Banks thinks, sitting at his desk and reminiscing about the recent break-up of the protest against executions. He had seen so many heads being cracked open and trod on by heavy boots that he was actually kind of hoping that there would be another protest soon so that he could see more of the same, see yet another example of how no one stood a chance of rising up against him.

He gazes out the window again, at The Bridge. Such a cinematic view, he thinks. He could just sit here with a whiskey and watch the couples being flung to their deaths from here. But then he would miss the terrified expressions on their faces, the look of loss and helplessness and expectancy to wake up at any time from the nightmare. He wouldn’t hear the sobs of the woman and the consolations of the man either. He would also miss the scream as they fell towards the plants, and the subsequent, horrible, squishy death. Now that alone was worth getting out of his seat for.

Ants, he thinks. Just ants…

He snaps from his thoughts. He has something important to do next week. What is it? Behind the glaze of whiskey, he finds himself unable to remember despite intense straining. Bugger, he thinks, opening his drawer and reaching for his diary. He flicks it open and checks his schedule.

Ah, he thinks. The monthly check of the security system. How could he forget? He had been waiting eagerly for this for a long time….

*

Allan watches his men. He almost feels a smile growing across his face as he thinks about how much he admires them. If only he hadn’t lost the ability to feel emotion. If only he hadn’t become apathetic. It had happened the same day he had lost his wife, the loss of his positive feelings. He sighs as he thinks of her. The indifference drains from his expression and is replaced by sadness.

He had been horrified to learn that Michelle was pregnant. Horrified and panicky and unsure of what was going to happen. What are we going to do? he asked her. She shook her head, tears welling up inside her. I don’t know! My examination is in three days! They’ll find out I’m pregnant and they’ll kill me! Allan slammed a fist into the wall. They’ll kill the both of us! he cried. And our kid! They’ll kill all of us! It‘s over! Oh, God, we’re done for! He began to weep, then the two of them had embraced and sobbed together.

I heard, Michelle had mumbled some time later, that there is a doctor. A Russian guy, one that does abortions. Illegal abortions. No one has to know. We could… Allan shook his head. Alexander Kristoff, he said. He’s dead. They caught him and executed him last week. We watched it. I don’t blame you for not paying attention though, it was horrible. They both went silent again.

What if… Michelle suddenly spoke up. What if you do it? What if you do the operation? It can’t be that hard! Allan slammed his hand against the wall again. Are you crazy! No way! No way in hell am I doing that! Allan, we have no choice! No, we do, he snapped. We do have a choice. And I choose not to cut my wife open and pull our bloody, unborn child out of her! But, Allan… she had sobbed. Think of our son. Think of our son that’s already born. He’ll die too if you don’t do it. They’ll kill him. Allan paused, face streaming with tears, lost for words. What was he to do?

*

The population problem has been solved, Allan says to the other members of the resistance on the table around him. They gaze at him like disciples, like women lost in love. Proud to be a part of something so right in a world gone so wrong. Their hideout, an abandoned underground sewer control room in the depths of the city, smells of both rotten garbage and sweet freedom. They listen with ears wide open.

As horribly and wrong the methods for doing this were, he continues, it has been solved, and that is a good thing for now. However, we cannot forget all the innocents that died for this to happen. All the innocents who were murdered: children as young as one, babies still unborn. They will be avenged when we take over.

But still, he adds, there is a more urgent matter. Even though this problem has been solved and we can all eat again - well, only just - we are still subject to this tyranny that Banks and his secret police have been forcing on us. I, myself, have trouble sleeping every night and I know I’m not alone here. We are still being murdered, still slaves in this totalitarian city, and no one has done anything about it. We must do something. The time has come to act.

He walks over to a enormous steel case that had caught the attention of several of the resistance earlier. He opens it and reveals its contents. Weapons. Assault rifles, machine guns, grenades, precision sniper rifles; everything they need to stage a revolution. The men approach the box with awe, shunning their own old side-arms.

*

It is the monthly inspection of the city’s security system, the system that is responsible for everyone still being alive and not plant food. Located under the city through a guarded tunnel and a checkpoint, its hum brings a sense of security to those above it.

Behind this checkpoint, the mayor’s investigation is underway. He inspects the console, nodding. Behind him, two members of the secret police - one of them Black - stand to absolute attention. Beside them, an engineer and the machine’s guard stand nervously. Pistons pump furiously away to Banks’ left, while to his right the supercomputer that checks and acknowledges any discrepancies whirrs and hums to itself, proud of its work. Behind a great blast door lies the generator, endlessly producing the electricity that keeps everyone alive.

Banks turns to the maintenance worker. What are the chances of this machine breaking down? he asks. There is almost no chance of it under the watch of either me or one of the other boys, especially with the supercomputer here working all day and night, the worker stammers, aware of Banks’ evil persona. He may snap at any time and order his death. Excellent, the mayor replies. Very good. He runs a hand down one of the stationary gears. He feels its oily surface, and he feels the control that it has. The control of the city’s fate. His city’s fate. Very, very good.

The maintenance worker, Darren, glares with burning hate and recognition at the mayor as he watches him stroke the machine. You killed my brother, he thinks. You son of bitch. I promised I’d get you, and now I’m going to go through with it. Finally. Your days are over, fat man.

*

The rebels tool up. The room is a cocktail of determination, adrenaline, excitement and terror. They sling their new weapons over their shoulders, of which they have spent weeks training with in the soundproof depths of the city. They equip the body armour that they have been given, and stuff extra ammunition and grenades into their bags.

Remember, Allan says to his men. Take extra special care to not be spotted for as long as possible. We want to take out as many of the police and the secret police as possible before they even know an enemy exists. And do not, I repeat, do not hit any civilians!

He nods to his men. Let’s not make any mistakes. Security has been lax these days. This monthly inspection of the control room might not ever happen again if we mess this up, so think of it as our only chance. Banks may never come out of his office again after something like this. So good luck. The city will be a much better place when we’ve taken over. Now, are we all ready?

Everyone cheers.

Okay, let’s get Banks. Again, make sure nobody kills him by mistake. I’m going to make him pay for my wife and child, and for everyone else. Now let’s go!

*

The ex-priest, Alex Straub, squats in the shadows of Banks’ room, awaiting the bastard’s return. In his hand, he holds a knife that he has tucked away in his sock to prevent it from glinting even the slightest. Nothing must go wrong here. Nothing.

He had almost been caught. Come so close but managed to scarper out of trouble by the skin of his teeth. He had studied the building for weeks; watched the patrol patterns of each of the guards, located every surveillance camera, and learned every code for every locked door through hacking and spying and eavesdropping. Then, when it was time to act after such heinous pre-production, he had almost been caught because some negligent guard had decided to go for a piss. Alex had fled into the toilet with the guard unknowingly following behind him, and he had hidden in one of the two cubicles. Silent and trembling, he had waited to see if the guard picked the cubicle that he was hiding in. Waited to see the guard’s face go from confusion to fright then to anger as he raised his weapon. Waiting to be lead from the building by a platoon of the mayor’s finest men to be executed as an example like so many before him.

But he had been lucky. The guard had chosen the other cubicle, and Banks had sat and listened to the man shit and piss like there was no tomorrow. Hell, he had almost laughed at the poor man’s groans as he exorcised from his body whatever he had eaten earlier. When he had left - without washing his hands - the old man has sat back and let out a huge sigh of relief.

Now, sitting in that office, waiting for destiny to arrive, he was still feeling exhausted from the thought of his near-death experience. When he was younger, a twenty-something priest, he used to enjoy football and going for jogs. He was athletic and fit. Now, under the influence of the city, he is but a tired and worn-out old man on his last legs. But that does not matter now; the road ahead is clear.

He knows that upon killing the man, no matter how evil that man may be, Alex will never be able to gain access into heaven. Thou shall not kill. But this is why he is the messiah. He will sacrifice himself for the good of the people, just like Jesus did. He will deliver them from this horror and perhaps send them back to some form of humanity where they do not have to fear every slight infraction of the law and their consequences.

*

Banks nods to himself, still inspecting the machine. A beautiful piece of work, a real shame. He knocks hard on its surface with three sharp raps. He turns to the people behind him, to the two members of his secret police, to the engineer, and to the machine’s guard. All of them now lie sprawled across the floor in a pool of their own blood. The mayor strokes his pistol and the silencer as though it were a phallus - his phallus. It had been a shame to kill his own men. Especially Black, he was fond of that man. Very loyal. He can only imagine what went through the man’s head when he had seen his own boss point his pistol at him and fire. The mayor had apologised to his best man as he lay dying. But he had also explained that it was inevitable, all part of the bigger picture.

He takes the other device which he had hidden on himself and gazes at it lustfully. It is an explosive charge, a C4 explosive. He turns it in his hand, feeling its soft texture and relishing it. He feels bad about destroying such a beautiful machine, one that works harder every day than any man every did. And without pay, he adds to his thoughts. A slave to us. Inhumanity, that’s what it is. He places the charge against the machine and presses it in so that it stays stuck. From his pocket, he takes a detonator and slips it into the soft material of the charge. Don’t worry, I will deliver you, he says.

He heads backwards towards the security gate with the trigger in his hand. Unsure that he is the appropriate length away to be safe from the explosion, he decides to take a chance to get further away. He presses the intercom outside of the gate. HELP! He cries. HEEEELP! IT’S MAYOR BANKS! GET SOME MEN OUT HERE! MY GUARDS ARE DEAD! THE ENGINEER HAS A WEAPON! HELP! OPEN THE DOOR!

The door opens right away. Down there! Quick! Three guards rush past him with their weapons drawn. Another approaches him hastily. Come with me, sir! We have to get you out of here! Yes, right away! The mayor responds. Ants, he thinks. Stealthily, he activates the trigger and an explosion tears through the caves behind him, consuming the three guards. Quickly, sir! The guard cries as rubble begins to rain down around them.

*

The resistance stop in their tracks, gazing at another in surprise. What was that tremor? asks one of the men. No one answers. Suddenly a siren fills the air with its low moans of depair. Oh, God! cries someone. That means the walls are down! The plants can get in! We’re done for!

Keep it together! Allan screams. Everyone, stick to the plan. We’re still going to the security system! There are reinforced doors there that we can barricade and we can try to fix the walls while we’re down there. Come on! And round up as many civilians as you can, he adds looking up at the lip of the fortress walls, waiting for the first of the vines to creep over.

*

The mayor and the guard make their way down the tunnel. They dash past everal more of his men as they frantically head down towards the explosion. Several engineers also follow them. You’ll do no good, Banks thinks. That thing is well beyond repair.

They exit the passageway into the cold night air. The guards atop of the city walls are firing into the mass of plants as they rise as though they stand a chance. Desperation, thinks Banks. That’s all. You are wasting your ammo, my friends. He and the guard round the corner and hop into the mayor’s car where the driver had once been awaiting patiently, but now, at the sound of the siren and the bullets cutting through the air, he has been sitting in fear, thinking about stepping on the accelerator. To the offices! Banks cries as he slams the door behind him. And be quick about it! The car roars off just as the first soldiers of the resistance arrive.

*

Christ! Allan shouts. That was the mayor’s car! He slams his rifle butt into the wall. Behind him, his thirty men await his order. Another ten or so civilians follow them. Allan shakes his head. Forget about him! The plants will get him! Come on, let’s go! Everyone, into the passageway! Move it! They head for the doorway where Banks had emerged from, and they enter. They are surprised to find this entranceway empty of guards, but carry on nonetheless.

Oh, God, one of the men moans at the rear of the unit. Here they come! The vines! They’re over the wall! They’re coming for us! Close that door! Allan cries, gazing up at the viridian curtain as it descends on the city. Weld it shut!

*

Banks arrives at his office building and leaps from the vehicle with the guard in tow. Wait! The driver cries. What am I supposed to do? The mayor ignores him and crashes through the entranceway doors almost giggling with excitement. He hops into the already open elevator, bashing the button for the top floor. The doors slide closed just as the guard reaches them. Mayor Banks! What are you doing! Then he is gone, and Banks is ascending the stairs towards his office.

The doors ping open and Banks enters the corridor. The usual sentry is no longer here, he notes. Probably trying to defend the city in vain. In fact, it looks as though none of the guards are in their places. This whole floor is unnaturally silent. If it were like old times, the mayor thinks, I would have had them all killed for abandoning their posts. A real military execution. Now, the plants will do that for me.

He trots over the majestic carpet and uses his key on the double doors. He pushes them open and enters into the dark room. Ahh, he sighs, walking the length of his office and having a seat at his desk. He opens the drawer and takes an unopened bottle of whiskey from it. I have been saving this, he explains to no one in particular, for a special occasion. I can’t think of any time more special than now. He swivels his seat around and gazes out the window at the carnage below him, at the horror and death and loss. Ants, he murmurs, watching them struggle futilely.

*

Allan watches his surviving men as they weld the security gates shut, even though he thinks it is pointless. He has seen the damage that has been done to the security system and the supercomputer. He knows that it is useless to even try to fix them with the supplies and skill that they share between them. All they are doing is postponing death.

Six men, he thinks. Six men and one civilian. That’s all he managed to keep alive. They had been sandwiched between the city’s guards and the plants, fighting for their lives. The welded door did not hold shut for long, it being thin and weak. Soon the vines burst through. Watching his men fight the guards from the front, and seeing them being plucked from the back and eaten by the foliage - he had no choice but to make a charge for it towards the computer and the enemy. This is where he had lost so many men. But if he hadn’t done it, they would have all been eaten.

He slams his fist on the wall. A practise he has been doing since the day his hands became dirty with the blood of his wife, both literally and metaphorically. Beside him, his men finish welding the door shut. He knows that they are trapped, and he thinks that they are probably the last people alive in the city. On Earth.

Sanchez, he says to one of his men. Get started on the repairs for this computer. We can get this thing up. We can save this city. He is lying of course, but it will do no harm to give the men hope. Already, he can hear the plants as they scrabble on the thick doors.

*

The plants rush eagerly over the city, swarming over buildings with their tendrils and exploring alleyways and sewage systems with their feelers. They prise open wooden doors. They begin to break the reinforced ones down with the gastric juice from their pads. They scale the watchtowers and tear the screaming guards from their posts. Nothing is spared in their wake. It has been, after all, over sixty years since they have eaten meat. Since they have tasted human flesh.

In no time at all the city is smothered in viridian. Still hungry, the vines traverse over and amongst another searching for more meat. They turn to the highest building in the city, the one that is only semi-submerged with a layer of vegetation, and they head for it hungrily.

*

Adams laughs to himself. What a show! he says, sipping at his drink. I haven’t seen a show like that in all of my life! He sits back in chair now that there is nothing to be seen, now that the plants are slinking up the building to get him. His only regret is that he will never be able to see such a fine display ever again. Still, he is in for a good few years. Perhaps he will write a novel, one that no one but him will ever read.

He stands from his chair and walks to the wall where there is a small console. Carefully, he types in his username and password. The panel beeps in confirmation and he turns from it excitedly. The room begins to hum. Electricity shoots through the circuit within the walls.

All of sudden, the plants are blown from the top few floors in a huge burst of fire. Those approaching the mayor’s office shrink back in fear, familiar with this concept of electricity. Banks nods and thanks the scientists and technicians who made his dream a reality. They created his own fortress for him inside his own office and the important floors of the building, just in case. The important floors being those that power the walls and the floor where all the food is stored. To act as an emergency shelter, he had reasoned. Powered on a separate machine. Where we can all retreat in the event of our initial walls failing.

Well, after years of designing and construction in secrecy, here it is. And it works!

He walks over to his vinyl player and rifles through the few albums that he had salvaged from the homes of the citizens over the past decade. Those artists which he had agreed on. He selects an Elvis Presley record and places it beneath the needle. He lowers the needle and closes his eyes as the music fills his ears. I’m the only human left alive, he thinks. I’m the only one that was capable of surviving. I’m some sort of God.

Banks, comes a voice from behind him. He stops suddenly, his perfect world shattered before him. He lifts the needle from the record; the music is for him and him only. He turns and faces the source of the voice and comes face-to-face with an old man holding a knife. Who…? the mayor begins. The man smiles. I am Father Alex Straub, a Christian. Banks sneers. Christianity was abolished. Alex shakes his head. Maybe in your world, yes.

The mayor sighs. How did you get in? I picked the lock. I snuck past your security and made my way up here. Banks curses his guards. If they weren’t already dead, he says, I would have had them killed. Alex frowns. You killed my son, you bastard. You and your regime. Well, it’s coming to an end now, the mayor reasons. You’re insane, Banks. I heard you talking to yourself. You done this. You killed everyone. Now I’m going to kill you.

Wait, wait, the mayor says. We’re the only humans left on Earth. Do you really want to spend it alone? We could enjoy another’s company. Loneliness would get to you if you killed me. You would go mad alone up here. You need someone. A companion.

Alex knows Banks is right, he would go mad up here alone. He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. But I do not intend to spent my life up here, he finally says. I only intend to end yours.

He lunges at the mayor and catches him off guard. Banks’ grim smile turns to that of shock as he tumbles backwards, the blade embedded in his chest. You stabbed me! he exclaims, horrified, gazing at the weapon inside of him. You ruined my plans! My life! Alex shakes his head. You ruined everyone’s life, he says. Then he pushes the lumbering mayor against the window.

The glass shatters and spills Banks into the night. He tumbles through the air screaming and spinning and crashes through layers of vegetation that gradually slow him down to a halt. He lies whimpering and broken, hovering several feet in the air amongst branches and vines, his limbs splayed like a discarded mannequin.

Then the tendrils come, hungrily.

*

Father Alex Straub gazes from the window where he threw the man who had killed his son. He watches as the plants swarm, but he cannot see a thing. He is saddened at the loss of so many lives, that he had not been quicker to stop Banks. He wonders what will happen to him in the afterlife. He was kind of hoping that the Lord would look on him favourably for sacrificing himself. But now he had no longer killed for the good of everyone, but for his own vengeance. How would God look on that one?

The priest sits down at the desk and inspects the half-finished bottle of whiskey. He takes a sniff, then a sip, and decides that it is a good brand. He pours himself a glass and nips at it, relishing its taste. Once he has drained the whiskey, he decides to finish the bottle.

Hours later, Alex stands from the chair, a little drunk, and walks to the control box. He had watched Banks type in his username and password from behind the pillar. He had also memorised them from watching what keys were being pressed, a skill he had developed and sharpened throughout the week by watching guards in preparation for today. PETERBANKS he types in, followed by VIVALASVEGAS. The computer beeps happily, and the humming of the room that he had gotten used to over the past few hours stops. The electricity is no longer running.

Father Alex Straub slides down the wall, watching the window the whole time, waiting for the first myrtle tendril to slip over its edge and snake towards him. What does the afterlife hold for me? he thinks, terrified.










7080 words.