The Old Man

Finally finished the short story.

Sentinels line side by side, cold and unyielding against the frenzied mob, their faces hidden behind featureless masks, and every inch of flesh sheathed in riot gear. Blinding lights illuminate the avenue for miles, making my skin pasty white and surreal. My hand doesn’t look like my own but of someone older, with deep folds and translucent skin. I cling onto the chain link fence yelling, “LET US PASS!” The masks remain unphased. The crowd drowns out my voice, their voices by the thousands yearning for passage, for remorse, for compassion. Gunfire goes off into the air as a stern young officer takes to the center of the barricade. He yells over a megaphone, “By order of the government, this city is under quarantine and there will be no unauthorized movement in or out of the city. Please return to your homes or you will be forcefully removed. A citywide curfew is issued, to begin at 8:00pm tonight. Trespassers will be dealt with swiftly and forcefully. Good night.”

Quarantine? The insanity! The crowd bursts out in rage, throwing fists into the air and insults off their lips. Some begin to climb the tall metal fences until it becomes electrified and falls screaming to the crowd below. Only inches away from the fence, I can hear it faintly humming. Though a futile gesture, I stretch out my arms and push the crowd back. I glance behind my shoulder expecting to see Mary and look into the wide milky eyes of an older man.
The crowd stumbles backward onto each other, some falling to their knees in the confusion, only to get buried under the feet of the masses.
“Back! Back!” I yell, “It’s electrified!” Their screams make me think of hell.
Clouds of malicious smoke emerge from thrown canisters. The insidious poison fills my lungs and burns my insides. I gasp for air but there is none. All around me an ocean of bodies swells and collides, erupting in ice cold screams. My legs give out as I trip over the belly of a mangled corpse. Through a sodden blur I look to her face and see Mary’s eyes for only a moment.
A blow strikes my ribs and am knocked to the ground. Blood stains my face and I do not know if it is mine. Through wisps of smoke I see a baton descending on me with reckless fury. I clench my muscles uselessly as it makes contact with my hip. Jarring pain blinds me as I tear into the cool earth and hurl fistfolds at my attacker. I scamper to my feet, making my way through the horde.

Screams echo through smoke-filled streets and the blood of the old and young gather in shallow streams, disappearing into dark alleyways. I take to the side street shadows that soon slide into nightfall, the city mocking its inhabitants by seeming almost normal. I pass a few dodging faces though none are familiar. Still unsure, under my breath I ask, “Mary, is that you?” They look at me with disgust and flee. I watch their movements, searching for her light gait.

Behind an old building I stumble upon a leaky old hydrant I use to clean my wounds. I look to my hands and the skin is thin and paper-like. They were not the strong hard hands Mary would kiss under the giant willow. When had they become withered and old? I cup a handful of water and in its reflection see the wide milky eyes of the old man.

Remembering once again Mary had passed long ago, I make my way back to the well-lit avenue, not wanting to be alone.