Test. Flash Fiction.

Gwen lay in bed, her breathing was heavy and slow. She was so tired, too tired to move. She knew she should be panicking, but everything felt so distant, she didn’t have the energy to panic. It had happened to the others and now it was happening to her. What ever it was sapped all of your strength and energy until your body just seemed to give up. Günter had been the first to come down with it, followed by Cheryl and Bob. By that stage they had tried to set up a quarantine but that didn’t last, it wasn’t long before they all had it. Everyone kept working, or trying to work, up until the very end. Bobs body was probably still hunched over beside his microscope, where he had laid his head down for a brief nap. Cheryl was outside when she finally ran out of energy, she had gone to look for more samples. Günter , the first to succumb, he had died sometime during the night and was left there. Gwen didn’t know where the others were, only that they were dead too. Jack had disappeared in the night without a word, though no one could figure out why. They were miles from civilisation and he was in no state to make the hike out, after all it had been a three hour helicopter ride in.

The small house they were in reeked of death and rot, the smell would have bothered Gwen before, but now she just didn’t care. All she could do was focus on staying awake. If she did maybe she’d have a chance, maybe someone would find her. If she fell asleep now she knew she wouldn’t wake up.

She could hear something, ever so faintly in the distance. Was that a helicopter? She took another slow breath, maybe she’d make it out of here after all. They must have received the messages begging for assistance. They had been sent days ago via the radio, but no one had ever responded.

Someone came in wearing a bulky white biohazard suit, Gwen stared at them, “help.” It was all she could manage and the effort had drained her even further. Her eyes slowly closed and opened, she was on the edge of sleep. Her eyes closed one last time, her breathing slowed, then stopped.

The man in the biohazard suit waited for a second to see if her eyes would open again, “One hundred percent mortality rate. Test has been a success. We’ll bag them and get them back for autopsy to confirm.”


About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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