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in my dream, last night
there was a tube train, buried, deep, low, dark, at the end of the tracks of a line that doesn't run anymore
full of monsters. they'd been trapped in there by someone, the doors and windows welded shut.
the things inside had bred out all the material in the carriage they could use to make new monsters. all the protein was used up. everything inside had become desperate and honed, even more nihilistic than usual, only not rending or tearing when a pause might bring a face to the window. a face that could be rent, grabbed, pulled through, torn, gobbled up, bitten, fucked, made into the next monster as fast as the process allows.
i'm on the outside, watching another kind of monster sussing out this teeming, heaving, threshing, hermetically sealed container.
they know what's inside.
they examine the seal lines, the weld points, the places that creak and bend, the weak spots, assessing them, how long they'll hold.
long, flowing dreads bounce.
the monsters scream and punch. and quietly, one of them squeezes through a tiny hole, the other end of the carriage, far away from the distracting action, slithers and slides and insinuates itself behind us.
it doesn't last long, but when we rip its face out, we know it's the first, the scout, one of hundreds that are taking up position, now, moving into place to inject themselves into us.
the ones outside use their spit to crack the glass to split for the ones within
the heaving mass inside wrecks and pushes and throbs and pulses and punches until the metal bends and super-thick glass splits and breaks.
i die over and over and over and i come back each time and i take armfuls of them with me.
for all their heaving, incendiary, virulent filth, their doubling and redoubling, sneaking and slithering and insinuating into the walls, the corners, the boxes and windows, you can hear them questioning in their singing, their droning song
we kill them and we kill them and we eat their faces and we cut them and burn them and rend them and the still come back. they still come back. what are these disease-like beasts, they keep coming back, in their tens, then hundreds, then thousands, then millions, they keep coming back.
we cut them and slice them and eat them and seed inside them but they send more and they get faster and more honed and more crazed and they never ever ever stop
we're losing this fight, all my children, all my soldiers, we're losing the battle, the counter-insurgency, the war
we're losing against these things. sticky, pink bags of pus and vulnerability, pregnant like ants, these things never stop and they're ruining it all
maybe something will read this message and save us, or intervene and punch them away
poison the skies and burn away these monsters, they seem immune to anything
there was a tube train, buried, deep, low, dark, at the end of the tracks of a line that doesn't run anymore
full of monsters. they'd been trapped in there by someone, the doors and windows welded shut.
the things inside had bred out all the material in the carriage they could use to make new monsters. all the protein was used up. everything inside had become desperate and honed, even more nihilistic than usual, only not rending or tearing when a pause might bring a face to the window. a face that could be rent, grabbed, pulled through, torn, gobbled up, bitten, fucked, made into the next monster as fast as the process allows.
i'm on the outside, watching another kind of monster sussing out this teeming, heaving, threshing, hermetically sealed container.
they know what's inside.
they examine the seal lines, the weld points, the places that creak and bend, the weak spots, assessing them, how long they'll hold.
long, flowing dreads bounce.
the monsters scream and punch. and quietly, one of them squeezes through a tiny hole, the other end of the carriage, far away from the distracting action, slithers and slides and insinuates itself behind us.
it doesn't last long, but when we rip its face out, we know it's the first, the scout, one of hundreds that are taking up position, now, moving into place to inject themselves into us.
the ones outside use their spit to crack the glass to split for the ones within
the heaving mass inside wrecks and pushes and throbs and pulses and punches until the metal bends and super-thick glass splits and breaks.
i die over and over and over and i come back each time and i take armfuls of them with me.
for all their heaving, incendiary, virulent filth, their doubling and redoubling, sneaking and slithering and insinuating into the walls, the corners, the boxes and windows, you can hear them questioning in their singing, their droning song
we kill them and we kill them and we eat their faces and we cut them and burn them and rend them and the still come back. they still come back. what are these disease-like beasts, they keep coming back, in their tens, then hundreds, then thousands, then millions, they keep coming back.
we cut them and slice them and eat them and seed inside them but they send more and they get faster and more honed and more crazed and they never ever ever stop
we're losing this fight, all my children, all my soldiers, we're losing the battle, the counter-insurgency, the war
we're losing against these things. sticky, pink bags of pus and vulnerability, pregnant like ants, these things never stop and they're ruining it all
maybe something will read this message and save us, or intervene and punch them away
poison the skies and burn away these monsters, they seem immune to anything
