He Was a Small Simian Man

He was a small simian man, a sorry excuse for a warrior. Used to crouching when he walked, weary from the chase, wary to face another foe.

Emerging from the rubble that passed for shelter, his stubbled cheeks lined with a wealth of terrors.

The war had begun before he was born and never had much meaning for him. He had been told to fight but not why and now all those who had told him were dead.

On the run, chasing and being chased, his mind could not let him rest.

The final encounter could come from anywhere — a sniper in the burned-out building ahead, the wild dogs who prowled the streets and could sniff out anyone sleeping rough, or the disease that had taken so many others.

Hungry for food, he clambered up the side of an abandoned truck but it teetered toward him and rolled over, the steel hulk pinning his legs. Unable to move, afraid to cry out, darkness closed upon him from without and from within.

When they found him weeks later they could only wonder how he’d not known the conflict had ended a year ago.


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