Fast (Short fiction)

Let’s put it this way, surviving outside is simply impossible. This is a suicide mission. Unless he finds shelter. Fast.

He’s never been given a name. A waste of time where he comes from. Parents name their offspring, and he’s never met his.

He loves to name things, though. It makes them last, even after they’re gone. A name. To be remembered by.

Fast. That’s the name he chose for himself. He likes the sound of it. The purpose in it. Isn’t it the essence of his life? Act fast, or die. Fast.

In the vastness of a world that wants him dead, Fast clocks a gate. Shelter. Pulsing with warmth. Inviting. The promised haven where his destiny will be fulfilled. Where his offspring will prosper. A way forward. But getting in is dangerous. Guards are waiting, swarming the corridors beyond the gate, white as chalk and mean as a rash. Enter their world uninvited and they’re on you. No time to talk or justify yourself. Breaking and entering is a capital offence and death the only sentence.

Fast isn’t too smart, but he understands the odds: certain death outside, probable death inside. He approaches the gate. If he can enter unnoticed, if the guards don’t spot the threat in him, he’s in. Easy. All he needs is to pretend he belongs. If he had fingers, Fast would cross them now.

Fast trusts his disguise. All he needs is to blend, and he was born to blend. No special feature. No distinctive sign. Disguise is not the problem. The key is the problem. It is asked to enter. Try a wrong key, and the system finds you. And the guards find you. Fast.

Behind the see-through barrier, the guards observe the line of visitors. Looking for trespassers. Fast moves up the queue. Toolate to turn back. No one stops him. So far, so good. His disguise is working. In front of him, a key is activated. The door opens and closes. Letting someone in.

Fast is next. The door senses his presence and morphs to his kind. Asks for his key. Fast feels the shape that is asked of him. He presents his key, a ten-spike fork trying its luck in the door. It doesn’t open. A white guard approaches.

Fast feels what’s wrong. There’s a spike missing. He adjusts his key. The eleventh spike finds its place within the door. It belongs. The door opens. The white guard turns around.

Fast is in.

The shelter is perfect. Warmth and humidity are perfect.

Within minutes, Fast has found a place to nest.

Within hours, Fast has fulfilled his purpose.

Within days, Fast is dead.

His offspring have prospered.

His offspring have multiplied.

They’ll soon be discovered. They’ll soon be fought by the white guards. Fast’s offspring don’t care. Most of them are moving on to another shelter. Their Human host is about to -

- Atishoo -

The virus spreads.  Fast.