“When the World is Running Down, You Make the Best of What’s Still Around.”
That’s an old song by The Police. It’s been stuck in my head ever since this began, once I understood the danger we were in.
My wife and I were among the cautious, but even though we didn’t take the “miracle cure” for aging right away, when it transformed into something contagious, everyone caught it.
Then came the side effect.
Aging decelerated, but so did we. Our senses, our minds—those still worked normally, but our metabolisms and muscles reached the point where our hearts only beat once a minute.
And moving? Moving was like trying to swim through setting concrete. We got slower every day. It’s impossible to even hold conversations now.
My wife finally snapped. She left the safety of the house, so I’ve been rushing—over the course of two days—to follow her to the front yard, where she’s fallen.
Unable to balance quickly to protect herself, I think she’s twisted an ankle, maybe broken something.
She landed in a bad spot, too. I’ve almost reached her, but with every passing hour I’ve had to watch as she slowly writhes beneath the ants swarming over her.
By now, I hope she’s at least gotten her eyes closed.
I’ve got bigger fears, though. A minute ago, I heard growls, like a roving wolf pack, and I felt teeth nipping into my heel.
It’s occurred to me that nobody in town has managed to feed their dogs in weeks.
To the dogs, we’re the best of what’s still around. We’re certainly the easiest to catch.