by J. Bradley
It was a bright cold day in October, and the small gilded clock perched my windowsill chimed fourteen. I was watching the bustling crowd below, sipping on a teacup full of Victory Gin when the scream, no a howl, cut through the murmuring of footsteps and telescreens. I took the pocket telescope out of my bureau and saw blood spurting from the woman's neck, and...teethmarks? The woman collapsed after a couple of minutes then slowly picked herself up. She was walking like a doomed Eurasian toward the nearest man and then bit his arm. (We are at war with Eurasia. We have always been at war with Eurasia.). Perhaps this is the will of Big Brother or perhaps this is another treacherous plot by another plot by Goldstein, that blasted traitor. The telescreen in the living room kept touting the latest triumphs by our boys on the Malabar front, saying nothing about what was going on.
“That works on the propaganda side of things, Michaels, but what about the health concern, the consequences of this sickness? The Party needs total, devoted belief, not mindless, cannibalistic belief. You cut a gangrenous limb off before it affects the body,” said Comrade Holdings.
“What are you saying?”
“The attacks are only happening in one sector. If we firebomb it, say it was a Eurasian attack, we could stop the infection from spreading. A thousand lives lost is better than ten thousand lives, wouldn't you agree?”
“But my family...”
“Comrade Michaels, are you engaging in ownlife right now, or worse, crimethink?”
“I'm sorry, comrade, you are right. This...is for the good of the Party.”
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This a mash up of the universe of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four and zombie fiction. Enjoy.