In the Month of May

I watch the fog creep over the concrete, seeping into every open space it finds. It climbs up our legs, dancing around our ankles and twirling around our wrists.

We walk through unaffected, feeling the fog's weight seep into our skin, weighing us down, slowing our pace. We link hands but the fog nimbly wedges itself between the miniscule spaces between our fingers. We are surrounded.

"It's like a really bad zombie movie." I laugh, as do the others beside me, but we are all choked by the fog. Although we cannot hear each other's voices, we can feel each other's presence. We feel that we all agree. We take it lightheartedly, but we all shake inside at the strong similarities of what we are walking through to that fiction displayed on television screens.

We walk through the fog, hands locked together, a human chain, taking over the entire road. As we step through each inch, we are only surrounded by more and more deep weighted gray. I watch through careful eyes the sillohuetes beyond our reach, the only things strong enough to penetrate the gray twirling around us.

We step closer and closer. I can feel each of us attempting to crush the fog beneath the soles of our shoes, our eyes are staring into the ground, concentrating on keeping the gray still. As we step it twirls from beneath our feet at the last moment. It twirls and dances into our lungs like smoke.

As we step closer and closer, the sillohuetes become forms, marred facial features visible to our tired eyes. We walk and entertwine fingers, feeling each other's frightened pulses through the skin of our palms.

As we step closer and closer, the marred facial features become hanging flesh, rotten, free from the bone. As we step closer and closer, our pulses quicken.

As we step closer and closer, our once small joke becomes a reality.

"It's like a really bad zombie movie."