Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

A few weeks ago, every citizen died. Lungs caved in, brains spilled out. Office hours remained unchanged. Stiff corpses kept moving through crowded streets, dry mouths kept talking in raspy voices. Their rotten bodies are making the city putrid; the aftershaves and perfumes have long since become ineffective, now simply an overtone of bergamot and pine. Muscles are starting to fall off, eyes are melting from faces. I’m staying in my bed, not daring to breathe but with a gas mask on my face, hoping that the electricity inside my cracked skull will go away if I keep completely still.