Bunker 88
With the heat of the white sun burning a mark on my forehead, I walk along the path to Our Lord’s bunker. Look there! At the top of that hill. Around me the scrub bushes hold vultures, too heavy and lazy to fly, too satiated with the blood of fellow travellers to attack (or so I hope). It’s only been a day since we’ve passed from safety’s gates. The vultures’ beady eyes bore through me; I’m left riddled and leaking. I trail my drips on the trail behind me, and thank God that there are no sharks. If I had never seen the birds before, I’d swear that they were basilisks, and I of stone. The bunker’s not getting any nearer. And then I notice, like a mist rising out of the missile silos, the light of God. I muster up a sloppy run, trusting that the pain will be finished soon, or, more likely, will finish me. He casts his light on me. I quicken but Oh! The birds! They come. They fly after me and I flee before them. Their cruel snatches at me and . . .