Dystopia

I've always enjoyed writing short stories in a dystopian society. Maybe it's the games I play, or the nihilistic outlook I have of life, but felt like I haven't written in ages, so I'll try and give it a go. 

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Thomas gazed out into the blinding shine of the snow against the morning sun. The blinds did little to block out the light, which flooded the run-down shack they spent the winter at. With so much time on their hands, yet not much else to do, Thomas and Bran only found solace in each other's company. 

Maybe it was time to move. Thomas had read a thousand comic books on the dead rising against the living, played a million games where he triumphed over the hordes of undead that crashed against his bunker, but he never imagined that his worst fear was not the dead, but the living. 

Not living humans. See humans are meat bags with empathy and love. We were selfish, we saw things as us against them, but at least there was an "us" in the first place. When they came from space, there was no "us" or "them". They came, They sought the living as sustenance, and They fought a damn good fight for it.

When They came, Thomas was with Jane at the mall. She had dragged him out all the way to shop for things they couldn't have afford as students, but Jane insisted that it was less about looking at the clothes, but just walking with him as the sea of passers-by flowed pass them, just as the stone parts the river. 

At least it happened so quickly Jane felt nothing at all. Thomas' thoughts were interrupted by Bran, who tapped his shoulder and signaled him to move. 

Bran was a mute. Thomas and Bran were able to communicate by sign language, a skill Thomas' father taught him while he was growing up. Bran was a year older than Thomas, and was working at a local fast food chain when They arrived. Bran's quick-thinking to hide in the freezer saved his life. Apparently They were afraid of the cold. 

For the majority of winter, Thomas and Bran were safe. Anytime a small group of Them approached the shack, the snow would deter them. But spring was coming, and time was running out. 

Bran pushed the cabin door hard, and the door slowly opened, pushing away the inch-deep snow that had accumulated at the entrance. 

The two of them made their way down the snowy hill peak, crossing a bridge to get to the pier. Rumors had it that the harbormaster was still there. He made a bunker of his control tower with near-unlimited supplies that could last him the rest of his lifetime. From there, he and his son would operate the ships to evacuate survivors who wanted to go to the mainland where the last of humanity, its world leaders, and the combined might of different nations' millitaries were sheltered. 

Thomas' inner monologue was interrupted once again by Bran, he turned around and put his finger up to his lip, a grim look on his face. 

Thomas instinctively knew what that meant. They were here.