Parfum de mort (Original Short Story)
Breathe. Just breathe. That's what they say. They don't mention what to do if all you can sense in that breath is the stench of putrefying carcasses. All those people who cared so much about their appearances and being fashionable now lay strewn all around, a dash of the perfume of death spritzed onto their bodies. That smell multiplies by the minute and seems to seep in to every pore of my body. Desperate to be rid of it, I try to run away from them but it never leaves me, saturating more and more as I move through this locker room reeking of it. The more I inhale it, the sicker I feel. It's like the scent is ferrying a whole other organism with it through my system for I feel less like myself with each breath. Each inevitable breath thickens the haze in my brain as I become unable to think straight. The sound of footsteps registers suddenly and I instinctively raise the rifle in my hand. Turning around seems to be worthless as the overbearing perfume clogs my senses. A ...