Post-Apocalyptic Sci-Fi
Time 20 Minutes
PROMPT: “Nuclear war has irradiated the planet, leaving little land that is safe to farm or graze animals. You are part of a surviving colony that is located in the last uncontaminated and fertile region, defending your territory from those who would kill for it.”
Yellow
Yellow tentacles unfurl from your back as the scent of humans approach. They are coming.
You are the first of a new species of hybrids, twisted and changed by the irradiation from the nuclear fall out. Many eyes along the new appendages glance in all directions to scout out the approaching varmint. The water is yours. It sings with a sweet voice, it’s melodies not mutilated like the other springs and rivers. It laps at your bare feet, soothing and pure.
The humans cannot hear the songs of nature, but their devices beep and chirp with data and electrical pulses. There is nothing natural about how dependent they are on things of their own make. Weak. Fragile.
A sharp pain strikes your shoulder. A bullet. Bubbling up comes a laugh, distorted from your inhuman vocal cords. They think you can be taken out by mortal weapons.
At last, they are in view. You innately know what to do. The knowledge comes from the patterns of the sun beams, the dancing of the motes of dust, and the ripples of the water.
Your tentacles stretch around you, eyes looking every which way.
The onlookers scream in confusion and distain. They have never seen the like of you before.
The screams feed you. The more they fear, the larger you become. Mass is shifting, transforming. Fangs of pure dread develop. Your yellow cloak merges with your skin. You see all, and the humans see you.
A hail of bullets rains down, sinking into your fleshy tentacles, some piercing the eyes sending gouts of blood to trail down in mesmerizing patterns in the water deep.
Too late, the humans realize their error. They have tainted the water against humans. Your blood is toxic to them. Their cries of despair elate you, fueling your growth even more. The sun absorbs into your writhing tentacles, transmuting into healing energy. Eyes regenerate and more tentacles sprout. This land is yours. None else shall take your claim.
The End