1
I woke up in Mario’s car, but this time it was the airbag that kept me pressed against the seat. It had happened again: with only two kilometers to go, another spore had triggered, and sleep had overtaken me. Perhaps I had had time to slow down before I passed out, but still I ended up against a light pole. The car was smashed, but I was sure Mario would not care.
I expelled the inert parasite through my nose; the fluid was less dense this time. I realized my distance from ‘Blink,’ the company of the aseptic clean room, and decided that the only option was to cover the remaining distance on foot.
The moment I processed this plan in my mind, I was enveloped by a deafening silence. I turned in on myself, scanning the desolate horizon. I was alone, completely alone. The apocalypse had not come with roar or bloodshed, as folk tales had always described it. Instead, had come on tiptoe, silent and insidious, leaving me as the only witness to that absolute emptiness.
2
I keep wandering on the road, in a constant cycle of nightmares and lucidity. When the fungus takes over, my dreams become havens of fulfilled desires. In moments of clarity, I clear the fruiting body of the fungus with an epileptic rush, gather supplies, update this journal and advance toward what I hope is my redemption: a place free of the invasive spores.
The road is a labyrinth of dangers, and escaping the illusion generated by the mushroom is becoming increasingly difficult. From seeking an escape from reality, now I desperately yearn to regain it.
I cannot even be certain of my supposed immunity to the fungus; it could be just another illusion. God knows, I may already be in a tree with the others, unaware of my true condition.
I navigate this existence with a conscious uncertainty, hovering between reality and illusion, not knowing how much time I really have left. But in the end, who does know?
yet another human apocalipse 