Sparkatale

In a prolonged, excruciating outcry of pure, primal agony as humanity slaughters itself from the inside. That is how it ends. It's not quiet. It's not loud. It's just painful and lengthy; kicking and struggling while suffocating slowly. It started quickly. That is not how it will end. Rocked by a deadly mutation of fatal proportions, ten survivors find themselves trapped on a fifty-mile long island in the middle of the Indian Ocean while the rest of the population rages in Lyssavirus fueled hysteria. Nobody knows if this virus is contained. If it spreads further than Copenvaan ―― further than African continent. As far as they are aware, they are in this alone. But it's not all just survival; that is the easy part. It is easy to let go, to let instinct take over. It's living that is far harder. For it asks: Just what makes you human? It asks: Just what, dare tell, makes you any different? Out there, there are people. They are not 'zombies'. They are not of the undead. They are people, living, breathing, but they are no longer human. They have become something else. And if they are not careful, so will they.