Flash Fiction

It looks like me, but it isn’t.

It’s killing everyone while wearing my face, but I can only watch in horror. I don’t move, and it doesn’t attack me. I don’t talk, and it leaves me alone. The quarantined island is slowly reshaped, reformed into its gross, biological makeup. I’m alive, yes, but fellow soldiers, my friends, have been removed. Everything has been stolen, copied, used and discarded, the base components of what defined life in the first place gone in the silent rush.

The island is just the first stage of its plan. If it escapes, the entire planet will be next. I clench my fists. It, the mimic, sends out a pulse, letting me know that it feels my defiant rebellion. It knows what is to come. I grab the one thing that it fears and it coalesces before me with my visage. It believes that by using myself against me it can win. Not anymore.

I aim. It leaps. I fire.

The explosive shot reverberates through every fabric of my being. I drop dead at my feet. But it isn’t me. It never was. My resolve returns, and I escape the facility. The world will know the truth. This nightmare cannot be repeated.