We don’t know where it came from. The plague swept through our village seemingly overnight, turning our smiling abode into a basin of frightened tears and paranoia. Half of the homes are burned down now, the other half standing like skeletons under the black smoke.

When the elderly fell, we questioned the livestock. We checked them all, even butchered them out of desperation. We found nothing in the meat, no signs of the infestation. But the worms would only show near the end; it was impossible to see symptoms until it was too late. Our treatments provided no relief. Stricken with exhaustion until it burrowed from their skin, we had no choice but to let the grandparents perish alone. We couldn’t risk spreading it, however it was managing. We sent brave souls to accompanying villages for help and better medicine. Those who didn’t return tired and empty handed didn’t come back at all.

When the children fell sick, we questioned the water. We were unable to discern a difference between boiled and not, and despite our efforts we couldn’t find a way to halt the progression. There were no eggs, no signs to show how it bred. It just showed up, feeding off their insides until they had nowhere to go. The eyes were the most common exit, a wriggling you couldn’t even feel until someone pointed it out. The once soothing salty breeze from the coast is now a constant reminder of how alone we are.

When we burned the bodies, we questioned ourselves. Pyres in the thoroughfare, stacked high and smoldering with thick smoke. Watching it shrivel and pop in the fire is the only sure way to know it’s gone. We wore masks and heavy skins in fear of the smoke spreading it, stoking and shoveling in shifts to make sure it was eradicated. Even in our sacrifice the worms still persist, squirming and festering from within even though we don’t eat and drink. The raging flames secrete the ghastly groans of the departed, and the loud suffering of those not yet expired. Those who couldn’t work ended their lives, or the lives of others out of fear.

I am the last one left.

I do not know why I still tend to the fires, stoking the beacon of rot that is now our home. My shovel is my only companion, scooping the ash and breaking the bones to make room for another familiar face. The fire is hot and it bakes me under the mask. I think after tonight, I will let it go out. I’ve fed it for days now, but I’m growing too tired and the shovel is breaking.

The water is cool on my face. I sit on the shore, gazing into a reflection I no longer recognize.

I can see the worms.

The worst part is, it’s not the sight that disturbs me.

Alone on the beach, I wonder if there’s no scourge at all. Maybe they’ve always been there.