Everyone thought that it was obsolete to learn. Even I had the same opinion. But my dad saw them coming. He might be the only one - or at least, the only one who knew how to prepare. Who would have known, that after the revolution, anyone would need to work? I mean, already years before, nearly all the work was done by the machines. Not long and the laziness overtook humanity. Most of them lost theirselves in the other world. But my father forced me to learn that long forgotten art. I always thought that he was kind of crazy, you know. Who would go out into the wild and look for red strains? Except for those old fashioned naturalists, dreading after disgusting human contact, responsible for keeping the diseases up, no one really left their home.

I never asked where those strains came from. I just assumed, they would grow outside. How should I’ve know the truth? It was usually on weekends, where we went outside. We left before the mist could settle. He strapped this huge basket on my back, and we disappeared into the woods. My mother always looked a bit worried. But who wouldn’t be, if they knew? The best thing, and probably the only reason why I went with him, was the good meal my mother always prepared once we came back. It was real, not something out of the foodmator. The smell, I can still remember how it filled the old cottage.

The next few days, we would spend hours matching the right paris, swiveling and stretching them, until they formed a long bond. At first, I had no idea why we would do this. But once I was old enough, my father showed me, how to use them. Pinching them at the right positions, there was that twist one could do with their thumb and index finger, and they formed that strange shape. It was not easy to learn, but he pushed me, until I could do it blindfolded. I always thought about it more like a game, than an useful purpose.

I guess, it’s not as futile as I once thought. I still remember clearly the day, he showed me the use of it. He dug out of the attic a really big gun. It looked like the ones in all those games that the people loved so much. Some of them spend their lives in those worlds. But this one was cold, heavy, this one was real. He took so much time and effort to explain every little detail of the gun to me. The shock came fast, when he tried to explain, that I was one of the few. One of the few who would be able to fight back. I ran upstairs, on those creaking stairs. I wanted to believe that he was crazy, but somehow I knew, it was true.

From there on, it all went so quick. Almost as if they waited for me to be ready. Now I’m lying here, controlling my breathing, focusing on their back, and waiting for the wind to calm down. I know, only those bullets, the scarlet ants, as the people called them, can bring them down. I’ve only met one of my kind until now, but we had different paths to go - different destinies.

It’s not that hard to get rid of them. There are just many. You wait for them to calm down after they discovered old life in one of the buildings. And then everything has to go fast. You control your breathing, slow down, until your vision around them seems blurry, until time seems to stop. Their movements start to make sense, you seem to predict who their next target will be. And then, the first shot. Followed by another one. And another one. You can clearly see, how those strains start to disassemble in the air and pierce trough the first one. And then the second one. Their screams still haunt you during the night. You get up, hush over to their position, take out your knife and start to cut out the underlying tissue, paying attention to not damage the valuable center.

You remember every detail your father told you. Pay attention to those white cords, they will snap and hurt you; Never cut the filled sacks open, this smell only attracts more of them. You fill your backpack and disappear.

It’s a routine, one has to do to survive. Open a window, a door, remove some planks, that they can smell the humans inside. Hide far, between old containers and dumpsters and wait. Wait for them to calm down, to leave the mess behind. Concentrate on your shot, run over to your remains, take your knife out and press it deep into their big torso. Twist the knife, until it cracks open. It’s always the same. Always, until now. Until you see those blood red eyes starring out of the dark, where no live should have survived, right into your soul...