by Jen Mierisch
Back then, my job was to strip the corpses and bundle clothes for reuse. I tugged shoes and tossed them towards the heap.
On one shoe, a word was written, red dots against green: HELP. Our six-eyed Masters could not see colour.
Glancing around, I pried up the insole. The space held a key, an address, and a fervent request: deliver nitric acid to help build the weapon that would set us free.
Nowadays, I have all the sugar water I can drink, and a sunny apartment aboveground. The Masters may be ugly, but their rewards for loyalty are lovely.
Jen Mierisch draws inspiration from science fiction, ghost stories, and the wacky idiosyncrasies of human nature. Her work has appeared in Horla, Dream Noir, 50-Word Stories, 101 Proof Horror, and elsewhere. She lives, works, and writes just outside Chicago, Illinois, USA. Read more at www.jenmierisch.com.