Flower Parasite

Story

The glossy brochures arrived first, showcasing blooms of impossible hues: sunsets captured in petals, moonbeams solidified into stamens. Flora Mirabilis, they were called, “miracle flowers,” and the world, weary of its own gray monotony, fell head over heels. Nurseries couldn’t keep the seeds in stock. Online marketplaces crashed under the weight of frantic orders. Everyone, it seemed, wanted a piece of this floral paradise. Gardens blossomed with Flora Mirabilis. Balconies, window boxes, even rooftops erupted in a riot of color. For a while, the world felt brighter, more hopeful. But the beauty was a siren’s call, hiding a dark secret. When the Flora Mirabilis finally bloomed, it wasn’t just petals that unfurled. It was something far more sinister. The pollen, finer than dust, was the vector of change. Inhaled unknowingly, it began its insidious work. At first, it was subtle: a strange lethargy, a slight disorientation. Then came the cravings – a deep, almost primal urge to be near other people, to bask in attention, before the attack. The infected became listless, their movements slow and purposeful, as if guided by an unseen hand. They moved with a disturbing single-mindedness, tending the plants, their eyes vacant, their voices reduced to a soft, repetitive murmur. They were no longer themselves. They were vessels for the Flora Mirabilis. But the horror didn’t end there. Unlike typical zombies, these infected were not simply reanimated corpses. They were hosts, and the flowers, it seemed, were not entirely dependent on them. The pollen, after settling, could coalesce into small, mobile tendrils, capable of moving independently for a short time. These pollen-creatures, small and spindly like miniature roots, could scuttle across surfaces, seeking new hosts to infect or returning to their original plants to reinforce them. They were a terrifying extension of the Flora Mirabilis, seeking to spread the infection even further.

story continued

The world descended into chaos. The infected, with their blank stares and, . They weren’t the ravening hordes of other apocalyptic tales, they were something far more subtle, far more insidious. They moved slowly, their only goal to be closer to the people, to catch and eat, because the flower crave flesh and blood to eat. The tiny pollen tendrils scuttled through the streets, unseen but always present, their touch bringing a swift, creeping corruption.