The world was a canvas of grey ash and silence. Elias was the last, he was sure of it. For weeks, he’d scoured the ruins, finding only bone and dust. Then, he saw it. Tied to the rusted skeleton of a bicycle, it bobbed gently in the stagnant air. A single, perfect, red balloon.
Its rubber was impossibly smooth, its color a violent slash of crimson against the monochrome decay. It was full, taut, not a single scuff or blemish. A relic of a world that had screamed itself to death. A beautiful, impossible lie.
He reached for the string, his grimy fingers trembling. The moment he touched the coarse twine, a deep, resonant hum vibrated up his arm, settling in his teeth. The balloon pulsed, a slow, languid heartbeat. He tried to let go, but his hand was locked fast. The hum became a whisper, not in his ears, but inside his skull. It promised color, music, a sun that wasn't blotted by smoke. It promised not to be alone.
He believed it. He let it lead him, a floating scarlet guide through the corpse of the city. But the whispers grew sharper, more demanding. The hunger in them was no longer metaphorical. He felt a terrible suction, a draining sensation starting in his fingertips. He looked down. The skin on his hand was turning grey, cracking, flaking away into nothing. He was being unmade, his very substance siphoned to keep the balloon's perfect, hungry form inflated.
He tried to scream, but the sound was stolen from his lungs before it could form. The balloon tugged him onward, a cheerful, bobbing reaper. It wasn't a savior. It was the