Nerve Rot

Note: Something I wrote based around things I saw in my head. Also based on Gemini Home Entertainment.

 Pentium 90 Nerve Rot transmits through cathode-ray screens. There is no cure for nerve rot. Death is the only antidote as of right now. The virus spreads through the web, downloads itself deep within the hard drive and CPU, settling in the motherboard completely undetectable. It ruminates for months before making itself known, sapping power from the PC. Slowdown starts as a symptom, errors in regular use, inability to use certain programs; the virus grows while the PC is on and lies in wait while the user begins shopping around for a new device. 

The user logs on for the final time. The virus travels to the monitor through the wires. The tower explodes, as does the screen, as the virus is propelled into the mind of whoever is near. In an instant, the user begins to shake. Their nerves are expelled out of their skin, detaching from the body, they exit through whatever orifices they can: mouths, ears, noses, an–in some cases–pores. The bones are eaten away, dissolving as the stomach acid gets rerouted, production pushed into overdrive until the body is a mass of wires, constantly flicking sinews of red emerging out of a pulpy blood mess. The skin is turned inside out and the mound shambles in its own fluids. 

I found her like this. She had had a friend over while I was gone. They became one, writhing in constant pain, whatever mouth equivalent they had screaming in agony. She was in my basement but she wasn’t her anymore. 

I’m the only one left now. There’s nothing here for me now.