Leftovers
Eternal life was promised. Desperate, he trusted them. He woke up in a box. He remembered.
When the lid opened he knew something was wrong. It was there in the faces he tried to focus on, vision blurred with the sleep of fake death. The smiles they smiled were crammed with fangs.
“Success,” said the first. “He lives.”
“What year is this?” he asked.
“World War III ended a decade ago,” said the second. “No-one won.”
The cryogenics lab was a mess. Corpses with frost on their eyes littered the floor. Previous attempts.
A vampire’s refrigerator.