Tears ran down your eyes as you sat down in the empty hallway. Your chest ached, from all the grief and terror that had stricken you so. Chaos had fallen to the city, yet in the quiet hall that you had hidden within, it was as if the order of the world hadn't been upended. The halls were clean of litter and the lights above continued to glow and buzz with electricity.

It started about three months ago. They didn't know how, where, and when it started, but it was only then that symptoms became apparent. At first, it was just one person who walked underneath a construction zone; a brick fell from a great height and pulped that poor person's head. It was then they found that the person wasn't flesh, but cake.

Panic and paranoia swept throughout the city. Cakes. Cakes were among us. How many of their ranks had been replaced with cake? Which one of them did not have blood flow in them, but fudge and cream instead? It could be anyone, even the closest people to you. It seemed that Candyland had made a move against them.

At the same time, whatever culinary programming was written into their biology began to activate. Various crimes began cropping up, and many of the perpetrators were found to be cake. Houses were burning, people were murdered, and key buildings were sabotaged by these cake-filtrators.

Mass hysteria ensued. Many were sent to the hospitals after being stabbed and cut to see whether they were cake inside. Many were relieved from seeing blood and guts within their loved ones, but just as many collapsed at the realization of their cakely fears. Looking at someone wrong could ignite a brawl in the streets. Even at home, even after you've proven yourself to be made of flesh, you're not safe. What if you've been replaced with a cake-plicate while everyone was sleeping or wasn't looking?

You could clearly remember the fate that had befallen your roommate. It was the week when all the madness began, when you and your roommate began to question your makeup. Each of you held a knife in hand and cut a small incision on your palms. Both of you saw flesh underneath your skin and blood in your veins, which put great relief into your hearts. You could remember that big bright beam in his face, so wide and big that it reached all the way to his ears. It was a bonding moment that made you closer to each other, more than any moment before that.

Yet, it was only three days before this faith in the flesh crumbled so tragically. You were coming home from a grocery run that time when you saw a trail of chocolate fudge and cake crumbs going up the stairs of the apartment complex. You held the hatchet tightly in your hand as you silently followed the trail up the steps and found it, to your horror, lead into your apartment.

You slipped your key into the keyhole, and the door clicked open. Slowly opening the apartment, you found the apartment dark but otherwise intact. The trail of fudge and crumbs led to the bathroom, which was lit. You could hear sobbing inside. It was a blubbering stuttering sob that you could only attribute to grief and horror. Repeatedly, in between breaths, you could hear "I'm not cake; I'm flesh." It was unmistakable. You could recognize the crying one as your roommate.

You reached toward the bathroom door and pulled it wide open with the hatchet in your hand raised high, ready to strike upon the monster within. You saw the trail lead to your roommate, collapsed in front of the sink, standing in a puddle of chocolate. He was chewing on his hand as if such efforts would undo the truth that had been revealed here. He was cake.

He turned his head towards you, and you saw that half of it was a broken mess. The marbled cake had crumbled from what appeared to be a strike to the face while fudge dripped down from the giant wound like blood. Chocolate fudge trailed down his one remaining eye like tears. You were hesitant to bring down your hatchet upon the suffering creature, but the moment it bared its claws and teeth towards you, that sympathy evaporated. You cut it down, cut it down, to many slices and chunks, and stomped upon the remains until no part of the cake still twitches.

A dirty pile of crushed cake drenched in chocolate fudge now lay on the floor. Disgust overcame you, and you felt an urge to spit at the broken corpse, but you resisted. You pick up a dustpan and began shoveling the dessert remains into the toilet.

You sat on your bed afterwards, not even remembering that your hands and pants were dirty with fudge. You placed your face into your hands while silent tears ran down your cheeks. As you lifted your face from your palm, doubt began to nag into your ears. You looked intently into your palms, poring over every detail, but you couldn't determine it fully without cutting yourself.

You bring the hatchet to your hand and cut an incision into your palm. Your hand shook and your eyes closed, afraid of what may be revealed. Slowly, you open your eyes, peering upon the self-inflicted wound, and saw...

... Blood and red meat.

You even licked the cherry-red fluid leaking through the cut just to confirm that you didn't have have cranberry sauce flowing in your veins, and what a great relief it was to taste literal blood. It was slightly sweet with a hint of metal, not a blast of sweetness and fruitiness that would be characteristic in a cake or candyman. You confirmed that your composition hadn't changed in the three days since you've checked. You dearly hope that it would remain that way for the rest of your life.

*Knock. Knock.*

You are violently taken back to the present by the sounds of banging on a nearby door. You rapidly stand up and ready your chosen weapon. Blood races through your veins, and your muscles tense with anticipation. You hear moaning and groaning emanate from behind the door, clearly indicating that whatever was behind it was a zom-cake.

There was a crusade that against cakes some time ago that led to the revealing of many cakes that walked among you. While many were beaten and crushed under club and blade, just about as many escaped the wrath of the populace. They now skulk in the less visible parts of the city like walking corpses, hiding and hunting in dark streets and sewage canals.

A fire axe lays in your shaking hands. Your old hatchet has served you well in the previous months, but alas, an accident has led to you losing it, dropping it into a pond. Nevertheless, although the fire axe has only served you for a scant week, it has served quite wonderfully in your bid for survival in the dying city. The scratches and crumbs caked upon its head are evidence of its great service towards you.

Soon enough, the door slams wide open, and the zom-cake pounding upon the wooden door falls prone before you. You smite the cake-plicate with your axe, splitting it in half, striking with enough force to cut through the cakeflesh and chop into the tile below. You stomp on the cake-plicate for good measure, and now that leaves you with an unrecognizable mess of cake, chocolate, and cream.

You pant. The fear and terror drained from your being, but...

"Over here. I can hear something," you hear the sound of cake-plicates clawing through the halls. You hear their footsteps rapidly approaching your location. You're not safe here anymore. You must run.

You pick up your pack as you began running away from the source of the sounds. Their shouts and scratches followed you in pursuit. You sneak a few peeks behind you, but not once have you glimpsed the cakey mob approaching you. You know they're coming from just around the corner, but you cannot afford to wait and confirm the creatures that are chasing you are zom-cakes. You... just have to trust your gut.

You find yourself in a large office with many big desks. Paperwork was strewn about as though the people that were once working here ran away in a panic. You see a fire exit here, but before climbing out to the emergency exit, you blocked the door to the large office.

The metal underneath your feet rings with every forceful step you took on the fire escape. You descend down a couple of floors until you land your feet on a dingy alley by the side of the building. You turn for a moment to the door you just exited, and to your relief, there's no mob of shambling cakes filing out the fire exit in the next few seconds.

After taking a moment to breathe, you begin running.

--==^****^==--

You spread your blankets on the tiles floor. You find shelter in a leased office inside a three-storey building. Although the wall facing the hall and the outside are made of glass, the tall metal filing cabinets obscuring the office from the outside view give you a sense of security. You've scoured the many spaces for lease in the buildings but this one is the few that fit your criteria for comfort and safety: it's not on the ground floor, and the inside is not easily viewable from the outside.

It's been many hours since your run from zom-cakes in the cooperative office. The afternoon has since transitioned into dim dusk. The once bright mint sky has now been painted in ruddy tangerine.

The dimming sunlight makes the vacant buildings all around more apparent. Despite electricity still flowing through the wires, not a single building could be seen with a bright lit window. The only source of illumination all around is from the lamp posts that line the street below. This darkness and silence bring you a modicum of relief; it indicates that you've found yourself far from cakes and hostile non-cakes.

Which is, you suppose, why you chose this location. This building was built along a long-disused road, riddled with potholes. Back before the cake calamity, this road experiences little to no traffic, but in the zom-cake apocalypse of today, it experiences even less than that. It was the perfect location for hiding!

A pile of glowsticks provides enough light for you to operate in the dark office; you dare not turn on the lamps, lest you signal to hostiles your location. The electric kettle and rice cooker quietly cook your dinnertime in one corner while you rifle through your pack for a change of clothes. You lay resting on the makeshift bed, thinking of your plan to move forward.

Tomorrow, you will have to move again. The city is no longer a place to stay. You miss the time when you could stay in one place. You could be in comfort and grow familiar to your surroundings, but in this new world, such things are luxuries you couldn't afford. Even you staying in this building is a luxury that may be hurting your budget.

And that's not taking into account the still incoming candymen invasion. You know it's coming. This cake phenomenon has their fingerprints over it. Caramel weeds and sugar grass are now growing in the cracks of civilization. You shudder at the thought of a horde of gingerbread men roving the streets and icing the city under truckloads of buttercream. It cannot be long now.

You have to leave this city... and then go where? You could run to the neighboring cities, but would they let you into their defensive walls? You fled a city being overrun by candymen follies, how could they let you in their walls without concerns for their safety? They'd more than reject you, they'd accuse you of being a frimtered one and burn you at the stake. Such was the frightening power borne by Candyland. They cannot afford the machinations of candymen to enter their midst.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Perhaps the great forest in the northeast. It's the only place you could think of that might give you shelter from the oncoming sugary tide. You'd have to stay away from the cities and live on you're lonesome.

Tomorrow, you will run, run away from this sundered city.

--==^****^==--

The first rays of morning are yet to shine when you skulked through the alleys of the city. The shadows of these great edifices veil you, hopefully hiding you from candied sight. You avoid the big avenues, the great highway, in favor of the smaller less-trodden-upon side streets.

You padded your pack with cloth, but even that doesn't completely muffle the clattering of stuff inside. You take long strides through the streets, sneaking through the city. You occasionally have to take turns when you find some streets occupied "people."

The hard ground below you crunches at your pounding feet. The more concerning thing however is the proliferation of candy flora in the city. Where there was one bare concrete, you could now spy slimy caramel growing like lichens and black licorice climbing like ivy. It wasn't long until you spied streets being repaved with fondant and street poles being uprooted and replaced with candy canes.

The invasion is here. Though you're quite thankful you're yet to see a shred--

"What do we have here?" A firm hand arrests your movement. You turn. The face of the creature caused your stomach to drop. It's a candyman made of what appears to be lime gummy. Its malicious smile bares its shark-like crystal teeth. You try to get away from the candyman, but its gummy flesh has gripped your shoulder too hard for you to pull away.

"Well, looks like I'll be having a pay-- Ahh!" The candyman screams when you bit into its arm. The arresting hand loosens its grip, and you manage to escape its grasp. You take your axe and begin swinging it at the surprised candyman.

It's quite lucky for you to face against a gummy candyman. The axe shears through its soft lime-flavored tissue, almost cutting it in half. Its legs lose strength and it falls lying on the ground. Its grape eyes look at you with fear, at your raised axe, ready to chop it into many ineffectual pieces.

"Wait wait wait!" It pleads, but you don't heed it. Your axe falls, cleaving the gummy man. There was no blood. This candyman bore no blood or any fluid facsimile to that of blood. It now lays by your feet, devoid of life and animating force.

You wipe the edge of your axe free of sticky sugary substance. You run. You must run. If there was one candyman already waiting for you to pass by, others can't be far behind. The city's edge is near.

The day has continued to lighten with every minute until the first rays of morning have begun to grace the tops of high-rise buildings. The darkness above slowly changes color, from blackcurrant to maize. It would soon transition into mint, but you know you should be by the wall by then.

Soon enough, you catch a glimpse of the glorious concrete wall that surrounds and protects the city. It looms over all the other buildings nearby, standings at an imposing ten-storeys tall. Its top sported barbed wires, deterring those that seek to surmount the grand edifice. Watchtowers made of the same characteristic design and concrete punctuated the perimeter wall.

You peer at the walls, looking left and right, gauging danger that might be hiding right behind the corner. Then you examine the wall itself. It's a magnificent construction. The thought of its great protective prowess being subverted by foreign forces brings unending sadness. Simply tragic.

Beyond tiny clumps of sugary weeds growing in the cracks, you don't see any sign of further candyman influence. The watchtowers are vacant of either diligent watchmen or treacherous cake-plicates.

Seeing no danger before, around, and behind you, you run towards the nearest watch tower. Its door has been forced open, but peering yond the portal, you don't see any signs of recent habitation. You see piles of cake crumbs and puddles of chocolate and jam, but they're old and dry and some are already moldy and gross. A fine layer of dust has begun to cover the surfaces and you see no prints disturbing the layer.

Looking up, you see stairs spiraling around the tower, rising until it reaches the top. It hasn't been used in some time, evident from all the cobwebs and dust accumulating in the stairwell. You take one cautious step on the stair and found its concrete steps solid and firm beneath your boot.

With confidence, you begin ascending the stairwell. The sound of your boot walling on rough concrete steps echoes in the fluorescent-lit well while the railings ring as you gripped it as you rose.

You slowly but surely ascend the many steps, conserving a modicum of energy for the yet to come, and soon enough, your feet graces the top of the tower. The ghastly state of the top floor welcomes your eyes. The furniture are scattered around in disarray while the ballista stationed here is in pieces. There are stains of both fruit preserves and blood scattered all about while chunks of cakeflesh litter the room. You've been getting used to the sickly sweetness growing in the air, and the smell of rot has certainly sobered you up.

The top of the wall is a magnificent sight. The world outside expands as far as you can see; a sea of avocado-green grass stretches into the distance where it terminates, meeting forest or mountain. Concrete railings prevent you from falling into the briar patch of steel barbs and subsequently down the edge of the tall wall. You admire the thickness of the wall; such is its width that a well-trodden path connects every watchtower on the wall. Peering over the edge, you could catch a glimpse of the ditch that surrounds the entire city.

You exhale, expelling a bit of discomfort and doubt that's been growing on your chest. You produce a coil of rope from your pack and begin tying it firmly to a post. After some experimental pulls, you confirm the secureness of the knot. You throw the rope over the edge and over the barbed metal brambles. The end of the rope falls far below you but is short a few meters before reaching the dirty moat below.

The barbed wire serves as a defense against creatures attempting to surmount the great wall, but in your case, you had to carefully weave through it lest it impales you with its numerous spikes. You're quite thankful for your thick clothing. If you have not worn them, you're sure that your whole body would've been riddled with deep bleeding wounds. Hours ago, you remember wearing them to protect you from the great chill of the pre-morning, but now, you're praising them under your breath for their sacrifice.

You pass through steel brambles and emerge precariously balanced on the concrete edge. The cool wind blowing from the mountains curbs the growing excitement growing in your heart. With the rope in hand, you begin rappelling down the vertical face of the wall.

Your hand burns from holding the rough rope too tight, but great fear reinforces its tight grip. It's the first time you're climbing down a structure in such a manner and height. Your legs have seemingly been transmuted into jelly from the terror that's growing heavier in your chest, wobbling. Your pack weighs you down like a stone strapped upon your back, like the clawed hands of gravity are dragging you down to the ground, but you persevere. The stretch of bare dirt at the bottom of the wall offers you no cushion and the ditch filled with dirty greasy water wishes you no comfort. You simply have to hold tight to the rope and gently descend upon its length.

Your hands grow more and more slippery the further you descend. When you reached the end of the rope, you forget that it ended a little high, and the rope that held you against gravity slipped from your grasp. Too late did the realization come that your hands attempted to grasp beyond the end of the rope. You fall. Your hands reach up, towards the rope that's growing more distant with every moment. Your eyes widen. You open your mouth to scream, but you stop yourself from vocalizing the terror.

Dull pain spreads throughout your body as you impact the hard earth. Although the fall isn't as high as you feared, only around thrice your height, there are many ways it could have gone badly. The impact crushed the pack on your back, but it has cushioned you from the worst of the fall. The many hard items you carried bruised your back, but did nothing as bad as deep wounds or broken bones.

You quickly stand up, looking around to take account of possible witnesses. You endure the agony that radiates from your pack pressing against your bruised back. You see nothing.

A smile burst in your mouth, pressing back the urge to laugh and giggle. You mustn't falter now. You step forward, towards freedom. It lies just past the big ditch. The tall swaying grass will hide you.

--==^****^==--

Thick white clouds rolled in, covering the blue sky above. Fine sugar fell from the sky like snow. It sprinkled over the city, coating every exposed surface with white sugar. Captain Apple Steamed Pudding paced down the streets with an ugly grimace carved into his face.

"Damn," Captain Steamed Pudding remarked as he gazed up to the now white skies. "We needed that literally hours ago. Maybe even days."

The captain walked through streets converted for candyman use. He trod on streets paved with fondant and sidewalks carved from chocolate. He passed by industrious cadets covering buildings with buttercream and ganache. The buildings in this portion of the city were being converted for candyman use. He could see piles of wafer tiles, panes of sugar glass, and various technical parts casted from specially formulated candy steel.

Steamed Pudding entered a wide avenue where he saw a group of candymen tending to a large throng of cakes. The cakes were in various states of destruction, from being relatively whole to some making a good zombie impression. He could see the cake-ticians mend those broken cakes with cake scraps, caramel, and modeling chocolate.

"Argle-farble, sir!" It was the men that he had sent to look for the out-of-control prototype cake-filtrator. Steamed Pudding tried to keep his hopes up, but considering all the things that were going wrong in this operation so far, he prepared himself for disappointment.

"Argle-fimble, candymen," he replied. "Report!"

"We didn't find it, sir. The cake-dar was useless. While we came across many throngs of uncontrolled cakes, we couldn't find any trace of the experimental cake-filtrator. We tried to trace its last known location, but the surveillance and census systems were one of the first few to break in the cake-lamity," Private Cranberry Doughnut answered.

The apple slices that were his eyes morphed into angry wedges. Captain Steamed Pudding massaged his temples as a big headache threatened to burst into being. It was supposed to be a covert operation: get in, get the rogue experimental cake, get out; but it exploded into a migraine-inducing calamity. They had to take this damned city or else Factoryland is going to become anxious for new methodologies Candyland obviously doesn't want them to know.

"Good work, boys," he commended them. "Keep looking though. It might still be in the city," he said before dismissing them.

"Afrim-tim, sir," the motley crew went on their ways. Captain Apple Steamed Pudding could only sigh in attempt of relieving the growing annoyance.

Perhaps the lookouts had a better time spotting it. Captain Steamed Pudding turned to their base of operations. The building had formerly served as a post office prior to their occupation, but now bore a facade of frosting and sprinkles. The emblem of the Candyland Military hung above the entrance, molded from hard fondant.

"Technician Pineapple Pizza, have the lookouts reported anything?" He asked.

Technician Pineapple Pizza turned from his seat. His hands continued to fiddle with all the knobs and buttons on the console despite the distraction. Various blinkers and screens flashed and showed glimpses of distant things. Half of his ears still listened for updates relayed by his headphones.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Pineapple Pizza sadly informed. "Though Lookout Groups Plum and Mangosteen have engaged and captured a couple wandering groups of cityfolk. They're being processed for delayed onset frimtery and cake molding."

"Good. Protocols," Captain Steamed Pudding absently remarked. "By the way, what's with the weather? It's supposed to arrive literally hours ago."

"Factoryland sent a squad of bombers to strike on various military bases and installations. They struck on several exposed bases as well as some hidden ones we didn't expect them to know. This delayed, disabled, and canceled several services and requests."

"Oh frimter me," the captain growled. "First, the strike on the secretive bakery sciences lab, now the meteorological installation. Am I cursed, technician?"

"Oh, micrien-vim, captain. It would have appeared on the scan three days ago."

"Afton-tim, technician. Continue your good work," the captain bade. "I'll inspect the captured cityfolk in case that we actually already have the experimental on hand."

--==^****^==--

You sit on a rather pointy rock. You have run deep into the forest, away from any civilization that you know of. You hear the babbling brook flowing nearby while the giant trees set their expansive shade over you.

You sit on the pointy rock with barely any clothes on. Bright red blood drip from many open wounds. Many of them are carved by enterprising barbed plants and sharp rocks, but just about as many are self-inflicted.

You pant as you held your knife rather unsteadily. You have checked all over your body, to really ascertain your uncakely composition, but your mind couldn't be quieted by just one or two fleshy wounds. The knife descends on your upper arm, cutting the last wound that would be on your body.

Your mouth morphs into a smile as you see blood drip out of a crevasse with walls of flesh. You lick the cherry-red liquid, and it tasted exactly like blood. You can't fully describe the joy that overcame you.

You erupted into laughter. You are flesh, not cake. All of you are flesh, not cake. No part of you is cake or sweets.