Insane Or Broken, But Very Much Dead - Update 31/03/16

[Iron Aquilifer]

What do you see in that picture? Do you see an ocean, the waves roaring passion? Do you see beneath the ocean, the forgotten mountain-ranges of the deep below where tears reveal the bubbling inferno churning beneath the crust? Or perhaps it makes your eyes rise? Do you see a cloud, formed of human industry and inhumanity? Do you see the sky, scorched forever by what hairless apes achieved in their endless desire to rid the planet of themselves? Or perhaps you see earth, blazing red emotion and burgundy wine, orange flame and yellow wealth? Or do your eyes rise further still? Do they ascend to the heavens, to the city of clouds? Do you see our maker in those ragged lines? The resting place of a world now lost to us?

If you do, then what of the few who refused to leave our broken world? Those insane enough to give up peace in favour of a dead world?

Is this a tale? A fable for the empty night? An illusion to excuse inaction? Questions, so many questions. Not all questions are answered. Indeed, not all questions have answers. There are answers without questions, silent foragers of the mind. They can be assigned to an answerless question, a benign mistake on which our very existence is created. Yet, if the mistake is to be rectified, what happens to the everythingness created as a result of the union? Questions, a gentle pondering for the long hours.

This is a single journey, a snapshot of an everything now gone, or going to be gone. This has happened. This will happen. This is happening now. We cannot contemplate what is, what was, what will, nor can an answer join a question with certainty. There is no certainty. No certainty when speaking of the mind.

Contents

Chapter One - Noise On the Road Chapter Two - A Day For Hunters Chapter Three - The Peace Of A Walk Chapter Four - Measuring Relics And Pretty Things Chapter Five - Standing As Champion Of The Old World Chapter Six - An Understanding Of Life Chapter Seven - Singing The Chorus Chapter Eight - Intervention By A Machine

[Iron Aquilifer]

Noise On The Road
5 Days Since An Encounter


One step. A pause. Another step. Pause. Step. Pause. Step. A heavy sigh. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. Pause. Stop.

Noise. It was soft, subtle. More a change in pressure than anything audible. Yet it was as noticeable to his ears as the crunch of his Geiger. There was something behind him. Something closing in on him. Feral.

The sun’s orange flame was just beginning to rise from behind the charred hills of the east, although still hidden from his sight by the skeletal remains of the skyscrapers towering before him. In this grey darkness, this fog of false light, he could not see anything. However, he did not rely on his sight.

Hand tight against his side, the lone wanderer made his way forwards, searching for some place to name sanctuary. There was no hope in outrunning whatever it was that closed in on him, something driven forward by hunger. There was no desire more primal than that. The need to survive, to flee the dark fangs of death could not compare to the insatiable energy brought about by the scent of prey to a starving stomach. No, he had to put an inch of steel between him and the noise.

He found a bus, the veined claws of Mother Nature already grasping its flanks. Pulling himself through one of the windows, the cowering figure squeezed himself in to one of the overhead luggage compartments. Quickly, trembling fingers making the frantic exercise as hard as a good night’s sleep, he pulled out a gun. The pistol had started to rust despite his best efforts, however at this moment it was still the closest thing he had to a friend. A friend who could be relied upon. Very much the last of his breed.

The noise crept closer, a frothing wave on his senses. Louder and louder and louder. There was no words, no guttural call to give away the hunter and yet he knew that it was there. It was real, as real as the spider reaching out for the end of his outstretched hand, pincers tasting ripped cotton and the cold metal of the pistol. It was the harsh hiss of a thousand beetles, the clink of metal, the grinding of bone on unyielding stone. Louder. Closer.

Nothing. Silence.

He let out a breath, slowly, one molecule at a time. Every muscle was tensed, his ears strained to catch the tell-tale expulsion of air. He could hear the distant soft beat of gull wings, see the dust hang suspended in the air. His tongue wormed over the fissures of his lips, sticking as it rolled over the sand-paper remains. And yet, the noise was gone. No movement, save for the graceful dance of the spider over the ridge of his thumb, down the slope to his wrist.

It had been a minute, an hour, when he finally forced himself to act. As if rusted, a statue in mockery to hope, he suffered through the dull throb as muscles realigned. Awoken, they screamed out in protest. Stay, they seemed to whisper, tugging at the raw nerves. Stay and rest. Sleep. Do not go on. Yet he went on, pistol leading the way.

Spinning this way and that, he searched for whatever had made the noise. It had been close, too close to have been the imaginations of a feverish mind. Too loud for the pounding rush of his blood behind the ear. There was something nearby. Something patient.

Maybe he saw it first, maybe it had been waiting for him to find it. Their eyes locked. Two fiery pits gazed at him, red lust and golden ambition. They did not blink, those bright stars of pain, of hunger, of desire. No, he blinked first. He blinked, and it charged.

Materialising out of the undergrowth, it came at him on all fours. Muscles pulsated as it lunged out every stride, never breaking eye contact. Tasting his fear, inhaling it in to its heaving lungs, the nightmare barrelled towards him.

His pistol met the charge with the death cry of a chained daemon. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Four shots rang out, red flowers blossoming out of the muscle and ruptured tissue. Maybe it still came at him, its dry heart still beating a torturous rhythm, the brain too damaged to understand the signals being passed to it. Unable to regard pain for the death keel that it was, the being ignored the sensation from the holes twisted out of its body as it padded across broken tarmac and weeds. Maybe it paused, knowing that the ringing sounds meant that it no longer lived. Whatever went on inside its dusty mind was of his concern. No, what mattered was that a round had carved through one of its front limbs, shattering bone and splitting sinew as it span out of the cracked flesh that still clung to its frame.

Crumbling, the limb took the rest of the body with it. A cry went up. Animal. Human. It was the wail of a mother over the carcass of her child, the shriek of a boy castrated with fire, the choking of a grandmother over the barrows of all she had known. It was death given voice, misery and suffering allowed an ear-shattering moment to vent a world’s pains in a second. It was a terrifying call. The most gruesome cry of all.

He shuffled towards the beast, careful to keep his weapon aimed directly where the soft-beating heart used to be. It snapped at him, sharp teeth dripping blood and stringy saliva. A tongue, fat and limp, pointed at him in meek accusation. Raising its ruined limb, the taloned paw twisted back on the arm, the beast tried to swipe at him. Rolling on to its front, it pulled itself forward. All the time it stared at him, those two burning pyres of unchained primal need, unsated even in death.

He fired again.

Again.

Again.

Holstering his pistol, the survivor drew a blade. It was a heavy knife, more cleaver than dagger, stained dull from overuse. Placing the point against the wafer skin of the corpse’s throat, he began to saw. There was never enough time to take stock of what had happened, of how he had lasted to take one more breath. No, he moved. To stop, to assess, was as deadly as a bullet through the eye. So he sawed the throat half-through before filing through the deformed creature’s rags, searching with no expectation for something that might be of use. When it came up that only dirt could be looted, he finally rose back to his feet.

Wiping his blade half-clean, he found himself hawking up acid in a moment of weakness. Spraying the dead thing with the drained insides of his stomach the loner left without any more delay. The sun was already beginning to peak over the high-rising husks that once housed thousands. Time was not with him.

Drinking in the stale rot of vegetation, the man pointed himself in the direction he hoped would take him deeper in to the city. Or closer to the outskirts. As long as it was further away from where he had been, then he was stumbling in the right direction. The chore of placing one foot in front of the other was offset by the fear of what would happen if he didn’t. It was as if his body understood without the mind dwelling on it, both too scarred to let anything sway them from their course.

Survive, they seemed to say without words. We are going to survive.

[Zeion]

Cool.

Quite heavy, like a taste of a rich, full wine.
Dense atmosphere, almost a bit uneasy/uncomfortable, but I mean that in a good way. I like when these apocalyptic settings, which have become - admittingly - a bit stale recently, have a fresh air of honest discomfort in them. So that it does not become the typical "strong hero saves them all", but rather a troubled, potentially weak protagonist struggling with himself and the world arround him.

Keep it up, will certainly follow this.

[Alwyn]

I agree wiith Zeion and I'm enjoying this. The staccato sentences and the tight focus, so that we only see/know a little bit of information and our field of view expands slowly, create a powerful atmosphere. I look forward to seeing where this story goes and hope that, when more chapters are up, you'll consider entering this for the Monthly Creative Writing Competition.

[Iron Aquilifer]

A Day For Hunters
Seven Days Since An Encounter

The sun was arcing over the skyline, harsh beams of warmth casting the darkness back in to the deepest of corners. In one of these shadows, these refuges for life, the wanderer sat, eyes glaring out at the road below. The remains of a bedroom. The vague memory of a bedroom, was littered around him. A metal frame, autumn leaves of rust cascading to the floor, was surrounded by linen fouled with human waste. Stiff red patches faced off against black marks, a canvas telling of a life that was no more, torn apart by desire. Cupboards, hacked by axe and fist and claw, lay in various states of disassembly. There were no clothes, no signs of habitation other than that wordless understanding that life once thrived here. Thrived in blissful ignorance before being extinguished so suddenly that the world was still unable to keep up, the souls still calling out as if alive. A miasma was draped across the room, the pungent scent of forgotten decay burning shut his nasal passage. And yet it was here that he was safe. Here he could rest.

Leaning his body against the outer wall, the man waited out the light. He couldn’t sleep, wrapped in darkness as he was. Not even at three stories above the street. To do so was to invite death in to the room, to challenge the spirits of the damned to find him. Find him they would. Such a challenge demanded an answer and Death had yet to fail. Being awake did not keep him alive, but it was a lot safer than closing his eyes.

Who are you? The dust seemed to ask. Why are you here? It was a whisper of mice, the ripple of leaves in a breezeless forest.

In the end, as eventual as the ice-touch of death itself, sleep must have taken him unawares, a cloaked wraith catching him when he had his back turned. Listening to the muted howls from below, to the beetle-click and snake-hiss, the soft tread of paws and the crunch of bone and ripped sinew as some nightmarish daemon feasted, he allowed himself to drop his guard. Those sounds did not possess the same hold they once did. No, it was the chirping of birds which gripped his soul. It was the soft call of a kitten that froze his blood, the sweet song of something that wanted only for its mother.

He woke to the sound of gunfire. Not the irregular spitting of a pistol, of bullets being fired off as another unfortunate found themselves sniffed out of their hideout during the day. No, this was not the sad song of someone trying to prolong their life by yet another heartbeat. This was the battle cry of someone who knew what he was doing. It was an all-too alien symphony to the wanderer’s ears.

Heaving himself up, the man pressed himself against the wall. Looking around his makeshift camp, the loner let out a breath. Nothing had been touched. Pulling himself towards the closest window, a small square where people once looked out to see a glazed world. Without the glass, the survivor could see the world for what it was. Grey. Dark.

For a moment it looked as if a grey sea had washed in to the street, surging towards this lone statue of green and brown. Then the snarls dragged themselves up the wall to his ears, a snapping and a howling that rose and fell like some ocean squall. Below, the writhing mass of limb and claw channeled itself forwards, ever forwards. And like all waves, it dashed itself against the rock.

Maybe this gunman could have made it. In that brief hesitation as his eyes adjusted to the distance, the watcher allowed his thoughts to dip their toes in that drying well of hope. And yet it was not enough. Despair’s desert once more seeped in through the cracks. You idiot. The gunner blazed away at the sea which came crashing down on him, trying to swat at a locust swarm with skeletal hands.

He did not want to watch the rest of it. No, instead he slide back down to the floor and let his ears retell the story. The wails and shrieks of pain, too shrill, too primal to be man. That heavy clang as car roofs played host to parkour. The soft sigh of a blasphemy. Another thunderous chorus as the rifle blazed away. And then all that was left was the thud thud thudding as the sea washed ever onwards.

He closed his eyes to sleep once more.

Bang Pow Bang Pow Bang Pow. It was loud. Too loud to be anything other than a gun. A gun or a god, such was power beating against his head that they may as well be the same thing. Bang Pow Bang Pow Bang Pow. It was close. Too close to be outside on the hunting ground, where the damned softly sang their own burial notes. The rifle was going off inside.

Lunging first to his pack, the survivor drew his pistol. Still on his side, he half-spun to face the entrance to the bedroom, blocked by rusted bolt and broken wardrobe. The rhythmic beat of his heart was hypnotic, a surging waterfall to his hearing. He panted, as if anything else would see his lungs collapse in on themselves. It is on this floor.

A rifle. The vocal storm of a predator pack. Lust. Hunger. It was a maelstrom raging to get in, and if it did, then there was nothing that he could do other than let it drag him with it. Like flotsam he would be carried off without a chance in all of Lucifer’s hells.

Delving in to his backpack onehanded, the terrified figure pulled out another weapon. Less refined than his pistol, an echo from a more civilised era. It was a vital instrument, a blessed relic for these great gladiatorial games. The Christmas ball, chipped paint giving way to the metal beneath, fitted snugly in his palm. All the while the roar of gunfire and the gale-howl of desire encroached on him, the gradual momentum of lava eating its way down the mountainside.

He rose slowly, pistol still trained on that false barricade. You have time. Twisting, dropping, he upturned his pack. There was no escape route now that a pack had been summoned. No choice.

Driving his pistol in to one of the deep pockets of his flayed coat, the man reclaimed his knife, that cleaver of dull brown, and his shotgun. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far way, those weapons had raided shops and gunned down innocents. Maybe their new purpose gave them some sort of redemption. Or maybe they were simply the cold, uncaring tools of someone already dead. Death, the building's former inhabitants seemed to hiss. Death.

With a hacking sigh, he left the remnants of his life where they had fallen. Shotgun in one fist, the grenade in another, he limped forward. Haste would get him killed. Snorting, he quickened his pace. Maybe the gunman outside was the same as the one on the street. Or maybe there was a band of them, ridding the world of terror.

For a moment he tensed, eye drinking in the world from behind the door peephole. Silence. He waited. A slight crunch of fang on bone. Silence. He waited. That gasp as a feeding hunter tasted the first morsel. Silence.

He took a step backwards. Another. Silence. Silence. Silence.

Sliding down the crumbling face of the wall, he let go of the grenade. The shotgun fell to asleep in his lap, a dog resting his head on an unmoving master. Beyond the door something feasted.

Something with a gun.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Cool.

Quite heavy, like a taste of a rich, full wine.
Dense atmosphere, almost a bit uneasy/uncomfortable, but I mean that in a good way. I like when these apocalyptic settings, which have become - admittingly - a bit stale recently, have a fresh air of honest discomfort in them. So that it does not become the typical "strong hero saves them all", but rather a troubled, potentially weak protagonist struggling with himself and the world arround him.

Keep it up, will certainly follow this.

Many thanks

Most certainly a very positive reaction which I am most grateful for.

I agree wiith Zeion and I'm enjoying this. The staccato sentences and the tight focus, so that we only see/know a little bit of information and our field of view expands slowly, create a powerful atmosphere. I look forward to seeing where this story goes and hope that, when more chapters are up, you'll consider entering this for the Monthly Creative Writing Competition.

Yes I will consider the MCWC since it seems that, unfortunately, interest seems to have dipped again. It was only a short time ago when there was a whole plethora of entrants, but I am sure we can blame this momentary stall on holidays and week-long writing sessions.

Many thanks

[Alwyn]

A grey and dark world, indeed. You communicate powerfully the despair and the moment-to-moment fear of attack which this wanderer is going through.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Sorry for any and all comments which were wiped following the roll-back. I did not save my replies and my cache is for the 4th Dec

Anyway, here is the (edited) repost for CHAPTER Three:


The Peace of a Walk
Zero Days Since An Encounter

He waited out the monster, that fleshy mass of purpose. Listening to the grinding of bone, the devouring of muscle, the survivor could only stare blankly at the door. No movement, more statue than corpse. Cold to the touch, rough to the eye. A monument in silent remembrance to what had been, to the forgotten and the unforgiven. Laying there, no moisture to the lip, no sustenance to break from the shackles of famine, the man simply sat. Time slowed. Time sped up. Time writhed and wormed, lashing this way and that. Time was relative. Time was a constant. Time was bound by laws. Time was lawless. Time was a being like any other. It descended on him like any being: from the one place he did not look.

The petals were crystal, the soft tone of skin and the peaceful nature of the old sky. Stalks, like memories of a full head of hair, stretched towards the heavens. Trees, their flanks smoothed to glass, were a forest of life, the majestic inheritance of kings. A rabbit, all fluffy innocence and joyful vigour, raced the leaves from bush to bush, berries giving silent applause. The golden wash of sunlight illuminated every surface, reflecting off of leaf-glass and mirror-bark. It was a palace of light, a garden of warmth. Anywhere you cast your gaze the handiwork of a divine was to be seen. It was a palace of hope. It was a garden of paradise.

He tasted the decay. He heard the bone-snap of death. He felt the brittle skin coating all manner of things once pure and honest and true.

Step. Pause. Step. Breathe. Step. Step. Pause. Breathe. Step. Pause. Step. Step. Breathe. Step. Pause. Step. Breathe.

The man could not keep his eyes open, could not stop them from becoming clouded. Rest. He needed rest. He needed to get away from this place. This memory. Here was not safety, not this false illusion. The cracks were here, were there, were everywhere. The eyes deceived him, tired, oh so tired. Not his tongue, not his ears. No, his companions refused to be party to betrayal, to this final sentencing. Run, they demanded of him. Run.

Step. Step. Breathe. Step. Step. Breathe. Pause. Pause. Breathe. Step.

No longer was the park a starburst of light, of crystal and glass. No longer did he deceive himself. Eyes widened, refocusing as they admitted failure, begging to be forgiven. Cloudy, screaming in an agony too raw for words, too keen for thought, his eyes accepted the truth. Truth, that rusted cleaver, that surgeon’s scalpel, a lion on the plain, a boar in the forest, of the world around him.

Stumbling, gasping, he tried to push through the barbed wire that were once bushes. Branches, gnarled claws of skeletons, reached out for him, silent. Hunched trees gazed at him in lust, in envy at the movement of his joints, in the colour blessing his porcelain face. Even the flowers looked towards him with desire, their grey petals nothing but devoured veins, carrying naught but dust. The paper wall of hope, of beauty untouched by passion, was shredded before his eyes, set ablaze by a thousand lusting talons.

A voice shrieked off to his left. High, the glass-shattering pitch of a lingering soul. Loud. Too loud.

“F---,” he spat, spearing the gate with his fist. “f---.”

The walls, obsidian mirrors of arrogance, of forgotten wealth, of soft worries and waking ambition, rose and rose and rose. Towers of mockery, mountains of weeping sorrow, they barred his escape. Even with wings there was no peak to reach, with time no bottom to undermine. The world beyond was closed to him.

Step step. Turn. Step step. Pause. Pause. Pause. Breath. Step step step step step run run run run.

He hobbled through the branch-claws, baring his teeth as their nails tore flesh. He pushed through a quagmire of gaping maws, hungry fissures of ash-slime and bile. The man did not turn around, he did not slow. To tremble, to waver, to admit weakness, to surrender himself to the finality of death, were not options open to him, to anyone. Run. Stumble. Crawl. Move. Move. Move.

The wall went on and on, black against black against grey. It was Hadrian’s Wall, barring all access to the freedom beyond. It was Jörmungandr, running the length of the earth. There was no exit, no way round. No way through. His body would grind to dust by the time he reached an ext. Nothing could be done, running was futile. He was to die.

The shriek-call sounded again, high, higher than the cords of any instrument, higher than any beast from God’s limitless realm. Another, low, like the distant roar of a warship heaving in to dock. It was answered by a third, so loud as to shake leafless trees. They were coming. Closer. Closer. They had his scent, that putrid stench of life, a torch in the shadows calling the moths to bear witness. Closer. All around him. Closer.

He ran, even as the trees converged in to phalanxes against him, as the ground itself opened up to snatch him first, as the obsidian walls rose to blot out the sun, that festering candle which was more bile than wax. The man ran, blood streaming from his back, his arms, spouting from deep gashes in his calves where the nightmares latched on. He could not stop. The blood flowed in great coat-tails behind him, laying a paved road of vitality to mark his presence.

They caught him. Bite. Bite. Bite. Bite. Bite. Bite. A thousand mouths, a million fangs, feasting, savouring, lusting. An orgy of the mouth, ecstasy of the senses, the nightmare ended with a shrill scream.

Throwing himself from the ground, he begged for an end to the nightmare. An end. He wanted an end. There was nothing left. Survive. It was just a word. An instinct of baser creatures. Survive.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Measuring Relics and Pretty Things
Two Days Since Last Encounter

“The sun is so bright.”

He did not answer. He could not answer.

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

The grunt was soft, the wheeze of a deflating sofa. She was always the one to say what he felt, what he wanted.

“Everything would be so perfect.”

The man raised his hand to her face, dragging a finger down the skin. Frayed twine carved a steady stream of forgotten memories. He could not speak, could not breath. His eyes would not blink. She stared at him, through him and he could do nothing. Her smile outshone the sun. The old sun, that vast pyre which gave life to entire worlds. She was everything and more.

“Looks like we are falling behind.”

Her laugh. A tear tore itself from his eye, fleeing before a tidal wave engulfed it. That music, a lake of honey, an avalanche of sugar. It was the cool balm on an open sore, the warm embrace of a mother. It was fear’s vanquisher, darkness’s conqueror, the safety net of nations. A divine herald could not match her energy, could not rival her passion. Another tear rolled down his face, a smile breaking free as age let go for one brief respite.

She turned from him. His finger stayed, hovering over her hair, her neck, her back. She continued to retreat, growing smaller, smaller. His finger hid the rest, touching but not feeling, that narrow divide of death barring her from him. A pane of glass, that was all it was, a pane of glass between –

He hurled the camera against the far wall. It shattered, that pane of glass, that last barrier between him and her. Lunging over, knuckles over feet, the survivor surveyed the damage. Face low, eyes squinting in the false light, he nudged the recorder with a limp hand. The viewer was smashed, needles of crystal gone. Where was she? Where did she go? Why would she leave? He demanded this of her the only way he could.

The pistol was in his hand, spinning around to face the entrance. The noise had been loud, a hunger-call from some beast. Nothing. Nothing there. He had heard it, that final note before death. The beating of his heart, a heavy thud cracking bone, refused to be stilled. There was a monster, a tortured animal of instinct here with him.

The holy relic followed his eyes, the muzzle sweeping over empty shelves and rotten cable in its hunt for blasphemy. It did not understand that it had been forsaken, that there was no God. God would not have allowed the sky to burn. Still it served, growling as it slew its master's foes as if it were its own. It served an unholy purpose with holy conviction, a sculpture made to kill, a statue made to walk.

There! He saw a flicker. Shadow? Movement? There was no noise, no sound. A heavy drum beat in his ears, louder and louder and louder. It would not stop. It could not stop. Louder and louder.

He turned.

There was an escape route, there was always an escape route. He threw himself out of the window. Landing hard, the dawn glow breathing on his face, the man howled again. No peace. Still it kept turning, unable to stop, no one willing to stop it. Half-rising, the survivor barrelled forward, ever forward. The street, a maze within a maze, offered no guidance. In and out of rusted shells he wove, pistol pointing this way, that way and this way again. Poles, melted candles that lorded over the street corners, gave him nothing, not even mockery. He was alone to the maze, its victim and its champion.

Air scorched his throat, his lungs, his very muscles. It was a numb throb, no nerves left to speak of the sting. Still he moved forwards, fleeing the beast behind, fleeing the low rumble of a thousand paws. No stop. Survival. Always survival.

His feet took him towards a husk, a stripped carcass of humanity. The rot drew him, the bitter-sweet tang of corruption. Defiled, as a child born in to captivity, it clung to the shadows, squeezing itself away from the light. Away. Away. Yet he found it without looking. No memory to guide his way he walked the path. Vile decay, false majesty, it was the claws tearing off a scab, unbarring the way to a torrent of contained pain.

Breath. Breath. Breath. Everything was still. Light, unfiltered, was already beginning to seep in from the rafters. It clawed its way down the cratered staircases. Over and under and through and through, the faded rays shambled from sky to floor. Shadow fled before the onslaught. Breath. Breath. Breath. He could feel the world shift, accepting the faint mist being expulsed from his mouth. He could hear the stillness reach a crescendo. Deafening. Deafening.

The moss had risen up in revolt against their oppressors, overthrowing rock and cement as it vomited itself in to existence. Pews, stained green and green, a thousand shades green, were being dragged down in to the earth. What was left were harsh corners of hammered timber and moistened iron, red and black in their final moments. Maybe a dust cloud hung in the air. Maybe a thousand tiny orbs were draped upon the emptiness. Maybe air had been replaced with ash, his lungs now billows heaving out the purity from his body. It was corruption which was left to grow, to fester. He was of the old world. He would become of the new.

Breath. Breath. Breath. There is stood, resonating in the thick smog of history. There it hung, alone. Its history was written in the mosaic heaped around its base. The skeleton glared at him, its ruby eyes demanding servitude. I brought this upon you, that leer seemed to spit. The light, the clouds, all of it. The survivor stared at the monster. Its jewels no longer shone. Its skin no longer rippled with wealth.

He stepped towards it, this unbearable effigy. Hundreds had bowed to it, thousands. Hearts stooped at its command, were torn out for its favour. Where had it been when the lights cast a heavy glare upon the sky? When the clouds had settled on the horizon, where was their protector? The sky had been scorched red, the ground blackened. A million, million voices silenced and yet nothing was done to stop the fires.

Shadow still clung to its face, supping on the chill of its soul. The rubies were dull now. Fear had robbed it of its confidence. The stones searched for a god within his bones and found dismissal. They looked for a soul, two hazy torches in a vast cave. They found only water. Water could not be clawed. Water could not be broken with fists and daggers. Water did not bleed misery.

The figure had been nailed. Chained. Caged. It was a prisoner of its own shrine, a builder of its own grave. Yet still it was alive. He could, feel, its breath. His tongue dabbed at its scent. Foulness, that thick venom of lies and lies and lies. In the end that was all there was, all that had come from it. False hope and broken promises.

Coming to within touching distance, the man lowered his head. The sun was rising, and with it went the ability for all thought. All thoughts but survive. Kneeling, his forehead resting on the blunted stub of the great deceiver’s feet, the survivor took in a lungful of his former guardian’s deceit.

The wail was a piercing gull-shriek. It was loud, a hunger-call that heralded death. There was a monster, a tortured animal of instinct here within him. It would not be silenced any longer. It would not be attributed to another.

[Alwyn]

It's great to see the return of these powerful, evocative chapters.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

I... can't remember what I posted before. Something about how you're good at conveying a dark, brooding, oppressive atmosphere, I think. (And if it wasn't that, it should have been, because you are!)

I particularly like the most recent chapter, with the mysterious woman at the start and the strange skeleton at the end, and hints - although only tiny hints - of what caused the devastation. I hope more will be revealed in later chapters.

[Shankbot de Bodemloze]

Love it! As has been pointed out the dark, suffocating atmosphere you create is amazingly written. Your use of metaphors and the like create vivid detail and description when reading, yet at the same time I feel like I know nothing about this world beyond its hostility.

Great job. Looking forward to the next update... and get entering the MCWC.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Standing As Champion Of The Old World
Two Days Since Last Encounter

Blue. It was water trapped behind glass, it was white stained by age. Blue, a milk gone sour, stretched out from one horizon to another. It hung in the air, a limp canvas left too long for paint to stick. Beneath its pungent majesty, that well-dressed corpse, that blue meat spiced with saffron, hung the world.

The sun was still blazing a wet trail across the globe, tendrils of heat kissing the summits of the dead city. The shadows slithered back to the depths of its lairs, forgotten basements and looted wardrobes welcoming the darkness with an empty smile.

He did not step outside. He refused to. Survival. It was a word. It was a religion. It was a god. A god real, a god understood. Survival was him and he was survival. Fear and Misery and Doubt were mere lackies of the sun. God was the dark. God was the unseen. The shadows were life. What strode under the rays of a dead sun were not surviving. Searching. Hunting. Feasting. They did not survive. That concept was unknown to them. They were birthed by the world, a thousand thousand princes molded to redraw the borders, rewrite the histories, rebuilt the city. They had not survived. The nightmares were just there, living a stolen memory. That was not life. Lust more than life, copy more than memory, imagination given existence only to fade once more in to the mind of a child. That was them, those things that replaced the Old.

The street was empty of the New World. Rusted husks sat idle, surrendering their virtues to the vines which crept in the night, long fingers of red and green, touching, feeling, grasping. There were no birds nestling in the moss-swamp that had swept up from the depths, no hares slipping in and out of the tunnels, no fleas feasting on bone. No, they had been sent packing. Fear had sent them away. The street was empty of the New World.

The figure swayed, a stalk caught in a whirlwind. Its movements were regular, rhythmic. No sound came from it, no heavy pad of muscle, no crackle of bone. It was simply, there. The survivor watched its advance, that meandering stroll. The street narrowed, the skeletal buildings vanishing. All there was before him was the figure. It swayed. It meandered. It swayed. It meandered. It stopped. It swayed. It swayed.

“Hellllooo?”

The voice was weak. A glass struck by a fork, a raindrop in the ocean, the lingering voice of a ghost. Too loud. Too high. Not a nightmare. Not a memory he recalled.

It swayed. It meandered. It meandered. It swayed. There was no energy, no spirit. The figure, a shapeless stain of brown and black and blue, came closer. Pushed by the gentle breeze, by the perpetual motion of the earth beneath it, the spirit being came closer. The sky seemed to stop in its presence, cotton clouds ripping themselves apart in an orgy of terrible passion.

“Heeelllloooo?”

Stronger now. It had tasted him on the air, needles of the most succulent meats dragging its eyes to face him. Assured of his presence, the figure continued to advance on him. A limb formed, liquid mass solidifying in to a faint parody of an arm. The being raised its arm, a hand shooting out.

“I am coming in!”

She was at the entrance. She? The figure scratched at the door, knocking, pulling, pushing.

The man finally found movement, rising from his position as if struck by a bolt. S---. The exits were blocked off. Why did he do that? He never did that. Survival demanded precautions. Logical demanded an escape route. There was always an escape route.

Eyes searching, scanning, he surveyed the cage he had built for himself. Those glazed orbs rested on the skeleton, that monster of gilded lies. You. Silent mockery echoed through the rafters, lingering on the moss-beams that covered innocent beauty. There was nothing left within, a skeleton gutted of organ and marrow. No weapon to be furnished, no defense to be wrought. Survival had lost.

“Hello?” plaintiff, as if a beaten cur had made its final steps to an orphanage. “Hello?” tears lined the question, hooks seeking warmth to latch on to. Warmth that could be dragged towards the door. Warmth that could be torn in a rending orgy of fang and claw.

The survivor backed away from the door. His backpack was there, the remains of his campsite, the sustenance of life. His life. Too far away. Too late. No escape route. No escape. No survival. No survival. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

His feet lost themselves in a quagmire of rubble. Falling, twisting, crying out in childlike dismay, the survivor collapsed into a broken pile. The skeleton, that idol of a millennium of unjust injustices, laughed manically as he tried to pull himself further and further away from the door. A mouse seeking its hole, a rat seeking its tunnel. He scrambled, worming and twisting and worming and twisting. Legs, arms, legs, arms, useless limbs flailing and writhing over the waterfall of stone and rock and masonry.

Creak.

Creak.

Creak.

The hinges groaned and coughed and spluttered, unused muscles dragging the wooden frame in towards the room. Standing, jubilant in its apparent mastery of the world, the figure waved. It waved. It stepped forward. She. She stepped forward.

He had nothing. No gun. No knife. No nail long enough to split skin. No air to scream. No energy to move. Survival. Survive. He refused to turn his back on her. Death would not be the knife in his back. Life had taken everything. He refused to weep lost courage, that last essence of him. No.

“I am not going to hurt you,” the figure called out, a lock of straw hanging from beneath its hood. “I just want some food.” The lies dripped from its mouth, siren calls cast from beyond the void.

“You died,” he hissed at last, defying earth and nature and god one more time.

“Sorry?” she stopped, hood pulled back to reveal a nest of straw and spider and snake. “You must have -”

“You died,” he hissed, the low murmur of a cat before it struck. His claws were gone, his limbs useless.

The figure, a woman, a succubus, a servant of the New World, hesitated. She paused. She waited. She did something that was not movement.

“Can I come closer?” She did so anyway. The New World did not even wait for the Old to beat its last before devouring the carcass. Honour was an alien word, nothing but the no-concept in the brain of a child. She came closer.

The man drove himself back, hands reaching out in vain defiance. A rock, a stone, a lance of rusted purity with which to make his stand. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

She was almost on him, a wraith-blade in one hand, a curved horn ripped from Satan’s brow itself in the other. She came closer. And closer. And closer. Step. Step. Step. Steps that glided above the rotten flesh of the cage. Steps that dared not sully themselves with the meal. Closer. Closer. Closer.

He lunged. Masonry flew from his hands, more dust than missile, more irritant than weapon. He collided with her, heads cracking together with the snap of lightning.

All went dark.

[Iron Aquilifer]

It's great to see the return of these powerful, evocative chapters.

Well I'll take that and leave before I get all soppy.

I... can't remember what I posted before. Something about how you're good at conveying a dark, brooding, oppressive atmosphere, I think. (And if it wasn't that, it should have been, because you are!)

I particularly like the most recent chapter, with the mysterious woman at the start and the strange skeleton at the end, and hints - although only tiny hints - of what caused the devastation. I hope more will be revealed in later chapters.

Wait... you think that there is any meaning behind this? This is mainstream grimdark survival before "The Last of Us" got its greedy hands on the genre

Maybe it is all a metaphor for life

Love it! As has been pointed out the dark, suffocating atmosphere you create is amazingly written. Your use of metaphors and the like create vivid detail and description when reading, yet at the same time I feel like I know nothing about this world beyond its hostility.

Great job. Looking forward to the next update... and get entering the MCWC.

There is a world?

Your wish is my command.


Many thanks for your continuing support of this...erm...outlet of my inner...artistic demands

[Shankbot de Bodemloze]

Great job at building up tension and fear from the survivor's perspective, makes me wonder how bad things really are when even interaction is a danger to survival. Is the women as dangerous as he seems to think I wonder...



EDIT: Noticed you changed the font, personally I prefer the original one but it's your call.

[Iron Aquilifer]

An Understanding Of Life
Zero Days Since An Encounter

His eyes opened slowly. His eyes wanted to see. His eyes needed to see. Sight meant life, they would have said if they had mouths. Sight means nothing, his ears would have responded. His ears retuned themselves. Hearing meant life. Life was movement. Life was vibrations on the air. Sight was simply a picture.

The rest of him refused to move. It would not move. Why should it move? What was the point? Survival? What did that do for him?

His head turned. He did not turn it. It moved itself. Survival. Survival. Why? Survival. Survival for survival’s sake? Survival in the name of a world burnt and buried and scattered on the five winds? What was that? Life was no more than a mockery of what had gone before, a candle killed by the eternal gusts of the future.

The survivor growled. He snapped. Spittle dribbled down his cheek, a slug of fluid rolling slowly, slowly, slowly. There. Survival. His eyes lingered. It was primal. They settled. Instinct. They refocused. A natural phenomenon. They picked out the shape, lines grey against the grey. Survival was a desire, like lust, like hunger. The lines were not moving. Survival was a desire. He could hear the misting of breath. It desired non-life to feed life. He could see the lines concave. Survival was a food chain. He did not blink. Survival was the food chain. He dare not blink.

A hand reached out. His hand. It took the form of a claw, bone visible beneath the tarpaulin flesh. Blood, dirt, something dark, covered it in a matte sheen. The talons were worn down, mere tombstones on the stringy flesh. They had difficulty marking sand, let alone tearing apart bone and sinew. It grasped, searching. He had to find something. Anything.

His body lurched. His mouth moved without reason, the slug still trailing down the contour of his cheek. His ears caught every vibration, every movement. His eyes remained transfixed. The lines were moving, converging and vanishing and reappearing.

His hand patted the ground, searching without looking, looking without seeing. Was there something? Was there anything? There was dust. There was ash. Here was the moss that consumed the old world. Here was the grass, rising towards the burnt sky. Where was his world? Where was his life?

Cold. It could have been forged on the summit of Everest and yet he would not have recoiled from its touch. Cold. A dead cold.

The survivor brought it to his chest. It was heavy, like a rock. A sack of rocks. He saw without looking, without hearing. He could not dare stop watching the lines move and evolve. The surface was round, a hexagon a thousand times. It was long, longer than his fingers. Survive.

He crawled. He wormed. He moved towards the lines, towards the misting breath. Survival was not just running. Exhaustion was a spectral death, but lifelessness nonetheless. Courage was death. Strength. Fear. Survival itself was death. It was bane to hunger, bane to desire, bane to ease, bane to want. It refused the apex food, it denied the carrion its fill. Survival was death to morality. Survival was the hooded wraith waiting. Survival was a need. Selfishness was life. Selfish need. Selfish acts. His body moved. His mind wept. He moved. He shuffled. He lurched.

She was regaining consciousness. That thing. It was still curled up, a viper making like a woman. He was rising, his shadow casting its presence on the thing’s features. Soft. Soft features. As soft as a dagger sheathed in cotton. She was curled in a ball, eyes still closed.

He raised his weapon, his symbol of the old world. It was a holy relic, a machine too arcane for what was now earth. Its mechanisms were lost, forever. Its illuminessence would never again scare off darkness. No. It was dead. It was lost. All that was left was the metal. Cold. Heavy.

She opened her eyes.

He struck.

Again. Again. He heard her cry, its final defense. It was high, an echo from within his memory. Survival. He struck again. Again. Head. Neck. Head. Head. Neck.

Her arms shot up at last. The claws latched onto his throat. Ten hooks sunk themselves into the flesh. He cried out. They went deeper. He tried to pull back. His weapon lashed out, the tail-thrash of a beached salmon. The claws went deeper. They were on his windpipe. They took a deathgrip. He could scream no longer.

His eyes opened slowly. His eyes needed to see. They needed to see. Sight means life, they wanted to say. Sight means nothing. His ears awoke, filling his head with a burst of white noise. Hearing meant life. Life was movement. Life was vibrations on the air. Sight was a moving picture. A picture had an artist.

The rest of him refused to move. It would not move. Why would it? What was the point? Survival? What did that mean to him? What could he achieve by surviving?

Even so, his head turned. It moved, as if of its own accord. Survive. Survive. Why? Survive. Survive for survival’s sake? Survive to remember a world burnt and buried and scattered on the five winds? Live as a silent elegy to the wonder cast into the oceans and the undying fires? What was that? Life was the illusion of meaning, a purpose that parodied what had come before. With those gone, what was it to him?

The man groaned. He snarled. Phlegm snailed down his cheek, a slug of fluid grinding slowly, slowly, slowly. There. A mockery of life. His eyes hovered. It was primal. They settled. Instinct. They refocused. A natural phenomenon. They picked out the silhouette, lines grey against the grey. Survival was voracious, lust and hunger taken purpose. The silhouette was not stirring. Survival was a demand. He could hear the tree-sway of respiration. It demanded non-life to feed a false life. He could see the silhouette move. Survival was a food chain. He did not blink. Survival was the food chain. He dare not blink.

A hand reached out. His hand. It was pale, bone visible beneath the ruined flesh. Blood, dirt, something dark, covered it in a sheen of forgotten innocence. The nails were worn down, strips of scabbed vitality attached to the flesh. They had difficulty marking their place, let alone protecting the now gone nerve-ends. It grasped, searching. He had to find something. Anything.

His body lurched. His mouth moved without reason, the moisture still running down the contour of his cheek. His ears caught every movement, every noticeable suggestion of life. His eyes remained transfixed. The thing was moving, rising, falling.

His hand patted the ground, searching without looking, looking without seeing. Was there something? Was there anything? There was dust. There was ash. Here was the moss that consumed the old world. Here was the grass, rising towards the burnt sky. Where was his world? Where was his life?

Warm. It was the heat of a lover’s kiss, a familiar sofa, the sun glowing in its prime. Warm. The touch of life.

The survivor brought it to his chest. It was light, lighter than a phone. He viewed it without looking, without hearing. He could not dare stop watching the figure in its state between slumber and hunt. The surface was flat, a sheet of paper frozen solid. It was narrow, half the width of his forearm. Survive.

He crawled. He lurched. He moved towards the figure, towards the vibrations of life. Survival was not just running. Exhaustion was a spectral death, but lifelessness nonetheless. Bravery resulted in death. Strength of character. Fear of success. Survival itself was the looming end of life. It was bane to hunger, bane to desire, bane to ease, bane to want. It refused the apex food, it denied the carrion its fill. Survival was death to morality. Survival was the hooded wraith waiting. Survival was a need. Selfishness was life. Selfish need. Selfish acts. His body moved. His mind wept. He moved. He shuffled. He lurched.

She was regaining consciousness. That thing. It was still curled up, a viper making like a woman. He was rising, his shadow casting its presence on the thing’s features. Soft. Soft features. As soft as a dagger sheathed in cotton. She was curled in a ball, eyes still closed.

He raised his weapon, his symbol of the old world. It was a holy relic, a sliver both in appearance and in metaphor. It would serve well in this new order. Its purity has long since departed the world, when grass was lush and cities were marvels. No. It was a tainted beauty. It belonged here, in this graveyard of memory.

She opened her eyes.

He struck.

Again. Again. He heard her cry, a spear into his soul, that cold fortress of misery. It was high, an echo from within his memory. Survival. He struck again. Again. Head. Neck. Head. Head. Neck.

Her arms shot up at last. The claws latched onto his throat. Ten hooks sunk themselves into the flesh. He cried out. They went deeper. He tried to pull back. His weapon lashed out, the tail-thrash of a beached salmon. The claws went deeper. They were on his windpipe. They took a deathgrip. He could scream no longer.


Life. What was life? Life without sight was empty. Life without sound was empty. Life without touch, without taste, without smell. Life was empty long before sensation.

He did not open his eyes. His ears heard only a whine. Nostrils flared as the dust formed a dam against the universe outside. His tongue held itself against the roof of his mouth, too bloated, too pained to move.

A limb shot out, fingers trailing on the ground to find a weapon. Scarred tips trailed a sad path on the ground. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. A whimper escaped his lips. Nothing. Nothing. A sigh of exertion.

It moved.

He could hear it.

It shuffled.

He heard it move.

It was getting faster.

Nothing.

He needed to look. He had to see it. He felt it near, near, near, closer and closer.

Nothing.

It was almost on him.

His eyes opened.

Ten hooks sunk themselves into the flesh. He cried out. They went deeper. He tried to pull back. His weapon lashed out, the tail-thrash of a beached salmon. The claws went deeper. They were on his windpipe. They took a deathgrip. He could scream no longer.

Life. What was life? Life without sight was empty. Life without sound was empty. Life without touch, without taste, without smell. Life was empty long before sensation.

He did not open his eyes. His ears heard only a whine. Nostrils flared as the dust formed a dam against the universe outside. His tongue held itself against the roof of his mouth, too bloated, too pained to move.

Survive. Why? Survive. Survive for survival’s sake? Survive to remember a world burnt and buried and scattered on the five winds? Live as a silent elegy to the wonder cast into the oceans and the undying fires? What was that? Life was the illusion of meaning, a purpose that parodied what had come before. With those gone, what was it to him?

He rolled away. Bravery. Courage. They were silent killers, cloaking themselves in the garb of despair. He rolled over the rocks, the moss, the grass. Emotion was an illness. It blinded him. He rested atop a familiar object. It was the true standard bearer of the old world. It’s battle cry was the anger of gods. It was what survived, when all the lights in the world dimmed.

The dark being stood no chance then.

He looked down at her body, at his handiwork. The bullet had struck her in the forehead. Her face was almost peaceful in death, a thin dribble of blood all that marked the cause of her passing. The explosion at the back, however, revealed the power that the old world had possessed. The body had convulsed, its spine near-snapping as it curved back. In death, the woman looked pathetic.

He cried.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Great job at building up tension and fear from the survivor's perspective, makes me wonder how bad things really are when even interaction is a danger to survival. Is the women as dangerous as he seems to think I wonder...



EDIT: Noticed you changed the font, personally I prefer the original one but it's your call.

Those are some kind words, coming from a vet. As for the font, that is seems to be an "issue" with copying over from Google Docs. It is nicer than the forum's standard but default should be easier on everyone's eyes so I'll probably just stick to it. Also makes it look like I write more than I do

Many thanks

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

I... can't remember what I posted before. Something about how you're good at conveying a dark, brooding, oppressive atmosphere, I think. (And if it wasn't that, it should have been, because you are!)

I particularly like the most recent chapter, with the mysterious woman at the start and the strange skeleton at the end, and hints - although only tiny hints - of what caused the devastation. I hope more will be revealed in later chapters.

Wait... you think that there is any meaning behind this? This is mainstream grimdark survival before "The Last of Us" got its greedy hands on the genre

No; I never suggested I thought any such thing. I was hoping for history, not some kind of mystical or allegorical meaning. Your chapter made it clear there had been some kind of event, or chain of events, which led to the devastation (when the sky burned) and caused the current situation. Maybe it was a war, or an experiment gone wrong, or an alien attack, or maybe there's just something about your world that meant this was inevitably going to happen at some point. Or something else. But something happened to cause this. I was hoping you might (at some point) drop more hints about that backstory. Only hints, mind; not enough to diminish the sense of horror, just enough to make it worse by showing things weren't always like this.


I very much like the two chapters since I last posted. The almost-repeated parts of the most recent one, where the survivor has to try to kill the woman several times, are especially effective.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Singing The Chorus
Two Days Since An Encounter

“F---.”

Let a thousand words define an emotion, and a thousand emotions speak a single word. Enjoy it. Hate it. Lust for it. Satisfy your desire on it. Understand it. Speak it. Read it. Listen to it. Emotion. What was it? What could it be? Why had it come here? For the purpose it was built? Moulded? Born? He had walked far, wide, beneath a dozen heavens and across a dozen hells. Here? Now? What should he do? What could he do? Why did he have to do it? For himself? Survive. Survive, as if that were an answer. As if survive could light a fire. As if survive could find firewood. As if survive squeezed the trig-

The shot was, loud.

He was down, mercury melting against the heat of the air. Gun. Backpack. Knife. It was a mantra, a thoughtless thought. Impulse. Movement without time, without speed. Move. Move. Move.

Another shot, an invisible missile tearing through the very fabric of reality.

Car door. It was alone, a sole tombstone too frail, too full of the misery of a vanished people to ask for company. Beneath his weight, the rotten frame cried peace, twisted steel finally allowed to fall to its final rest. Oh how he envied it.

He heard a voice, gruff, dismissive. It was a voice of someone in control. A master speaking to its chained slave, to a pet kept in a kennel of high walls and bare floor. The words could have been snapped at him; a challenge. It could have been an announcement, signalling the heavens all around them that today they lost one of their own. Or maybe the words were just that: Words, uttered for the sake of voice. A choice, just like everything. Like anything.

His pistol was up, finger easing down on the trigger. Where is he? Where? There? There? S---. Duck. Back behind the shield of the tombstone, feet already dragging him away. The survivor had spotted a shadow, a betrayal of life.

Another bullet, a lightning bolt cast down to smite the very earth.

There was no other cover, no place for him to go. He had been played, betrayed by instinct. And yet, he did not despair. Despair was warm. It meant self. It said importance. Despair heralded the end of a being, returning a man to beast. He would not despair.

The fourth bullet was more scissor than hammer, tearing a foul graze across his scalp.

Stop. Hold. Hold. Hold. The noise. Make no noise. Noise. It was soft, subtle. More a change in pressure than anything audible. Yet it was as noticeable to his ears as the crunch of his Geiger. There was something behind him. Something closing in on him. Feral. One. Two. More. More. Many. Too many.

Far, far too many.

Despair. It was a word. The word meant action. Action meant life. The survivor despaired. He was a beast, a man, a cockroach beneath the debris. What was and what is meant nothing to him. Survive. That animalistic necessity was his and his only. Survival. It was a rich steak. He remembered steak.

Turning, slowly, the man peered back whence he had come. Days, weeks. He had outrun them, surely? They were beasts. They knew only hunger. Lust, desire, they were too sophisticated a concept for ferals. Ferals hunted, fed and then slept. They did not pursue. They could not.

“Stop it!”

The master's reply was another shot, another bullet sent hurtling forward into the ash world.

“The noise!”

Exit. There was always an escape route. Look. Look. Find. Look. There. A door, still closed against the elements. Yet between him and it was an abyss, a black hole from which only death could emerge. He could not escape that way.

The shooter shouted something, his voice now as shrill as any bullet. Maybe he was calling on reinforcements. Maybe it was an acknowledgement of his folly. Or indeed it was demand loyalty from his target, for the two to put aside survival to stand together. Too late. It was all too late.

The lead feral was small, frail if size meant strength. Its eyes, golden orbs, were wide. The strain of the hunt was evident, the heavy panting heard over the thud of twisted bone on matted grass. Here and there it lunged, moving from road to pavement and back as if passing a fast flow of traffic. And behind came the rest. A stampede.

And there she was. A beauty among beasts, an angel striding through fire unscathed. Gone. Vanished. A momentary wraith. The herald of his doom. She had spoken without words. It was God’s Will. All of it. God’s Will.

“Not my God.”

He threw himself towards the door. The abyss, that harrowing void, embraced the winter’s chill of his soul. He felt the shot, felt it carve a hole through his skull. The hot metal then exploded out the other side, taking the good half of his brain with it as a makeshift parachute. He felt his body throw itself towards the pursuit pack, towards sweet oblivion. Oh it was so sweet.

And he was there, barging through the rusted entrance. The door was closed behind him, as if a sheet of iron could bar their way. There was nothing in front of him, a room empty of shelves and tables and rotten flesh. If it were not for the dirt, the inch thick grime which suffocated every surface, he could have forgotten that there was anything left.

The survivor ran.

He could not hear the other man, his wild shots as he tried to stand against the tsunami. Nature refused to be halted by petty things. Holy relics, insignificant in the face of such maddening power, could do nothing to stop them. Bang. Bang. The shots rang out, a sad salute for a life that would no longer pollute the world. Bang. Bang.

He kept running. Through the empty room. Out into the next. And the next. A corridor. Another door. Gun this way. Gun that way. Run. Run. Along a street. A junction. Right. Round car. Round car. Run. Run.

A howl.

The man kept running. Faster. Faster. Air meant nothing. Oxygen was a distraction. Road. Road. Car. Car. Road. Road. He kept going. The howling was getting closer. Closer and closer. Closer and closer. Closer and...

The man let his gun lead. Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire. His arm swayed. His finger twitched. The pistol bellowed. There was no need to aim, so thick was the tsunami surging towards him. There was no need for a guiding hand, so true did the bullets charge into the darkness. Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire. Aim. Click.

Click.

[Shankbot de Bodemloze]

Some vivid writing, excellent stuff.

The shift from 2 days since last encounter to 0 days since an encounter to 2 days since an encounter really give a sense of how distorted time is for this 'survivor', it has kind of all merged into one.