Warning, this Fanfiction is rated R for suggestive themes, cursing, and intense violence. Viewer discretion is advised.
Day 417
A lone man walked down a dust-beaten path, a torn-up cowboy hat on his head and a rusty revolver in his right hand. He hobbled down the dust-beaten path with a noticeable limp, and visibly winced every time he stepped on the ashen surface of the road with his right leg.
One either side of him was an endless sea of ash, the occasional superstructure of a destroyed building sticking up through the ashen desert. The dusty road wound between dunes of ash, some still burning, and around the ruins of what used to be a major Midwestern city, maybe St.Louis, from the ruins of the Gateway Arch sticking up through a dune of ash. The dust storms had been rough out west.
The man stopped, and leaned his dust-coated hand onto the rusty surface of an archaic steel beam that jutted forth from the ground like a fractured bone. He looked down at the old revolver in his hand. One bullet left. He could get it over with now, if the rusty gun still worked. There was no way to find out, though, and the man didn't want to get his hopes up, so he shoved the revolver back in it's rotting leather holster.
He walked a few more miles that day, and then stopped in the remains of a highway. The tops of cars could be seen, all of them being buried by the endless dust storms. The man took out his canteen, took a slow drink, and looked up at the sky. He hadn't much water left, but there was another storm coming. He put his canteen back in his old, green camping backpack and looked back up at the cold, dead sky. he felt around the ash, digging some with his arthritic fingers, until he found the sky roof of a Honda Prius. This would work. He grabbed a rusty sledgehammer from where it hung on a loop on the side of his worn jeans and shattered the window with one hit. After pushing the glass under the Prius' back seat, he laid his things down, turned on an electric lantern, and slid the slide-out panel from the sky roof over
to protect him from the harsh radioactive winds.
The man went to strike up a fire with a few assorted twigs that he found around the car, but after realizing that the smoke would suffocate him, he took out a can of beans and ate them with a rusty spoon, raw. After eating, he reclined on the old back bench of the Prius, which had been torn to the point that more foam stuck out than there was material left. The fierce howling of the radioactive, apocalyptic winds rattled through the top of the car. There would probably be another inch or two of ash on the ground by morning. The man sighed, looked at the gun again, and laid his head back on his old, ratty sleeping bag.
This was going to be a long night.
Day 418
The shifting sands of the ashen desert completely concealed the small Prius in which the man slept. A new thick layer of ash now covered the hatch under which he slept, shivering from the cold of a world without a sun. He awoke, cold and alone, crying. He had been dreaming of the day when his home town was attacked by them.
They ran through the streets, firing aimlessly into the sky, chanting about anarchy and a new world. The government had fallen by this time, and people were dying left and right from lack of water. The man was sitting on the couch, holding his water deprived wife and son when they came. The glass back door of his one room ranch house was shattered in a million pieces by a baseball bat, and they ran in, brandishing guns and knifes and bats and clubs. They ran towards the couch, screaming about "Helter Skelter". The man rose to protect his family, but a baseball bat to the chest knocked the wind out of him. The men grabbed him by the arms and chained him to the wall, after which he was forced to watch as they cut his son into pieces and raped his wife like she was a two-dollar wh*re. he screamed, in rage and cracked the wall, but the chains held him fast as the men killed his wife and cut here into sections like a chicken. The police burst in, but they were powerless against the anarchists and the man was forced to watch them kill, cook, and eat his family. He never forgave himself for escaping. He still wished that he hadn't; that he'd gone and killed them all.
And that was all he had left to cling to. His one mission left in life was to find the anarchists and end every one of them, every last f*cking one of them. He'd kill them all with his bare hands and burn their bodies. He had already taken a few out in a destroyed village up in the Rockies, which wa swhy he had only one bullet left in his gun.
He shrugged the dream off and gathered his things. he'd eat outside, so whatever he had could be cooked. The hatch door slid open and the man was greeted with a shower of radioactive ash. he coughed on the thick smog of dust, and pulled himself out of the car, careful to not hurt his bag. Once outside, he hobbled to the top of a highway bridge , where he brushed off the layer of dust and built himself a fire out of some ash-covered wood that lay nearby, perhaps the remnants of a long-dead forest, scorched by the unforgiving sun. The man smiled as he built the fire to a decent flame and put a can of beans near it. He remembered forests.
wip.
