Post Radio Prologue

Post Radio
--Prologue


In waves of fire and rain, the earth succumbed to terror and machine fueled man cast down their brothers and in eternal reign, doomed us all. The bombs fell like tears from the sun and spread plague after plague across the nations. A smoke filled sky staring down on the Deserted.

Shades? Check. Balaclava? Check. Medical supplies and ammunition? Check. Gun?
A groan escaped my lips as I grimaced not having a firearm. Two years of training only to find myself unarmed and ill prepared in the center of an Armageddon’s ghost town. An impenetrable wall of smoke stained clouds and a gray sun stared down at me in a bitter mocking tone.
I glanced down at my watch.
Twelve thirty. Plenty of time to reach Dallas ‘fore nightfall.
I buttoned up my coat to the neck and watched my breath swirl and dance in front of me. “Another cold day to regret another man’s choices.” And with that, I stepped off the edge and plummeted to the ground, landing hard on the cushy ash below. I stood, shook the soft chalky powder off and noted it was even softer than last week.
It was as if the bombing was just the beginning. It seemed the land was in a constant decline to its innermost core. Like something was slowly poisoning it day by day. The degradation of the earth was frightening to the few that noticed. Most of the population, which according to best estimates is around twelve thousand worldwide, is blissfully unaware of the new corruption, as they struggle to survive against the old one.
I delved deeper into my thoughts as I often did while I walked, my only escape. The land all seemed the same. Plain, featureless plateaus of dirt and ash, the landscape dotted with the occasional hill and petrified tree. Rocks and pebbles littered the wasteland among the random detritus and items long lost. Tufts of scrap and tattered remains of clothing blew in the dank wind. Every breeze smelled of death and created a zephyr of dirt that stung the eyes.
I pulled my balaclava over my nose instinctively under my eyes and tightened the bandana on my head. My patched and stained jacket rustled like dead grass in the current.
Wind’s picking up, must be getting late. I checked my watch and cursed. Nearly four thirty. I tore myself from the safe depths of my consciousness and quickened my pace. The day never lasted the same as before with spontaneous sunsets and irregular lunar cycles. Tonight was expected to be the third solar eclipse this month.
Speaking of which, what month is it? I racked my brain as I walked; cursing my memory for not retaining such vital information when I recalled I didn’t know what day it was the week before the bombs fell. A ping of regret shot through me like a sniper round.
I flinched. Just then a loud pop resonated across the barren wastes to my ears.
A gunshot. I stopped where I was and surveyed my surroundings, taking it all in with a practiced eye. All was silent for the passing three minutes. Then, another round. I heard a whistle then voices.
A group? I must be closer than I thought. It wasn’t the longest walk from Burleson to Dallas, but one as dangerous at any. The wildlife had somehow survived much better than the human race, and due to what is assumed to be radiation, have grown up to quadruple their previous sizes. The Texas Remnants as it was now named was renowned for its giant wolves and various predators and luckily I haven’t encountered one.
Yet.
I quickly sped up the non-existent trail I had implanted into my brain and peaked the hill. About forty yards away was a small group of four men and a single woman. The eldest held an old rifle in his hands, propped to fire again, a grey heap several feet away. They approached the heap and prodded it with a baseball bat, then backed away and cheered.
Hmm, must’ve been hunting. But what did he..? Suddenly the grey heap leapt up, and in an astounding bound, descended on the group snarling and roaring between bites. The group scrambled in panic, the men scattered. Trying to get away from the beast, the eldest with the rifle dropped the bullets with trembling hands as he attempted to reload. The woman screamed and fell beneath the nearest man next to her as the beast caught them. The scene was silent in an instant.
The ground was a deep scarlet as the ash absorbed the spilled blood and blew like a mist in the wind. The bodies lay strewn about, the monster abandoning them. It was then that I noted its size. It was an immaculate bear, limbs as large as dinner tables and a head the size of a large television. It stormed off, trash-can-lid sized paws pounding into the dirt in strides capable of overtaking one of the destroyed vehicles scattered about in their prime.
I descended the hill slowly and scanned the area for threats. After a quick evaluation, I decided to inspect the scene. The bodies were still now, no twitching or convulsing. A cold aura seemed to envelope me as I entered the dead’s presence. Their eyes were glazed and pale as they stared through the veil of death, their faces contorted with the stricken fear of oncoming peril.
I rummaged through their pockets and found a few sticks of gum, a box of matches and a half empty bottle of water. I pocketed the matches and gum, placing the water in my bag. It was then I heard a sob. I turned on my heel quickly, alert and ready, only to see nothing. The dead remained and the surrounding devoid of life. I stepped over to the old man who had the gun. I crouched beside him and closed his eyes, reaching into his jacket. A small crinkled picture of a young man and woman stood forever smiling. Their embrace was warm even on paper. I placed it in the old man’s cold hand and continued my search.
Seventeen bullets within his pocket and a single .44 round in addition to the two he dropped came to nineteen in which to arm myself. I pocketed them and looked up into his blue eyes.
Instantly I was frozen.
Hadn’t I just closed his eyes? I leaned in closer to inspect him when he blinked, a single tear sliding down his wrinkled cheek. He began to cry slowly, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. He stared me straight in the eye, remorseful and infinitely fallen. His mouth creased and his lips squared.
“Dead.” He breathed, barely a whisper. “They’re all dead. Because of me. I tried. To feed us. But. It. It.” He trailed off then, a husky trembling in his throat as he shed his last tears. I remained silent; my only respects, and memorized his last words as he gripped my hand.
“Defend them all.” And with that, he slipped into another world, the rifle slumping from his shoulder to my hand in his icy grip. I left his hand upon his chest and lifted the old rifle.
It was heavy and made of solid mahogany, adorned with scratches and knicks. Claw marks and a variety of imperfections covered the firearm from barrel to stock. An eight round magazine ejected from the bottom but was bent and jammed from what appeared to be a bullet striking it.
What has this Old Rifle been through? I was sure it was older than me, I being 24 before the world ended. I loaded four of the .357 rounds and checked the open barrel sights.
Good as far as I can tell. I slung the Old Rifle over my shoulder beside my rucksack and checked my watch. I cursed loudly and kicked the dust, swirling in the elevated breeze. I looked out from the peak of the next hill and saw the first outpost of Dallas about two miles away. I looked back at the exposed corpses behind me and felt my heart slow as darkness engulfed the miles and miles of death and devastation I had traversed these long, last two years.