The After Math; A Patch Work People

Followers

Intro:

           Little orphan Annie must have been a pathological liar because I can assure you the sun did not come up. Of course I’m talking figuratively; that big gas giant we call the sun is still high and mighty. The only thing that’s changed is what he shines down on.

           

Scientists say we evolved from animals, tragedy strikes and we are back to beasts. We are out the chaos now, the static, the ash, the screaming. What’s left is the after math. Anyone alive is aftermath; just the ash and rubble stitched all together. I, like everyone else, am a raggedy patchwork person; the aftermath

           

Like everything else, I guess it started off with good intentions: imperfect people building a perfect society. A utopia. It’s funny to think a “utopia” led to this crap... Sorry, funny isn’t the right word.

           

        People have died. My mother among ‘em, not like I care though. (If anyone could live up to being described as a Hulk-Barbie hybrid it would be that 2-face.)

           

But she’s dead. She’s met her fate. I  haven’t, I guess I don’t really have many options to choose from though. You’re either with “the regiment” or against them. Oh…or you could be one of the kids they snatch to build their Utopia. They tried to build it with adults first but they resisted and The Regiment didn’t take too highly to that. They got rid of most of ‘em, the adults. A little while back they started over, new slate, but this time with the kiddos. I know, one world war and twelve atom bombs later and they are still bent over this utopia thing.

 

Chapter One:

I sprint down 4th avenue, my pick bag chafing against my shoulder. The roar of overlapping, gravelly voices rushing from behind threaten to engulf me. Their shadows ooze forward, gliding over the dirty pavement and across the sides of graffitied buildings, who have been gutted and left for dead. The horde’s heavy boots echo on the asphalt, their guns cocked but refusing to shoot just yet. Apparently, I'm more useful alive than put in the ground.

I bolt around a corner onto a gravel street, switching the dirty urban scenery to outskirts. My whole body aches but coarses with tingly adreniline. My breath is ragged and my chest is heaving. I blaze with heat but continue to shake, vibrating like static on a radio. I look over my shoulder and the deathgrip around my chest gets even tighter, like a boa constrictor squeezing the life out of its prey. I fire a sloppy warning shot over my shoulder.

My legs kick into overdrive as I see the house. A beaten down double decker cabin bursting at the seams with grungy teens and rooms filled wall to wall with old mattresses and makeshift beds. They say “home is where the heart is”. If that’s true, my heart is out chilling in the middle of nowhere, covered in graffiti and breaking down.

I sift my way through the tall grass and make a break for the house’s back door.

The Fighters stream out of the house, guns loaded and ready to go. They fire and I hear bodies crumple onto the ground like ragdolls.

I rattle the back door’s sticky lock but no luck. I ram the side of my arm into the door, splintering the wood but forcing the door open. I slam the door behind me and slide down the wall, scrambling desperately to catch my breath. I lay my head against the wall,  and stare up at the ceiling. Despite the the thick wall barricading me from outside’s gunfire, the thundering sounds rip through me. Inside the house, panicky voices chatter, trying to figure out whats going on, others bark orders urgently. Either way, the whole house is on edge.