a string of oneshots.

w.v. ☁︎ survival I

wc: 2, 727
tw: hint of smut, violence, foul language

i do not support or condone violence

happy reading all !

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O U T P O S T T H R E E

2 0 1 8

Location

Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men

Head of Outpost

Wilhelmina Venable

Signed On

Jeff Pfister Mutt Nutter

Notes

full control to op leader. rule liberty to op leader. ms mead. 68 %

until further knowledge, await further instruction from the cooperative.

T H E C O O P E R A T I V E

༻༺

Survival, it's a noun. The state or fact of continuing to live or exist, typically in spite of an accident. Of course few only actually knew of the ordeal. It all happened as quickly as it all ended, those who knew of the apocalypse didn't live long enough to remember it, those who remained clueless had most likely dropped inoperative with the first wave of the bombs. There were very few who made it out, under safe watch of what was known as the cooperative. The memories of everything before were enough to help one carry through the painful reality of all that happened after the ground shook and the world fell apart. Large vacant fields full of decay and inhumane remains scattered about, as if those who had once stood on these very grounds left not a single trace of themselves behind, rather the faint echo of their screams. Their screams leave a dreadful pain as they fill the vast air. How could this happen? It had been four months since the bombs hit. Five months ago, when the question had arisen where do you see yourself in the next few months there would be no speculation of finding yourself in the state you currently do. You were one of the lucky ones, at least that's what they said. It made no sense, you didn't see the alumions joy in being snatched from the comfortable sanctuary you were once so lucky to call home. were. From the basis there was something special about you, a part of you was worthy enough to be kept sheltered, underground. Which confused you even more.

There were six to begin with, at least according to the documents. It wasn't long before most shelters were overran. It was hard to believe this was reality these had been fallout shelters, created to serve and protect better known as outpost centers to the people who seemed to have control in all this madness. Who'd want to control all this? Filled by darkness and cold horror, an empty feeling and low grip on the world. Having all that you ever knew be ripped from you, with no guarantee of survival. After all, that was the main goal, was it not? Making it this far as the world grew in decay around us dying now would be a slap in the face. The radiation that I read about was a constant thought in my mind. It can't get through my suit, right? Walking deeper into the woods carried by tired steps, careful and cautious to remain as silent as possible the atmosphere grew dense, the energy was wicked, a thick fog covered the air leaving a sickly feeling in your gut. You kept walking, with your head down unsure of how far you had gone, for all I knew I could very well be walking in circles. The feeling didn't last long as you stood before the tall gates, they stood at least rushing to the gates I took no rush before climbing with the best of my ability, I was going to get inside. My feet hit the ground and the loud blare of alarms ran through my ears as two tall dark figures approached me, taking me to the ground, the last thing I felt was my cheek drag across the dirt.