Silence.
That's all there was.
He walked, through cracked roads, fallen buildings, ashes the only remains of once civilizations.
He was alone.
///
He limped down a road where people once travelled, a highway, he vaguely recalls. A loose sign on an old boutique had fallen on his foot, breaking it on impact. It hurt, like hell. But there was no resting, no bandaging it up. There is no stopping in hell.
///
He pulled out his map with much difficulty. He hadn't eaten in days, weeks maybe. He didn't keep track, time seemed to blend together, past days forgotten and future days not dwelled upon. All he knows is the sun and the moon, the light and the dark, sunset and sunrise, rest and move on.
He traced his finger along his path. He had heard long ago, at the beginning of his journey, that there was a New World in the South West. A place of salvation, where the wreckage of this nation was unseen and government, or forms of it, lie. The last of humanity. It has been described as some sort of heaven.
Of course, he was skeptical. Growing up on apocalyptic books, he knew you could never trust the "holy place", where people preach that you will be safe there. No one ever was, and most didn't get there. But he had nothing better to do. He had nothing left, there was nothing left.
Murder ruled the roads now. The end of the world brought fear, savagery, desperation. He often pondered why people hadn't just bonded together, shared resources, worked through the disaster. But anarchy infected the minds of most, and all hope was lost. It seemed futile to ponder on what could have been, because all that matters is tomorrow, survival. There is no time to think of yesterday.
He heard the low rumble of a vehicle, too far away to identify. He threw himself into the bramble on the side of the crumbling road, desperately trying to hide himself as much as he could.
It was a motorcycle gang. A symbol, the one for anarchy, lied on the back of their jackets. They drove up, stopping at the place where he lay. He was done for.
A lean young man walked out of the forest, a smirk on his face. Black hair, a lean structure, the gang members snarled when he walked up to them.
"Nice of you to come, Ramses." He spoke, his smooth voice intoxicating.
"I'm not here for you." The leader spoke in a gruff voice. "I saw some fool shuffling along."
"What, over there?" The lean man pointed to his hiding spot, causing his breath to hitch. "He's with me."
"With you?" The leader scoffed, inching towards the bramble. "I doubt it."
The lean man shot his gun, and everything went dark.
