Dystopia

Walking into a settlement is easier when the remnants of forgotten civilizations are not present. The towering structures, imposing on the horizon, stand as sentinels blocking out the sky. With a view for many miles they make great early warning stations for anyone looking to defend against intrusion or to ambush unsuspecting travelers. Holes in which to enter through are everywhere, but in the late day seeing what’s inside is impossible. This is hard work and he knows this could be the end if he does not take every precaution. As he walks up the stairs, he is sure to make as little noise as possible, staying against the inner wall to allow himself space to fight off attack if something comes from one of the darkened floors, and to hear if something is coming. He has been climbing up for a long time now, he judges by the sweat that’s dripping down his face, when he sees a rock. It is out of place here; this is something found outside, and he knows it does not belong. He moves on and does not disturb it, as it may be there for a reason. He continues up.

He is sitting on top of a gutted shell. The sky, growing darker, he can see that this used to be a large city. There are many buildings below him spread out as far as a day’s walk. He can see black holes where windows used to be. The broken glass has been crushed to dust with the passage of time and the force of nature taking back its territory once stolen by progress. Off in the distance he can see a few fires spread out from each other. They must be the survivors, the dreg who stayed. Like rats you never see them during the day, because of the many dangers, but at night you can find them easily enough by their telling fires. There are only a few. He doesn’t know how to count but he knows he has more fingers than there are fires and they are far enough apart to probably not associate with each other or notice his presence.

As he stares out in the distance, blankly, he rubs a heart shaped locket with his thumb. It is smooth and has scratches on it, they are specific, he has seen the scratches on walls and etched in the rocks he walks on and even on the buildings. He looks down at the old Enfield leaned against the wall. It was 100 years old by the time of the event, but now it is even older. He is turning gray and the event was before his birth. The rifle is wrapped in tan burlap and he is dressed similarly, this allows him to blend into his surroundings and makes him difficult to spot. This has served him well. He rubs the locket once again remembering how he liked it when he first saw it and he drifts to a memory. The memory is that of a girl, she had hair that looks to have been purple at first but had faded to a pinkish color by the time he had crossed paths with her. Her face, youthful and pleasing, seemed to contrast her tall slim figure. They spent a few nights together and he assumed the color was a custom of her tribe, as the other women also had similar style. He looks out at the dark sky and what looks to be the remnants of this large city; a warm tear rolls down his face as he rubs the locket one more time with his thumb. He puts the locket in his pocket and stands up. He came here to take what he will need to survive, and he still has to cover the distance to get to the fires. As he is walking towards the door, which leads back into the building, he pats the locket and remembers the girl. His first kill.