Ardor

Twelve: Bullet Wounds

Worldwide wreckage.

Gangs.

Chaos.

Death.

Electricity is a thing of the past, civilization an ancient concept. Already groups of survivors have banded together; some for the sake of living and simply clinging on to other life, a lucky few if their families survived have bonded with blood, others still for less grand deviances.

Earth is durable, there's no doubt about that, because if it wasn't humans would have destroyed it long ago. Or maybe it's already dead and we are habituating nothing more than an empty shell. There's only so many bullet wounds a living thing can survive. Our planet was able to prevail through the skin shattering shots of asteroids, Pangea, humans, pollution, evil, and yet it was always still dying at the same rate.

Until now. The jolt that killed the world...or perhaps restarted its heart.

The earthquake has left not one inch of ground untouched. Technology has been obliterated, as well as all forms of communication. Survivors are separated and cut off, completely unaware of who remains living or not.

Hearts vigorously pump terror-laced blood throughout every inch of each living body. Breaths rattle in dry, dust clotted lungs.

The world is gasping for air, barely above the waters threatening to drown everything. And yet it prevails, because it always has, time and time again.