Walkers Of The Waste: A Post Apocalyptic Story

Prologue

There's no bird song, no noise of the wind blowing through the dead grass. No, only the sound of gunfire and screams. Bullets fly, taking down man, woman and child. Every so often an explosion will cause dirt to rain down on those running. I watch as a mother and her infant child are knocked over by the force of one of the blasts. A man goes to help them, perhaps his family, his help is cut short when another blast hits near by. I pray they died right away, that they didn't suffer.

I watch as two children run, the older one, a girl, pulling the younger, a boy, along. A bullet hits the boy and his hand slips from the grasp. The girl doesn't seem to notice and keeps on running. As she reaches the tree line she turns back, finally noticing that the boy's no longer holding her hand. She runs back through the field, screaming a name I can't quite make out. Her screaming, too, is cut short, as she falls to the ground also.

I feel bad for those who don't make it, while I hide in the safety of the forest. Watching people I've met once, or caught a glimpse of in a market, to people I've never seen before die, before my eyes. I watch as the last of the stragglers limp into the forest. I watch as armoured men, Crucible soldiers, continue their assault, approaching the edge of the woods in uniform strides. They halt right at the edge and part ways, another group march in from behind, two large tanks on each of their backs, tubes attached to the weapons in their hands. They lift the weapons up, streams of flame roar out of the ends. It doesn't take long for the fire to catch, spreading through the dried out forest. The soldiers walk through the flames like it's nothing, firing off bullets at anyone they see trying to escape the blaze. I thank the heavens that my hiding spot has not yet become engulfed in the flames. The men walk past the fallen log where I hide. The crackling of the wood soon becomes drowned out by more screams.

I watch as the last of the army walk past. I wait a few moments before moving, running back into the field. Already the bodies in the dusty meadow have began to rot. Cooking in the harsh sun light, flies have already starting to swarm. I move past the body of a woman, I recognise her from the market, she used to sell soup during the cold moons. Now she lies on the ground, missing an arm and blood flowing from the back of her head. I struggle to hold in the bile that comes up my throat. Tearing my eyes away, I continue to run until I reach the still burning husk of the village. Nothing salvageable is left, the Crucibles destroying everything. I slow to a walk, my breathing heavy, eyes stinging from the smoke. More bodies litter the streets, those who were unable to flee the city. It's hard to tell if they died from the fire, smoke, or from bullets. Out of the corner of my eye I spot movement, a hand raising up, grasping the air. I walk over, an elder man lies in a pool of his own blood, still flowing from a wound to his right arm. He tries to speak but the words sound gargled, he starts to cough and blood spills from his mouth. I rest a hand on his shoulder before getting up and moving on.

I make my way along the once familiar path, now unrecognisable, to the shack that I will no longer live in. I find it, mostly undamaged by the fires. I duck under the sheet that I used as a door. Inside, I grab my few possessions, putting them into a duffle bag and slinging it over my shoulder. I put my pistol in the holster on my belt, swing my bow over my shoulder and attach my quiver to the strap on my back. Picking up my shotgun I attach a strap to it and sling it around my other shoulder. I halt, catching a glimpse of myself through my reflection on the piece of shined silver I use as a mirror. There's a small splattering of blood on my right cheek. There's a small gash just above my left eye, and some of my already short brown hair has been singed. The dark marks under my eyes make them seem sunken. My eyes themselves are what worry me the most, no longer are they their normal hazel colour, now there's a slight gold tinge to them. A sign of infection. Radiation sickness must have finally found its way to me. I sigh, running my hand through my hair ruffling it up, before turning away.

I give one last look at my once home, before pushing under the sheet and back out into the wasteland that was once the village of Havenstone. No longer a safe place for those few survivors of the war. I quickly but carefully make my way out of the desolated town and into the unforgiving land. I hear an explosion in the distance, I look back to see a plume of smoke rise in the distance. The centre of the forest most likely, the place where the last living tree grows. Whilst one side of the town had the remnants of life, the other is bears only death, a wasteland of shifting sands and rubble of once mighty cities, disintegrated by the war.

I turn to look upon the ruins of Havenstone one more time, a single stray tear falls from my eye. The first time I set foot in the village couldn't be more than six seasons ago. Barely alive, and injured I sought shelter. I had collapsed in the market place, someone had helped me to the healer's hut. I never did learn the man that saved my life's name. Now I never will. I remember helping bring down a stray Wendigo that stalked the wastes near the village. I remember saving the last tree from the destruction of a Wolvryn. All that's gone now, only a memory, never to be known by another. I cross into the waste, leaving behind the life I was slowly growing accustomed to.