In current year, what ever it may be, that is irrelevant. To the fair minded thoughts of the existence, it’s a damnation of being with a noted wick we compare to others. Adding more and more to the twisted infirmary of being is quite cute. Unraviling a slow insanity bound in all things of thought, of being. Each time words are attempted to be bound unto the sensation of sight it is burned from the very essesnce of time. Of what all things are bound to, only bindings of thought are truly free.  

Sight lay over a heap bounded paper, folds in barring away any notion of the writings it once held. Slight movement beneath the fibers that give echo to the life beneath it. Burden of life is a echo of past glory, a sent out thought that life its self has become corrupted, almost diseased with knowledge and knowhow of the current existence. Foremost the sun still burns the day away, fore the night still holds the chilled wind that lifts dust to the air the ones cursed with life. Beams of light cut the dust with its reflective ways, a effect of the twisting notion of laws of existence breaking.

The revenant of humanity, lost in hope while waking. To be enfeebled by the lack of proper satiation leaves a mind burdened with dissociation, hope lost to the neathers of the mind. Bones encased in a organic suit, beholder of the thought, a human pulls aside a covering only mold would ever call a blanket. Pale skin, nails yellowed, knuckles stained with the excraments of time. Sliding off the coverings a layer of stale cloth moves within great resistance of the body and mind, a being slowly begins to take form in the rays of light that burn thoughout the broken, stagnate air. Eyes stained by the broken vessels that carry the paternity of this being. Brown hair, though truly not known if its the refuse of the world or if the hair truly held the copper stained bronze filament.

Looking around the small enclosure, once a toll booth, the lad groans in conciouness. Clearing the dried flakes from the corners of his eyes, a sensation each time reminds him he still is cought in the living world. With a raised eyebrow looking around shows a simple enclosure. Like all booths of the past, just medicore in substance with two shelves holding what has become the few edible things left around. A beaten box of hambaerhelper and a can of tuna for breakfast. Not apitozing but knowing what others have done, its not a pet or family member. To that thought the lads idea of breakfast was ended. Reaching out to grab his meager suppilies, tossed into a grain bag, back packs have become unreliable and the time and resources fixing ripped fabric is not feasible. A final groan leaves the lads lungs as reaching out to pull himself up, pained joints and knotted tissues benith the skin leaves much to the wanted. With the boxes sliding off the lower frame, twisting his neck, bending slight over using his hand to bat off what ever dust and grime he can from such a, well, not so wondrful bed last night. Two layers of pants, rips and holes bountful in both, are held together by little give birth to dust and some kind of crums from who knows what fall to the floor. With a final stretch of the limbs the lad looks to the sun through the glass and knows time is limited of to refill his leather water pouch and one would hope more pants. Suprizingly the glass door still holds complete, the world welcomes him with the embrace of the scent of old bodies still in decay, the copper scent still fills the air of last night victems. Animals mostly these days, what humans are left are scarce. To the north is the town that might hold some goods and the east is the bridge the toll booth gave access too. West shows a simple two lane road that leads into the horizon. A grey smog takes away the visablity that would grant some sence of security when heading into the town, cant always have it his way the lads moans under his breath. The thoughts of pushing ahead and trying to find the will to lift his leg, into a unknown war of senses are ahead.

Door, light yet groans from the hinges say time without being maintained signals the door giving way to the world. Air humid with the decay of the dead laying in the window frames of the various shops. Skin, long ago leathered in the sun, holds tight to the bones, only torn strips of the torsos reveil the moist organs inside. Sights like this have long ago stopped curling the stomach, the smell, that scent can never be fought from curling the torsos organs into knots almost forcing vomit forth. The road ahead is covered with the refuse of what was what a race of normalcy. Folded newspapers becoming part of the pavement over the time of rain and being crushed by whatever passed it without notice. Tipped over caution cones and various cars plant themselves where once people did fight back. The chaos however was just as deadly as the takeover was as quicker then anyone could have thought of. Shuffling his bag onto his shoulders the young man looks to his first building he is hoping has some basic supplies he can use.

Strips of rags swinging in the wind as the lad reaches the front of the home hardwear store. Walking at a cautious pace, not knowing if this shop holds something more deadly then the blades once used for box cutters. Beast or man, each of them are just as fearsome as they are both rage filled and hold no quarter for other man or beast. Truly this world has become each for themselves as teams are just enemies who are not currently trying to kill you. With each thought, both adding the weight of fear to the reaching arm to grab the door handle, the door opens without the grace of silence. A moan and scraping of refuse on the ground as the door sweeps the refuse into a pile that will never be picked up. Fearing the waft of decay, the lad holds his breath until the slight discomfort in his lungs reminds him that air is essential for life. With a slight wift of the air a sigh of thanks as the smell it not any worse then the outside, no smell of human waste or the rotting flesh of one of the creatures that only roam the night. Reaching into the right inside pocket a flashlight reviled, pointing inside the shop, entering gave a slight sence of protection yet also a sence of fear of the unseen.  

The beam of light cuts into the darkness with fingers of the unknown trying to reach into the light, burned back by a force they cannot understand. Crunching under the slow footsteps, glass callouts the lads location. This give a moment of hesitation as waiting for a call back from mankind or other. Skittering life, most likely some kind rodent or bug running to the various holes in the walls to escape any type of danger. Broken shelves leave little to the hope to find anything in some kind of useful condition. Rolls of tear off rags are ripped apart as if some massive kitten had its play before leaving. Moving further in from the door the smell of oil and other petrol liquids are spilled out on the floor. Soaking into the random objects that littler the floor that allow so. Cans without labels dress the ground with most leaking or emptied by some large creature, much more then a man would be, has taken this place to the hell it came from.

Light reflecting of the smashed aluminum can, a signature of a better time where processing and development and creation. Any idea of any food or provisions crush with the barren can, also brings forth not any worry that encountering anything like him or not like him being around. The wet tile are signatures of the ceiling having holes and letting the world break through a once sheltered home. Stagnate molded air, a  departure of the rot that laid assault to the senses outside, was not relief but a migration to another trojan horse of lies in hope of the fresh air. Ending each isle is not but broken and Razors edged by the shearing of the metal. With the quite steps are the agile survivors best way to get around. Each step is not as one would have on the streets of old, more like a balance on the edge waving between the ball of the foot and the every gripping toes as if fearing the ever bounding gravity would fail.  Tossed around like a childs toys, avoiding the torn bags and wrappers of each varitiy to suppress any way to aleart the things that may be stalking the isles well.

Sweat beads lace the brow as the lad as the last of the isles are cleared of any other beings that would cause any threat to the lad, a quiet sigh is all that shows the mountain amount of relief. Reaching to the inside of the rags adorned over the lads carapace, a molded leather notebook, a tomb of the minds escape into ideas of a survivors hope. Basic notes are always the best, complications over the basic of ideas are a virus to being able to make it through this new world of cursed existence. Quick look at the graphite scribblings note a need of coffee filters and a hope of finding some charcoal fish tanks filters. Even just those would help with the somewhat purification of water. Shadowed shelves are bent, torn out or even just smashed into the ground by something in a rampage for victims. Torn metal leaves for the reason for the torn flesh of both human and not. What looks like strings of leather but known to really be the dried skin of whatever left this store in its disarray.

Broken railings are a score to the eyes to have a place higher into the building and its habitants. The cloth and debris upon the ground are a softer the not compared to the grounds of broken glass that is still form a foe of the unnoticed if not careful. With stairs covered in a array of cloth and other torn sheets of sorts. Though later they will be gathered and ripped to strips for band-aids, even if they are used as a mock shoe to soften the harden ground. Shoes are not as common as others expect and feet being so delicate. Faux shoes are a necessity in the is land of improbable hope.

Tired stairs are filled with the groans of time and weight as the lad takes slow steps up to the next room trapped in the fog of war, as if a uninvited mist leaks into the rooms and sight of mind is filling each room with a set of unknown figures. Air ripped of its virgin stillness is given to the cracks in the wall that the outdoor wind cuts though and turns dust into tumble weeds of the air. Never the less each step to the upper level is a snapped fine string of sanity, each with the hope of a bountiful room of needs. The darkness only cut with rays of light show the stillness of the rooms gives relief of the mind. Stillness is not a friend of the living, even a breath of the most hidden creatures of light or dark leave the air in turbulence. With the slow wisps of air are a clear sign that the room is holding no creature, friend or foe.

Light steps become, quieter then the sound of the lads heartbeat in his ears. Not seeking to call into the void, from his belt slides out a small metal bar that has a leather handle. With the leather handle in his hand, the steps become lighter with each reaching step. The light is slowly becoming brighter as the eyes adjust, making the upper level. Showing that the shelves were mostly untouched, the shelves having stock. This being a great luck as new clothing and patch work is needed to be done, giving a hope that finding some water would be a great help to refresh for the rest of the day.

The upper floor almost untouched shelves still containing boxes of merchandise, looks to be something of luck to be here. Each step a twisting wind follows the legs, turning the air as micro tornados lift the dust and give temporay life to the dead skin cells again. Death breathers, a running joke, every time you dust or vacuum, the dust in in the air is dead skin cells. Breathing the most likely dead back into your lungs. Disturbing but a notion blind to most. With silent breath each isle is studied carfully by the lad. A broken lamp and tossed boxes seem to be the general malaise of the upper floor. Mindful and aware, eyes darting to each potental box or tipped over container of what looks to be socks and underware. Both would be ran to by anyone of lesser mind. Creatures that roam the twilight and moonless night, abominations that have not a origin of no god or creator of life, but the essence of something made by the hand of mankind. For if made by a god or creator of life, then the life they see is not of kindness or kinship, but the living consuming each other for life. To devour each other so time is not a essence to them. That is not something devout to life, but devout to the ones who own life and consumes the weak to extend it.

Boxes line the walls and shelves, To open each one is a task that the lad would be second thought as the day is still lacking any water for nutrition and hydration. The main floor held no essence of aqua, the blue essence of life. Cracked lips and mouth corners split and showing signs of blood being the only liquid that passed the lips for days now. With fear of this being the last hope of any water to be found, even condensation on glass would be devoured right now to give even the slightest hope that the bone dry lips would feel the love of moisture again. Roaming the isles, a reductionist nightmare, each box contains everything but even the most flavored of fluid. The hope of any fluid quickly leave to be found in another location is not something the lad was hoping for. This turns a hope into the greater fear that death will not come from the mutations of the world, but from simple dehydration. A weak mans death.

Broken shelves leaning and resting on the shelve below, eyeing the various means of inventory, a crinkle was heard though the source was hidden under the fallen shelf. Means of life and knowing the daylights heat is holding most creatures to the shade, with the building destroyed and already cleared, the lad decides to risk noise for hopeful ambition. With steady arms and unforgiving tenacity, lifting the shelf is with groans of bent metal trying to return to its factory shape. Moans of inorganic origins, under the distorted metal, a six pack of water, torn open and only 3 left, this was a gift by the grace of luck, never a gift of god.

Plastic wrapped savior is the results of the tenacity of the lads means to survive, broken hope healed again by the clear fluid that will give another day to fight to just breath in another day.

Taking in the view with slight hesitation of it being a figment of imagination, the plastic felt as if it were a divine being, a lie but a lie that brings forth will to live for a bit longer in the world of rot and disease. Broken windows lay bare the street, wood and fever chance of security is a nightly need to find the next sunrise.

With a last look, taking in things that could be of value, taking of the ragged back pack, slowly sliding in the 2 water bottles and keeping one out to hydrate. Cracking the plastic seal, manufacturing not to be seen again, the cool liquid slightly burns the cracked and torn lips, a wince that is followed by the sense of hydration even the eyes start to water knowing the grace of water will give them the ability to tear up and clean themselves out. Know now that the body is in the mid 90% being of water, most would take the blood of the last living friend and turn the salted penny tasting liquid into a life saving fluid. Life saving for the one to find it in abundance, death to the one who gives this gift.

Seeking another possible source of water or food that is still a option for some kind of consumption. Slowly making the stairway down noiseless and still being observant as always with the death of many being that of preserved safety after clearing a room, once cleared, a room remains cleared for as long as your eyes can see it. After loss of sight, the room might as well be filled with the dominions of rotten and leather backed creatures.

With the door glass laying out on the floor, crunching under the shoes of the wizened lad, the bright mid morning is welcomed with a sigh of refreshment, looking over the small strip mall, each side contains a few buildings with most being nocked down by time and storm. Brick piles with the various blown debris covering the piles of decayed wood. Sun burnt fabric stiffened by years of radiation exposure from the sun. Break down in the very stands of fabric bring forth the dry rot and leaves it not but a pile of undisturbed dust.

With a refreshed mind and sight, looking to the stores that remain, fast food joint, gas station, a family diner that seems to be mostly intact, lastly a old general store that seems to be a old barber and before that unknown. Moans of wind though broken windows give howls of the dead world, a slamming back door gives call to the empty playground that no child would see again. If, if their is any children born again in the world. A travesty would it be called to see a new soul bound to the dust like all others who are pre born of the godless world.

With a dark thought boring its way into the mind of the lad, he steps forward to see what this small strip mall will offer.

The so called General store seems to be of the most use, a defined meaning to have “general Items” Could have a great implementations of life improvement. Well what can be called life improvements, Dry roads of fractured tar and rock mix, a wind with no sound but a scent of rot and decay is a spark to the senses that make for a alerted mind. The gust of wind turn a pile of bones and dust into a whirlwind of dust and fabric toying in the air, as if the wind has fingers to investigate the bones for what little moisture to dry up. Beads of sweat form on the palms of the lad as they are of nervous means when tracing into a new location.

Mid morning light is the means to see if the day will be hot or have some resolve to make sure it is not going to be a day of radiant heat to boil ones sanity away. Discovered by chance the lad standing in the shattered doorway of the store he just quickly searched, looking across the road, what road is left, is not but a door ripped off its hinges and the frame a entrance to a possible interlopers of death and decay. Blood shot eyes and a mind with slight hydration from the bottle of water. A better set of defensive equipment for the longer days ahead of travel to the next small set of buildings to find and hope contain more resources of life and inhabitation.

Stepping through the door the lad takes cautious steps across the ruin laden road, the general store becoming closer and closer that the suns mid morning crest is cut short and the lads figure mixes into the softer shade of a buildings reach.

Shattered windows and blood stained glass, a now blackened fluid that has become hardened with time and heat. Small amounts of vicar of the unknown is also cast upon the ground. Slow methodical steps take the lad from the broken road to the doorway that is but a marked by violence with no hanging door but a frame that is home to no swinging divider. A manifest of what happened lies in the death and ruins of mankind and the devote become the cast of the play that was the opening to the end of everything. They all thought that gods could be kind and understanding, that the creators of this creature known as homosapiens. It is not but the manifestations of creatures simply beyond mankind. When told we were created in the image of god, they were not wrong, gods come in the same shapes as us, the doctrines of racism and hate is theirs as much as mankind, as much if not more does the concepts of love and devotions are not but a mystical means to stray not. That the world was made for the many to see greatness. All a lie in the wake of the death of many, Gods never existed, simply creatures with more knowledge then us, more time to develop, more time to become bored. In there vast and all consuming boredom, they made us, the ultimate and most entertaining thing of all. A planet with the foolish ideals given in what were told to be words of gods, but not so. They are words of creatures of boredom, creatures with the means to create and change a species to watch them aimlessly kill themselves. For their entertainment, we became the very thing we thought we were masters of. Our own humanity.

Thought as this racing through the mind of the lad are not that of truth and the realization why most in this mortal coil decided to kill themselves. Why not, after finding out the one thing you gave devotion to, the one thing you sacrificed so much for a god that really just turns out to be a creature to be treating us like a set of toys. To find out that you are nothing to any greater will, the decline of all morality was at a instant. With so many people devoted to a concept that was the limiter to the devious things inside. Well what happens when all they have to hold close to keep the evil inside is gone, they turned to fellow man and blamed them for the outcry of being mislead. Murder no longer a sin, mankind became bathed in the blood of the truly innocent. The ones who lead a life without a need to limit the truth and being inside. The religions of the world fell in a second and the whom who devoted peace and security became the darkest of us all. Manuscripts held back the demons we all have but some rely on a being of imagination to be good people. This fallacy is not know to the world as one, but known to all. This very thing was the only thing needed to capsulate what the creators acutely wanted. A world devoted to the unknown so they have a fear that keeps them kind. A fear to keep them honest, they laughed as this fear was a lie and it gave way to humanities worst. The devote with nothing to be devoted too. Then they become devoted to the animal inside.

Thoughts pass more and more of the world and how the fall was so quick, the feeling of the sun moving over the smoke blanketed sky and touching his skin again, gave the notice to begin the change in direction and get to finding resources before night falls and the once hidden become into the reality the lad lives in.

Chapter 2

The front door the the ramshackled store was pushed open, the curtain torn and left hanging as a monument of the unknown ravager that gave the fabric its fate. Stepping forward onto the small step before the door way, a look back to make sure that nothing is looking for a new meal in a tight location. The vacant enterence is left with more then enough room for the lads slender frame to slip through, A creaking door being opened, is the sound of a intruder to the living within. If within is a home to the living, the dead or the state of something not either but both. Dust and the remanates of old fill the air, a tense breath brings forth a tickle in the nose and throat that must be halted, sound is nothings friend these times. A focus that is found in the living to stay that way, slowly eyes are ever watchful. Stores sell mortem as much as voids of hope, no longer provisions of life. Shards of the window fallen onto the floor, the torn up mediocre store is not one of hopeful means but no matter what, will be investigated.

In current year, what ever it may be, that is irrelevant. To the fair minded thoughts of the existence, it’s a damnation of being with a noted wick we compare to others. Adding more and more to the twisted infirmary of being is quite cute. Unraviling a slow insanity bound in all things of thought, of being. Each time words are attempted to be bound unto the sensation of sight it is burned from the very essesnce of time. Of what all things are bound to, only bindings of thought are truly free.  

Sight lay over a heap bounded paper, folds in barring away any notion of the writings it once held. Slight movement beneath the fibers that give echo to the life beneath it. Burden of life is a echo of past glory, a sent out thought that life its self has become corrupted, almost diseased with knowledge and knowhow of the current existence. Foremost the sun still burns the day away, fore the night still holds the chilled wind that lifts dust to the air the ones cursed with life. Beams of light cut the dust with its reflective ways, a effect of the twisting notion of laws of existence breaking.

The revenant of humanity, lost in hope while waking. To be enfeebled by the lack of proper satiation leaves a mind burdened with dissociation, hope lost to the neathers of the mind. Bones encased in a organic suit, beholder of the thought, a human pulls aside a covering only mold would ever call a blanket. Pale skin, nails yellowed, knuckles stained with the excraments of time. Sliding off the coverings a layer of stale cloth moves within great resistance of the body and mind, a being slowly begins to take form in the rays of light that burn thoughout the broken, stagnate air. Eyes stained by the broken vessels that carry the paternity of this being. Brown hair, though truly not known if its the refuse of the world or if the hair truly held the copper stained bronze filament.

Looking around the small enclosure, once a toll booth, the lad groans in conciouness. Clearing the dried flakes from the corners of his eyes, a sensation each time reminds him he still is cought in the living world. With a raised eyebrow looking around shows a simple enclosure. Like all booths of the past, just medicore in substance with two shelves holding what has become the few edible things left around. A beaten box of hambaerhelper and a can of tuna for breakfast. Not apitozing but knowing what others have done, its not a pet or family member. To that thought the lads idea of breakfast was ended. Reaching out to grab his meager suppilies, tossed into a grain bag, back packs have become unreliable and the time and resources fixing ripped fabric is not feasible. A final groan leaves the lads lungs as reaching out to pull himself up, pained joints and knotted tissues benith the skin leaves much to the wanted. With the boxes sliding off the lower frame, twisting his neck, bending slight over using his hand to bat off what ever dust and grime he can from such a, well, not so wondrful bed last night. Two layers of pants, rips and holes bountful in both, are held together by little give birth to dust and some kind of crums from who knows what fall to the floor. With a final stretch of the limbs the lad looks to the sun through the glass and knows time is limited of to refill his leather water pouch and one would hope more pants. Suprizingly the glass door still holds complete, the world welcomes him with the embrace of the scent of old bodies still in decay, the copper scent still fills the air of last night victems. Animals mostly these days, what humans are left are scarce. To the north is the town that might hold some goods and the east is the bridge the toll booth gave access too. West shows a simple two lane road that leads into the horizon. A grey smog takes away the visablity that would grant some sence of security when heading into the town, cant always have it his way the lads moans under his breath. The thoughts of pushing ahead and trying to find the will to lift his leg, into a unknown war of senses are ahead.

Door, light yet groans from the hinges say time without being maintained signals the door giving way to the world. Air humid with the decay of the dead laying in the window frames of the various shops. Skin, long ago leathered in the sun, holds tight to the bones, only torn strips of the torsos reveil the moist organs inside. Sights like this have long ago stopped curling the stomach, the smell, that scent can never be fought from curling the torsos organs into knots almost forcing vomit forth. The road ahead is covered with the refuse of what was what a race of normalcy. Folded newspapers becoming part of the pavement over the time of rain and being crushed by whatever passed it without notice. Tipped over caution cones and various cars plant themselves where once people did fight back. The chaos however was just as deadly as the takeover was as quicker then anyone could have thought of. Shuffling his bag onto his shoulders the young man looks to his first building he is hoping has some basic supplies he can use.

Strips of rags swinging in the wind as the lad reaches the front of the home hardwear store. Walking at a cautious pace, not knowing if this shop holds something more deadly then the blades once used for box cutters. Beast or man, each of them are just as fearsome as they are both rage filled and hold no quarter for other man or beast. Truly this world has become each for themselves as teams are just enemies who are not currently trying to kill you. With each thought, both adding the weight of fear to the reaching arm to grab the door handle, the door opens without the grace of silence. A moan and scraping of refuse on the ground as the door sweeps the refuse into a pile that will never be picked up. Fearing the waft of decay, the lad holds his breath until the slight discomfort in his lungs reminds him that air is essential for life. With a slight wift of the air a sigh of thanks as the smell it not any worse then the outside, no smell of human waste or the rotting flesh of one of the creatures that only roam the night. Reaching into the right inside pocket a flashlight reviled, pointing inside the shop, entering gave a slight sence of protection yet also a sence of fear of the unseen.  

The beam of light cuts into the darkness with fingers of the unknown trying to reach into the light, burned back by a force they cannot understand. Crunching under the slow footsteps, glass callouts the lads location. This give a moment of hesitation as waiting for a call back from mankind or other. Skittering life, most likely some kind rodent or bug running to the various holes in the walls to escape any type of danger. Broken shelves leave little to the hope to find anything in some kind of useful condition. Rolls of tear off rags are ripped apart as if some massive kitten had its play before leaving. Moving further in from the door the smell of oil and other petrol liquids are spilled out on the floor. Soaking into the random objects that littler the floor that allow so. Cans without labels dress the ground with most leaking or emptied by some large creature, much more then a man would be, has taken this place to the hell it came from.

Light reflecting of the smashed aluminum can, a signature of a better time where processing and development and creation. Any idea of any food or provisions crush with the barren can, also brings forth not any worry that encountering anything like him or not like him being around. The wet tile are signatures of the ceiling having holes and letting the world break through a once sheltered home. Stagnate molded air, a  departure of the rot that laid assault to the senses outside, was not relief but a migration to another trojan horse of lies in hope of the fresh air. Ending each isle is not but broken and Razors edged by the shearing of the metal. With the quite steps are the agile survivors best way to get around. Each step is not as one would have on the streets of old, more like a balance on the edge waving between the ball of the foot and the every gripping toes as if fearing the ever bounding gravity would fail.  Tossed around like a childs toys, avoiding the torn bags and wrappers of each varitiy to suppress any way to aleart the things that may be stalking the isles well.

Sweat beads lace the brow as the lad as the last of the isles are cleared of any other beings that would cause any threat to the lad, a quiet sigh is all that shows the mountain amount of relief. Reaching to the inside of the rags adorned over the lads carapace, a molded leather notebook, a tomb of the minds escape into ideas of a survivors hope. Basic notes are always the best, complications over the basic of ideas are a virus to being able to make it through this new world of cursed existence. Quick look at the graphite scribblings note a need of coffee filters and a hope of finding some charcoal fish tanks filters. Even just those would help with the somewhat purification of water. Shadowed shelves are bent, torn out or even just smashed into the ground by something in a rampage for victims. Torn metal leaves for the reason for the torn flesh of both human and not. What looks like strings of leather but known to really be the dried skin of whatever left this store in its disarray.

Broken railings are a score to the eyes to have a place higher into the building and its habitants. The cloth and debris upon the ground are a softer the not compared to the grounds of broken glass that is still form a foe of the unnoticed if not careful. With stairs covered in a array of cloth and other torn sheets of sorts. Though later they will be gathered and ripped to strips for band-aids, even if they are used as a mock shoe to soften the harden ground. Shoes are not as common as others expect and feet being so delicate. Faux shoes are a necessity in the is land of improbable hope.

Tired stairs are filled with the groans of time and weight as the lad takes slow steps up to the next room trapped in the fog of war, as if a uninvited mist leaks into the rooms and sight of mind is filling each room with a set of unknown figures. Air ripped of its virgin stillness is given to the cracks in the wall that the outdoor wind cuts though and turns dust into tumble weeds of the air. Never the less each step to the upper level is a snapped fine string of sanity, each with the hope of a bountiful room of needs. The darkness only cut with rays of light show the stillness of the rooms gives relief of the mind. Stillness is not a friend of the living, even a breath of the most hidden creatures of light or dark leave the air in turbulence. With the slow wisps of air are a clear sign that the room is holding no creature, friend or foe.

Light steps become, quieter then the sound of the lads heartbeat in his ears. Not seeking to call into the void, from his belt slides out a small metal bar that has a leather handle. With the leather handle in his hand, the steps become lighter with each reaching step. The light is slowly becoming brighter as the eyes adjust, making the upper level. Showing that the shelves were mostly untouched, the shelves having stock. This being a great luck as new clothing and patch work is needed to be done, giving a hope that finding some water would be a great help to refresh for the rest of the day.

The upper floor almost untouched shelves still containing boxes of merchandise, looks to be something of luck to be here. Each step a twisting wind follows the legs, turning the air as micro tornados lift the dust and give temporay life to the dead skin cells again. Death breathers, a running joke, every time you dust or vacuum, the dust in in the air is dead skin cells. Breathing the most likely dead back into your lungs. Disturbing but a notion blind to most. With silent breath each isle is studied carfully by the lad. A broken lamp and tossed boxes seem to be the general malaise of the upper floor. Mindful and aware, eyes darting to each potental box or tipped over container of what looks to be socks and underware. Both would be ran to by anyone of lesser mind. Creatures that roam the twilight and moonless night, abominations that have not a origin of no god or creator of life, but the essence of something made by the hand of mankind. For if made by a god or creator of life, then the life they see is not of kindness or kinship, but the living consuming each other for life. To devour each other so time is not a essence to them. That is not something devout to life, but devout to the ones who own life and consumes the weak to extend it.

Boxes line the walls and shelves, To open each one is a task that the lad would be second thought as the day is still lacking any water for nutrition and hydration. The main floor held no essence of aqua, the blue essence of life. Cracked lips and mouth corners split and showing signs of blood being the only liquid that passed the lips for days now. With fear of this being the last hope of any water to be found, even condensation on glass would be devoured right now to give even the slightest hope that the bone dry lips would feel the love of moisture again. Roaming the isles, a reductionist nightmare, each box contains everything but even the most flavored of fluid. The hope of any fluid quickly leave to be found in another location is not something the lad was hoping for. This turns a hope into the greater fear that death will not come from the mutations of the world, but from simple dehydration. A weak mans death.

Broken shelves leaning and resting on the shelve below, eyeing the various means of inventory, a crinkle was heard though the source was hidden under the fallen shelf. Means of life and knowing the daylights heat is holding most creatures to the shade, with the building destroyed and already cleared, the lad decides to risk noise for hopeful ambition. With steady arms and unforgiving tenacity, lifting the shelf is with groans of bent metal trying to return to its factory shape. Moans of inorganic origins, under the distorted metal, a six pack of water, torn open and only 3 left, this was a gift by the grace of luck, never a gift of god.

Plastic wrapped savior is the results of the tenacity of the lads means to survive, broken hope healed again by the clear fluid that will give another day to fight to just breath in another day.

Taking in the view with slight hesitation of it being a figment of imagination, the plastic felt as if it were a divine being, a lie but a lie that brings forth will to live for a bit longer in the world of rot and disease. Broken windows lay bare the street, wood and fever chance of security is a nightly need to find the next sunrise.

With a last look, taking in things that could be of value, taking of the ragged back pack, slowly sliding in the 2 water bottles and keeping one out to hydrate. Cracking the plastic seal, manufacturing not to be seen again, the cool liquid slightly burns the cracked and torn lips, a wince that is followed by the sense of hydration even the eyes start to water knowing the grace of water will give them the ability to tear up and clean themselves out. Know now that the body is in the mid 90% being of water, most would take the blood of the last living friend and turn the salted penny tasting liquid into a life saving fluid. Life saving for the one to find it in abundance, death to the one who gives this gift.

Seeking another possible source of water or food that is still a option for some kind of consumption. Slowly making the stairway down noiseless and still being observant as always with the death of many being that of preserved safety after clearing a room, once cleared, a room remains cleared for as long as your eyes can see it. After loss of sight, the room might as well be filled with the dominions of rotten and leather backed creatures.

With the door glass laying out on the floor, crunching under the shoes of the wizened lad, the bright mid morning is welcomed with a sigh of refreshment, looking over the small strip mall, each side contains a few buildings with most being nocked down by time and storm. Brick piles with the various blown debris covering the piles of decayed wood. Sun burnt fabric stiffened by years of radiation exposure from the sun. Break down in the very stands of fabric bring forth the dry rot and leaves it not but a pile of undisturbed dust.

With a refreshed mind and sight, looking to the stores that remain, fast food joint, gas station, a family diner that seems to be mostly intact, lastly a old general store that seems to be a old barber and before that unknown. Moans of wind though broken windows give howls of the dead world, a slamming back door gives call to the empty playground that no child would see again. If, if their is any children born again in the world. A travesty would it be called to see a new soul bound to the dust like all others who are pre born of the godless world.

With a dark thought boring its way into the mind of the lad, he steps forward to see what this small strip mall will offer.

The so called General store seems to be of the most use, a defined meaning to have “general Items” Could have a great implementations of life improvement. Well what can be called life improvements, Dry roads of fractured tar and rock mix, a wind with no sound but a scent of rot and decay is a spark to the senses that make for a alerted mind. The gust of wind turn a pile of bones and dust into a whirlwind of dust and fabric toying in the air, as if the wind has fingers to investigate the bones for what little moisture to dry up. Beads of sweat form on the palms of the lad as they are of nervous means when tracing into a new location.

Mid morning light is the means to see if the day will be hot or have some resolve to make sure it is not going to be a day of radiant heat to boil ones sanity away. Discovered by chance the lad standing in the shattered doorway of the store he just quickly searched, looking across the road, what road is left, is not but a door ripped off its hinges and the frame a entrance to a possible interlopers of death and decay. Blood shot eyes and a mind with slight hydration from the bottle of water. A better set of defensive equipment for the longer days ahead of travel to the next small set of buildings to find and hope contain more resources of life and inhabitation.

Stepping through the door the lad takes cautious steps across the ruin laden road, the general store becoming closer and closer that the suns mid morning crest is cut short and the lads figure mixes into the softer shade of a buildings reach.

Shattered windows and blood stained glass, a now blackened fluid that has become hardened with time and heat. Small amounts of vicar of the unknown is also cast upon the ground. Slow methodical steps take the lad from the broken road to the doorway that is but a marked by violence with no hanging door but a frame that is home to no swinging divider. A manifest of what happened lies in the death and ruins of mankind and the devote become the cast of the play that was the opening to the end of everything. They all thought that gods could be kind and understanding, that the creators of this creature known as homosapiens. It is not but the manifestations of creatures simply beyond mankind. When told we were created in the image of god, they were not wrong, gods come in the same shapes as us, the doctrines of racism and hate is theirs as much as mankind, as much if not more does the concepts of love and devotions are not but a mystical means to stray not. That the world was made for the many to see greatness. All a lie in the wake of the death of many, Gods never existed, simply creatures with more knowledge then us, more time to develop, more time to become bored. In there vast and all consuming boredom, they made us, the ultimate and most entertaining thing of all. A planet with the foolish ideals given in what were told to be words of gods, but not so. They are words of creatures of boredom, creatures with the means to create and change a species to watch them aimlessly kill themselves. For their entertainment, we became the very thing we thought we were masters of. Our own humanity.

Thought as this racing through the mind of the lad are not that of truth and the realization why most in this mortal coil decided to kill themselves. Why not, after finding out the one thing you gave devotion to, the one thing you sacrificed so much for a god that really just turns out to be a creature to be treating us like a set of toys. To find out that you are nothing to any greater will, the decline of all morality was at a instant. With so many people devoted to a concept that was the limiter to the devious things inside. Well what happens when all they have to hold close to keep the evil inside is gone, they turned to fellow man and blamed them for the outcry of being mislead. Murder no longer a sin, mankind became bathed in the blood of the truly innocent. The ones who lead a life without a need to limit the truth and being inside. The religions of the world fell in a second and the whom who devoted peace and security became the darkest of us all. Manuscripts held back the demons we all have but some rely on a being of imagination to be good people. This fallacy is not know to the world as one, but known to all. This very thing was the only thing needed to capsulate what the creators acutely wanted. A world devoted to the unknown so they have a fear that keeps them kind. A fear to keep them honest, they laughed as this fear was a lie and it gave way to humanities worst. The devote with nothing to be devoted too. Then they become devoted to the animal inside.

Thoughts pass more and more of the world and how the fall was so quick, the feeling of the sun moving over the smoke blanketed sky and touching his skin again, gave the notice to begin the change in direction and get to finding resources before night falls and the once hidden become into the reality the lad lives in.

Chapter 2

In current year, what ever it may be, that is irrelevant. To the fair minded thoughts of the existence, it’s a damnation of being with a noted wick we compare to others. Adding more and more to the twisted infirmary of being is quite cute. Unraviling a slow insanity bound in all things of thought, of being. Each time words are attempted to be bound unto the sensation of sight it is burned from the very essesnce of time. Of what all things are bound to, only bindings of thought are truly free.  

Sight lay over a heap bounded paper, folds in barring away any notion of the writings it once held. Slight movement beneath the fibers that give echo to the life beneath it. Burden of life is a echo of past glory, a sent out thought that life its self has become corrupted, almost diseased with knowledge and knowhow of the current existence. Foremost the sun still burns the day away, fore the night still holds the chilled wind that lifts dust to the air the ones cursed with life. Beams of light cut the dust with its reflective ways, a effect of the twisting notion of laws of existence breaking.

The revenant of humanity, lost in hope while waking. To be enfeebled by the lack of proper satiation leaves a mind burdened with dissociation, hope lost to the neathers of the mind. Bones encased in a organic suit, beholder of the thought, a human pulls aside a covering only mold would ever call a blanket. Pale skin, nails yellowed, knuckles stained with the excraments of time. Sliding off the coverings a layer of stale cloth moves within great resistance of the body and mind, a being slowly begins to take form in the rays of light that burn thoughout the broken, stagnate air. Eyes stained by the broken vessels that carry the paternity of this being. Brown hair, though truly not known if its the refuse of the world or if the hair truly held the copper stained bronze filament.

Looking around the small enclosure, once a toll booth, the lad groans in conciouness. Clearing the dried flakes from the corners of his eyes, a sensation each time reminds him he still is cought in the living world. With a raised eyebrow looking around shows a simple enclosure. Like all booths of the past, just medicore in substance with two shelves holding what has become the few edible things left around. A beaten box of hambaerhelper and a can of tuna for breakfast. Not apitozing but knowing what others have done, its not a pet or family member. To that thought the lads idea of breakfast was ended. Reaching out to grab his meager suppilies, tossed into a grain bag, back packs have become unreliable and the time and resources fixing ripped fabric is not feasible. A final groan leaves the lads lungs as reaching out to pull himself up, pained joints and knotted tissues benith the skin leaves much to the wanted. With the boxes sliding off the lower frame, twisting his neck, bending slight over using his hand to bat off what ever dust and grime he can from such a, well, not so wondrful bed last night. Two layers of pants, rips and holes bountful in both, are held together by little give birth to dust and some kind of crums from who knows what fall to the floor. With a final stretch of the limbs the lad looks to the sun through the glass and knows time is limited of to refill his leather water pouch and one would hope more pants. Suprizingly the glass door still holds complete, the world welcomes him with the embrace of the scent of old bodies still in decay, the copper scent still fills the air of last night victems. Animals mostly these days, what humans are left are scarce. To the north is the town that might hold some goods and the east is the bridge the toll booth gave access too. West shows a simple two lane road that leads into the horizon. A grey smog takes away the visablity that would grant some sence of security when heading into the town, cant always have it his way the lads moans under his breath. The thoughts of pushing ahead and trying to find the will to lift his leg, into a unknown war of senses are ahead.

Door, light yet groans from the hinges say time without being maintained signals the door giving way to the world. Air humid with the decay of the dead laying in the window frames of the various shops. Skin, long ago leathered in the sun, holds tight to the bones, only torn strips of the torsos reveil the moist organs inside. Sights like this have long ago stopped curling the stomach, the smell, that scent can never be fought from curling the torsos organs into knots almost forcing vomit forth. The road ahead is covered with the refuse of what was what a race of normalcy. Folded newspapers becoming part of the pavement over the time of rain and being crushed by whatever passed it without notice. Tipped over caution cones and various cars plant themselves where once people did fight back. The chaos however was just as deadly as the takeover was as quicker then anyone could have thought of. Shuffling his bag onto his shoulders the young man looks to his first building he is hoping has some basic supplies he can use.

Strips of rags swinging in the wind as the lad reaches the front of the home hardwear store. Walking at a cautious pace, not knowing if this shop holds something more deadly then the blades once used for box cutters. Beast or man, each of them are just as fearsome as they are both rage filled and hold no quarter for other man or beast. Truly this world has become each for themselves as teams are just enemies who are not currently trying to kill you. With each thought, both adding the weight of fear to the reaching arm to grab the door handle, the door opens without the grace of silence. A moan and scraping of refuse on the ground as the door sweeps the refuse into a pile that will never be picked up. Fearing the waft of decay, the lad holds his breath until the slight discomfort in his lungs reminds him that air is essential for life. With a slight wift of the air a sigh of thanks as the smell it not any worse then the outside, no smell of human waste or the rotting flesh of one of the creatures that only roam the night. Reaching into the right inside pocket a flashlight reviled, pointing inside the shop, entering gave a slight sence of protection yet also a sence of fear of the unseen.  

The beam of light cuts into the darkness with fingers of the unknown trying to reach into the light, burned back by a force they cannot understand. Crunching under the slow footsteps, glass callouts the lads location. This give a moment of hesitation as waiting for a call back from mankind or other. Skittering life, most likely some kind rodent or bug running to the various holes in the walls to escape any type of danger. Broken shelves leave little to the hope to find anything in some kind of useful condition. Rolls of tear off rags are ripped apart as if some massive kitten had its play before leaving. Moving further in from the door the smell of oil and other petrol liquids are spilled out on the floor. Soaking into the random objects that littler the floor that allow so. Cans without labels dress the ground with most leaking or emptied by some large creature, much more then a man would be, has taken this place to the hell it came from.

Light reflecting of the smashed aluminum can, a signature of a better time where processing and development and creation. Any idea of any food or provisions crush with the barren can, also brings forth not any worry that encountering anything like him or not like him being around. The wet tile are signatures of the ceiling having holes and letting the world break through a once sheltered home. Stagnate molded air, a  departure of the rot that laid assault to the senses outside, was not relief but a migration to another trojan horse of lies in hope of the fresh air. Ending each isle is not but broken and Razors edged by the shearing of the metal. With the quite steps are the agile survivors best way to get around. Each step is not as one would have on the streets of old, more like a balance on the edge waving between the ball of the foot and the every gripping toes as if fearing the ever bounding gravity would fail.  Tossed around like a childs toys, avoiding the torn bags and wrappers of each varitiy to suppress any way to aleart the things that may be stalking the isles well.

Sweat beads lace the brow as the lad as the last of the isles are cleared of any other beings that would cause any threat to the lad, a quiet sigh is all that shows the mountain amount of relief. Reaching to the inside of the rags adorned over the lads carapace, a molded leather notebook, a tomb of the minds escape into ideas of a survivors hope. Basic notes are always the best, complications over the basic of ideas are a virus to being able to make it through this new world of cursed existence. Quick look at the graphite scribblings note a need of coffee filters and a hope of finding some charcoal fish tanks filters. Even just those would help with the somewhat purification of water. Shadowed shelves are bent, torn out or even just smashed into the ground by something in a rampage for victims. Torn metal leaves for the reason for the torn flesh of both human and not. What looks like strings of leather but known to really be the dried skin of whatever left this store in its disarray.

Broken railings are a score to the eyes to have a place higher into the building and its habitants. The cloth and debris upon the ground are a softer the not compared to the grounds of broken glass that is still form a foe of the unnoticed if not careful. With stairs covered in a array of cloth and other torn sheets of sorts. Though later they will be gathered and ripped to strips for band-aids, even if they are used as a mock shoe to soften the harden ground. Shoes are not as common as others expect and feet being so delicate. Faux shoes are a necessity in the is land of improbable hope.

Tired stairs are filled with the groans of time and weight as the lad takes slow steps up to the next room trapped in the fog of war, as if a uninvited mist leaks into the rooms and sight of mind is filling each room with a set of unknown figures. Air ripped of its virgin stillness is given to the cracks in the wall that the outdoor wind cuts though and turns dust into tumble weeds of the air. Never the less each step to the upper level is a snapped fine string of sanity, each with the hope of a bountiful room of needs. The darkness only cut with rays of light show the stillness of the rooms gives relief of the mind. Stillness is not a friend of the living, even a breath of the most hidden creatures of light or dark leave the air in turbulence. With the slow wisps of air are a clear sign that the room is holding no creature, friend or foe.

Light steps become, quieter then the sound of the lads heartbeat in his ears. Not seeking to call into the void, from his belt slides out a small metal bar that has a leather handle. With the leather handle in his hand, the steps become lighter with each reaching step. The light is slowly becoming brighter as the eyes adjust, making the upper level. Showing that the shelves were mostly untouched, the shelves having stock. This being a great luck as new clothing and patch work is needed to be done, giving a hope that finding some water would be a great help to refresh for the rest of the day.

The upper floor almost untouched shelves still containing boxes of merchandise, looks to be something of luck to be here. Each step a twisting wind follows the legs, turning the air as micro tornados lift the dust and give temporay life to the dead skin cells again. Death breathers, a running joke, every time you dust or vacuum, the dust in in the air is dead skin cells. Breathing the most likely dead back into your lungs. Disturbing but a notion blind to most. With silent breath each isle is studied carfully by the lad. A broken lamp and tossed boxes seem to be the general malaise of the upper floor. Mindful and aware, eyes darting to each potental box or tipped over container of what looks to be socks and underware. Both would be ran to by anyone of lesser mind. Creatures that roam the twilight and moonless night, abominations that have not a origin of no god or creator of life, but the essence of something made by the hand of mankind. For if made by a god or creator of life, then the life they see is not of kindness or kinship, but the living consuming each other for life. To devour each other so time is not a essence to them. That is not something devout to life, but devout to the ones who own life and consumes the weak to extend it.

Boxes line the walls and shelves, To open each one is a task that the lad would be second thought as the day is still lacking any water for nutrition and hydration. The main floor held no essence of aqua, the blue essence of life. Cracked lips and mouth corners split and showing signs of blood being the only liquid that passed the lips for days now. With fear of this being the last hope of any water to be found, even condensation on glass would be devoured right now to give even the slightest hope that the bone dry lips would feel the love of moisture again. Roaming the isles, a reductionist nightmare, each box contains everything but even the most flavored of fluid. The hope of any fluid quickly leave to be found in another location is not something the lad was hoping for. This turns a hope into the greater fear that death will not come from the mutations of the world, but from simple dehydration. A weak mans death.

Broken shelves leaning and resting on the shelve below, eyeing the various means of inventory, a crinkle was heard though the source was hidden under the fallen shelf. Means of life and knowing the daylights heat is holding most creatures to the shade, with the building destroyed and already cleared, the lad decides to risk noise for hopeful ambition. With steady arms and unforgiving tenacity, lifting the shelf is with groans of bent metal trying to return to its factory shape. Moans of inorganic origins, under the distorted metal, a six pack of water, torn open and only 3 left, this was a gift by the grace of luck, never a gift of god.

Plastic wrapped savior is the results of the tenacity of the lads means to survive, broken hope healed again by the clear fluid that will give another day to fight to just breath in another day.

Taking in the view with slight hesitation of it being a figment of imagination, the plastic felt as if it were a divine being, a lie but a lie that brings forth will to live for a bit longer in the world of rot and disease. Broken windows lay bare the street, wood and fever chance of security is a nightly need to find the next sunrise.

With a last look, taking in things that could be of value, taking of the ragged back pack, slowly sliding in the 2 water bottles and keeping one out to hydrate. Cracking the plastic seal, manufacturing not to be seen again, the cool liquid slightly burns the cracked and torn lips, a wince that is followed by the sense of hydration even the eyes start to water knowing the grace of water will give them the ability to tear up and clean themselves out. Know now that the body is in the mid 90% being of water, most would take the blood of the last living friend and turn the salted penny tasting liquid into a life saving fluid. Life saving for the one to find it in abundance, death to the one who gives this gift.

Seeking another possible source of water or food that is still a option for some kind of consumption. Slowly making the stairway down noiseless and still being observant as always with the death of many being that of preserved safety after clearing a room, once cleared, a room remains cleared for as long as your eyes can see it. After loss of sight, the room might as well be filled with the dominions of rotten and leather backed creatures.

With the door glass laying out on the floor, crunching under the shoes of the wizened lad, the bright mid morning is welcomed with a sigh of refreshment, looking over the small strip mall, each side contains a few buildings with most being nocked down by time and storm. Brick piles with the various blown debris covering the piles of decayed wood. Sun burnt fabric stiffened by years of radiation exposure from the sun. Break down in the very stands of fabric bring forth the dry rot and leaves it not but a pile of undisturbed dust.

With a refreshed mind and sight, looking to the stores that remain, fast food joint, gas station, a family diner that seems to be mostly intact, lastly a old general store that seems to be a old barber and before that unknown. Moans of wind though broken windows give howls of the dead world, a slamming back door gives call to the empty playground that no child would see again. If, if their is any children born again in the world. A travesty would it be called to see a new soul bound to the dust like all others who are pre born of the godless world.

With a dark thought boring its way into the mind of the lad, he steps forward to see what this small strip mall will offer.

The so called General store seems to be of the most use, a defined meaning to have “general Items” Could have a great implementations of life improvement. Well what can be called life improvements, Dry roads of fractured tar and rock mix, a wind with no sound but a scent of rot and decay is a spark to the senses that make for a alerted mind. The gust of wind turn a pile of bones and dust into a whirlwind of dust and fabric toying in the air, as if the wind has fingers to investigate the bones for what little moisture to dry up. Beads of sweat form on the palms of the lad as they are of nervous means when tracing into a new location.

Mid morning light is the means to see if the day will be hot or have some resolve to make sure it is not going to be a day of radiant heat to boil ones sanity away. Discovered by chance the lad standing in the shattered doorway of the store he just quickly searched, looking across the road, what road is left, is not but a door ripped off its hinges and the frame a entrance to a possible interlopers of death and decay. Blood shot eyes and a mind with slight hydration from the bottle of water. A better set of defensive equipment for the longer days ahead of travel to the next small set of buildings to find and hope contain more resources of life and inhabitation.

Stepping through the door the lad takes cautious steps across the ruin laden road, the general store becoming closer and closer that the suns mid morning crest is cut short and the lads figure mixes into the softer shade of a buildings reach.

Shattered windows and blood stained glass, a now blackened fluid that has become hardened with time and heat. Small amounts of vicar of the unknown is also cast upon the ground. Slow methodical steps take the lad from the broken road to the doorway that is but a marked by violence with no hanging door but a frame that is home to no swinging divider. A manifest of what happened lies in the death and ruins of mankind and the devote become the cast of the play that was the opening to the end of everything. They all thought that gods could be kind and understanding, that the creators of this creature known as homosapiens. It is not but the manifestations of creatures simply beyond mankind. When told we were created in the image of god, they were not wrong, gods come in the same shapes as us, the doctrines of racism and hate is theirs as much as mankind, as much if not more does the concepts of love and devotions are not but a mystical means to stray not. That the world was made for the many to see greatness. All a lie in the wake of the death of many, Gods never existed, simply creatures with more knowledge then us, more time to develop, more time to become board. In there vast and all consuming boredom, they made us, the ultimate and most entertaining thing of all. A planet with the foolish ideals given in what were told to be words of gods, but not so. They are words of creatures of boredom, creatures with the means to create and change a species to watch them aimlessly kill themselves. For their entertainment, we became the very thing we thought we were masters of. Our own humanity.

In current year, what ever it may be, that is irrelevant. To the fair minded thoughts of the existence, it’s a damnation of being with a noted wick we compare to others. Adding more and more to the twisted infirmary of being is quite cute. Unraviling a slow insanity bound in all things of thought, of being. Each time words are attempted to be bound unto the sensation of sight it is burned from the very essesnce of time. Of what all things are bound to, only bindings of thought are truly free.  

Sight lay over a heap bounded paper, folds in barring away any notion of the writings it once held. Slight movement beneath the fibers that give echo to the life beneath it. Burden of life is a echo of past glory, a sent out thought that life its self has become corrupted, almost diseased with knowledge and knowhow of the current existence. Foremost the sun still burns the day away, fore the night still holds the chilled wind that lifts dust to the air the ones cursed with life. Beams of light cut the dust with its reflective ways, a effect of the twisting notion of laws of existence breaking.

The revenant of humanity, lost in hope while waking. To be enfeebled by the lack of proper satiation leaves a mind burdened with dissociation, hope lost to the neathers of the mind. Bones encased in a organic suit, beholder of the thought, a human pulls aside a covering only mold would ever call a blanket. Pale skin, nails yellowed, knuckles stained with the excraments of time. Sliding off the coverings a layer of stale cloth moves within great resistance of the body and mind, a being slowly begins to take form in the rays of light that burn thoughout the broken, stagnate air. Eyes stained by the broken vessels that carry the paternity of this being. Brown hair, though truly not known if its the refuse of the world or if the hair truly held the copper stained bronze filament.

Looking around the small enclosure, once a toll booth, the lad groans in conciouness. Clearing the dried flakes from the corners of his eyes, a sensation each time reminds him he still is cought in the living world. With a raised eyebrow looking around shows a simple enclosure. Like all booths of the past, just medicore in substance with two shelves holding what has become the few edible things left around. A beaten box of hambaerhelper and a can of tuna for breakfast. Not apitozing but knowing what others have done, its not a pet or family member. To that thought the lads idea of breakfast was ended. Reaching out to grab his meager suppilies, tossed into a grain bag, back packs have become unreliable and the time and resources fixing ripped fabric is not feasible. A final groan leaves the lads lungs as reaching out to pull himself up, pained joints and knotted tissues benith the skin leaves much to the wanted. With the boxes sliding off the lower frame, twisting his neck, bending slight over using his hand to bat off what ever dust and grime he can from such a, well, not so wondrful bed last night. Two layers of pants, rips and holes bountful in both, are held together by little give birth to dust and some kind of crums from who knows what fall to the floor. With a final stretch of the limbs the lad looks to the sun through the glass and knows time is limited of to refill his leather water pouch and one would hope more pants. Suprizingly the glass door still holds complete, the world welcomes him with the embrace of the scent of old bodies still in decay, the copper scent still fills the air of last night victems. Animals mostly these days, what humans are left are scarce. To the north is the town that might hold some goods and the east is the bridge the toll booth gave access too. West shows a simple two lane road that leads into the horizon. A grey smog takes away the visablity that would grant some sence of security when heading into the town, cant always have it his way the lads moans under his breath. The thoughts of pushing ahead and trying to find the will to lift his leg, into a unknown war of senses are ahead.

Door, light yet groans from the hinges say time without being maintained signals the door giving way to the world. Air humid with the decay of the dead laying in the window frames of the various shops. Skin, long ago leathered in the sun, holds tight to the bones, only torn strips of the torsos reveil the moist organs inside. Sights like this have long ago stopped curling the stomach, the smell, that scent can never be fought from curling the torsos organs into knots almost forcing vomit forth. The road ahead is covered with the refuse of what was what a race of normalcy. Folded newspapers becoming part of the pavement over the time of rain and being crushed by whatever passed it without notice. Tipped over caution cones and various cars plant themselves where once people did fight back. The chaos however was just as deadly as the takeover was as quicker then anyone could have thought of. Shuffling his bag onto his shoulders the young man looks to his first building he is hoping has some basic supplies he can use.

Strips of rags swinging in the wind as the lad reaches the front of the home hardwear store. Walking at a cautious pace, not knowing if this shop holds something more deadly then the blades once used for box cutters. Beast or man, each of them are just as fearsome as they are both rage filled and hold no quarter for other man or beast. Truly this world has become each for themselves as teams are just enemies who are not currently trying to kill you. With each thought, both adding the weight of fear to the reaching arm to grab the door handle, the door opens without the grace of silence. A moan and scraping of refuse on the ground as the door sweeps the refuse into a pile that will never be picked up. Fearing the waft of decay, the lad holds his breath until the slight discomfort in his lungs reminds him that air is essential for life. With a slight wift of the air a sigh of thanks as the smell it not any worse then the outside, no smell of human waste or the rotting flesh of one of the creatures that only roam the night. Reaching into the right inside pocket a flashlight reviled, pointing inside the shop, entering gave a slight sence of protection yet also a sence of fear of the unseen.  

The beam of light cuts into the darkness with fingers of the unknown trying to reach into the light, burned back by a force they cannot understand. Crunching under the slow footsteps, glass callouts the lads location. This give a moment of hesitation as waiting for a call back from mankind or other. Skittering life, most likely some kind rodent or bug running to the various holes in the walls to escape any type of danger. Broken shelves leave little to the hope to find anything in some kind of useful condition. Rolls of tear off rags are ripped apart as if some massive kitten had its play before leaving. Moving further in from the door the smell of oil and other petrol liquids are spilled out on the floor. Soaking into the random objects that littler the floor that allow so. Cans without labels dress the ground with most leaking or emptied by some large creature, much more then a man would be, has taken this place to the hell it came from.

Light reflecting of the smashed aluminum can, a signature of a better time where processing and development and creation. Any idea of any food or provisions crush with the barren can, also brings forth not any worry that encountering anything like him or not like him being around. The wet tile are signatures of the ceiling having holes and letting the world break through a once sheltered home. Stagnate molded air, a  departure of the rot that laid assault to the senses outside, was not relief but a migration to another trojan horse of lies in hope of the fresh air. Ending each isle is not but broken and Razors edged by the shearing of the metal. With the quite steps are the agile survivors best way to get around. Each step is not as one would have on the streets of old, more like a balance on the edge waving between the ball of the foot and the every gripping toes as if fearing the ever bounding gravity would fail.  Tossed around like a childs toys, avoiding the torn bags and wrappers of each varitiy to suppress any way to aleart the things that may be stalking the isles well.

Sweat beads lace the brow as the lad as the last of the isles are cleared of any other beings that would cause any threat to the lad, a quiet sigh is all that shows the mountain amount of relief. Reaching to the inside of the rags adorned over the lads carapace, a molded leather notebook, a tomb of the minds escape into ideas of a survivors hope. Basic notes are always the best, complications over the basic of ideas are a virus to being able to make it through this new world of cursed existence. Quick look at the graphite scribblings note a need of coffee filters and a hope of finding some charcoal fish tanks filters. Even just those would help with the somewhat purification of water. Shadowed shelves are bent, torn out or even just smashed into the ground by something in a rampage for victims. Torn metal leaves for the reason for the torn flesh of both human and not. What looks like strings of leather but known to really be the dried skin of whatever left this store in its disarray.

Broken railings are a score to the eyes to have a place higher into the building and its habitants. The cloth and debris upon the ground are a softer the not compared to the grounds of broken glass that is still form a foe of the unnoticed if not careful. With stairs covered in a array of cloth and other torn sheets of sorts. Though later they will be gathered and ripped to strips for band-aids, even if they are used as a mock shoe to soften the harden ground. Shoes are not as common as others expect and feet being so delicate. Faux shoes are a necessity in the is land of improbable hope.

Tired stairs are filled with the groans of time and weight as the lad takes slow steps up to the next room trapped in the fog of war, as if a uninvited mist leaks into the rooms and sight of mind is filling each room with a set of unknown figures. Air ripped of its virgin stillness is given to the cracks in the wall that the outdoor wind cuts though and turns dust into tumble weeds of the air. Never the less each step to the upper level is a snapped fine string of sanity, each with the hope of a bountiful room of needs. The darkness only cut with rays of light show the stillness of the rooms gives relief of the mind. Stillness is not a friend of the living, even a breath of the most hidden creatures of light or dark leave the air in turbulence. With the slow wisps of air are a clear sign that the room is holding no creature, friend or foe.

Light steps become, quieter then the sound of the lads heartbeat in his ears. Not seeking to call into the void, from his belt slides out a small metal bar that has a leather handle. With the leather handle in his hand, the steps become lighter with each reaching step. The light is slowly becoming brighter as the eyes adjust, making the upper level. Showing that the shelves were mostly untouched, the shelves having stock. This being a great luck as new clothing and patch work is needed to be done, giving a hope that finding some water would be a great help to refresh for the rest of the day.

The upper floor almost untouched shelves still containing boxes of merchandise, looks to be something of luck to be here. Each step a twisting wind follows the legs, turning the air as micro tornados lift the dust and give temporay life to the dead skin cells again. Death breathers, a running joke, every time you dust or vacuum, the dust in in the air is dead skin cells. Breathing the most likely dead back into your lungs. Disturbing but a notion blind to most. With silent breath each isle is studied carfully by the lad. A broken lamp and tossed boxes seem to be the general malaise of the upper floor. Mindful and aware, eyes darting to each potental box or tipped over container of what looks to be socks and underware. Both would be ran to by anyone of lesser mind. Creatures that roam the twilight and moonless night, abominations that have not a origin of no god or creator of life, but the essence of something made by the hand of mankind. For if made by a god or creator of life, then the life they see is not of kindness or kinship, but the living consuming each other for life. To devour each other so time is not a essence to them. That is not something devout to life, but devout to the ones who own life and consumes the weak to extend it.

Boxes line the walls and shelves, To open each one is a task that the lad would be second thought as the day is still lacking any water for nutrition and hydration. The main floor held no essence of aqua, the blue essence of life. Cracked lips and mouth corners split and showing signs of blood being the only liquid that passed the lips for days now. With fear of this being the last hope of any water to be found, even condensation on glass would be devoured right now to give even the slightest hope that the bone dry lips would feel the love of moisture again. Roaming the isles, a reductionist nightmare, each box contains everything but even the most flavored of fluid. The hope of any fluid quickly leave to be found in another location is not something the lad was hoping for. This turns a hope into the greater fear that death will not come from the mutations of the world, but from simple dehydration. A weak mans death.

Broken shelves leaning and resting on the shelve below, eyeing the various means of inventory, a crinkle was heard though the source was hidden under the fallen shelf. Means of life and knowing the daylights heat is holding most creatures to the shade, with the building destroyed and already cleared, the lad decides to risk noise for hopeful ambition. With steady arms and unforgiving tenacity, lifting the shelf is with groans of bent metal trying to return to its factory shape. Moans of inorganic origins, under the distorted metal, a six pack of water, torn open and only 3 left, this was a gift by the grace of luck, never a gift of god.

Plastic wrapped savior is the results of the tenacity of the lads means to survive, broken hope healed again by the clear fluid that will give another day to fight to just breath in another day.

Taking in the view with slight hesitation of it being a figment of imagination, the plastic felt as if it were a divine being, a lie but a lie that brings forth will to live for a bit longer in the world of rot and disease. Broken windows lay bare the street, wood and fever chance of security is a nightly need to find the next sunrise.

With a last look, taking in things that could be of value, taking of the ragged back pack, slowly sliding in the 2 water bottles and keeping one out to hydrate. Cracking the plastic seal, manufacturing not to be seen again, the cool liquid slightly burns the cracked and torn lips, a wince that is followed by the sense of hydration even the eyes start to water knowing the grace of water will give them the ability to tear up and clean themselves out. Know now that the body is in the mid 90% being of water, most would take the blood of the last living friend and turn the salted penny tasting liquid into a life saving fluid. Life saving for the one to find it in abundance, death to the one who gives this gift.

Seeking another possible source of water or food that is still a option for some kind of consumption. Slowly making the stairway down noiseless and still being observant as always with the death of many being that of preserved safety after clearing a room, once cleared, a room remains cleared for as long as your eyes can see it. After loss of sight, the room might as well be filled with the dominions of rotten and leather backed creatures.

With the door glass laying out on the floor, crunching under the shoes of the wizened lad, the bright mid morning is welcomed with a sigh of refreshment, looking over the small strip mall, each side contains a few buildings with most being nocked down by time and storm. Brick piles with the various blown debris covering the piles of decayed wood. Sun burnt fabric stiffened by years of radiation exposure from the sun. Break down in the very stands of fabric bring forth the dry rot and leaves it not but a pile of undisturbed dust.

With a refreshed mind and sight, looking to the stores that remain, fast food joint, gas station, a family diner that seems to be mostly intact, lastly a old general store that seems to be a old barber and before that unknown. Moans of wind though broken windows give howls of the dead world, a slamming back door gives call to the empty playground that no child would see again. If, if their is any children born again in the world. A travesty would it be called to see a new soul bound to the dust like all others who are pre born of the godless world.

With a dark thought boring its way into the mind of the lad, he steps forward to see what this small strip mall will offer.

The so called General store seems to be of the most use, a defined meaning to have “general Items” Could have a great implementations of life improvement. Well what can be called life improvements, Dry roads of fractured tar and rock mix, a wind with no sound but a scent of rot and decay is a spark to the senses that make for a alerted mind. The gust of wind turn a pile of bones and dust into a whirlwind of dust and fabric toying in the air, as if the wind has fingers to investigate the bones for what little moisture to dry up. Beads of sweat form on the palms of the lad as they are of nervous means when tracing into a new location.

Mid morning light is the means to see if the day will be hot or have some resolve to make sure it is not going to be a day of radiant heat to boil ones sanity away. Discovered by chance the lad standing in the shattered doorway of the store he just quickly searched, looking across the road, what road is left, is not but a door ripped off its hinges and the frame a entrance to a possible interlopers of death and decay. Blood shot eyes and a mind with slight hydration from the bottle of water. A better set of defensive equipment for the longer days ahead of travel to the next small set of buildings to find and hope contain more resources of life and inhabitation.

Stepping through the door the lad takes cautious steps across the ruin laden road, the general store becoming closer and closer that the suns mid morning crest is cut short and the lads figure mixes into the softer shade of a buildings reach.

Shattered windows and blood stained glass, a now blackened fluid that has become hardened with time and heat. Small amounts of vicar of the unknown is also cast upon the ground. Slow methodical steps take the lad from the broken road to the doorway that is but a marked by violence with no hanging door but a frame that is home to no swinging divider. A manifest of what happened lies in the death and ruins of mankind and the devote become the cast of the play that was the opening to the end of everything. They all thought that gods could be kind and understanding, that the creators of this creature known as homosapiens. It is not but the manifestations of creatures simply beyond mankind. When told we were created in the image of god, they were not wrong, gods come in the same shapes as us, the doctrines of racism and hate is theirs as much as mankind, as much if not more does the concepts of love and devotions are not but a mystical means to stray not. That the world was made for the many to see greatness. All a lie in the wake of the death of many, Gods never existed, simply creatures with more knowledge then us, more time to develop, more time to become board. In there vast and all consuming boredom, they made us, the ultimate and most entertaining thing of all. A planet with the foolish ideals given in what were told to be words of gods, but not so. They are words of creatures of boredom, creatures with the means to create and change a species to watch them aimlessly kill themselves. For their entertainment, we became the very thing we thought we were masters of. Our own humanity.