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 tge 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.
Motions of quiet curiosity are the things that alwasy helped keep felines alive and is a trait the anyone who wants to survive must learn with the adaptability of a waterbear. To think on your feet is nothing that will save you, you will have to know on your feet. Predictive thinking is a must, you wont survive on thought alone in this world. Knowing what is to happen is the greatest advantatge and only advantage you will have. Born rejuvinations enter the mind folds of the lad as a simple side look gave him notice to a half buried sealed plastic unit of the ever neaded coffee filters. The revilations of this almost take the life of the lad, to be so unaware of such a find to be anything but bait is a fools errend. Just as the dirt and resin covered fingers groan in extention, the flashing thought of a trap make the hand slowly fold back up. the ever darting eyes must look for a object to move the debrie as it could easily hide a animal or creature waiting to bear its proboscus into the flesh.
Broken shelves and tossed baskets make for a tantilizing bag of otions that could be of help. Tolerent to the wills of force, the metal baskets, they are but a simple solution that could be tendered into a trap fore various rodents. Turning the basket to make a open plow to scoop op the trash on the filters without worry as the bars are more then enough to protect him from the things that may be there or not. It is just a caution learned of previous human examples. With little noise and a groan that was no more then a agravated exaust of air, the basket served its created need, off the top slides little bits of paper and refuse. Though reason to expect anything but what he got, the filters we a free gift this time around. No mutated centapieds or crustation like beings that have not a reason to take your hand as its next meal. With cracked lips a smile almost forgotten by the lads face was a sign that he might, just might have a night that allows him to rest and make some provisions for the day to come. Knowing the day is his only time to gather much else, a task being done is just the begining of another.
With a slight less amount of caution and more bevity to the feet, peering out into the world beyond the glass door was a reminder that all things are not what they seem. Skies with clouds red stained with the iron oxides from the various burning cities, the few spot of what was once a blue heaven is now a crimson refections of the seas of blood. Billions of bodies draind of the essence of life, torn into ribbions of skin and sinue, are now the ever washing waves of oceans. Poisioned with the being that once crossed it on mighty ships, now the only sails are the ones made of tanned human bindings, a leather of kin to move such boats of bone and tendon strung like vines holding it all together. What ever it is to be that created such things has no worry to life taken or massicared for such a depraved source of travel. Even with the wold holding still where this lad walks. Howls of carnage and invisoration, humans were once the toys of the time but now, now it is just a vicor covered rock that homes the things waiting to leave more layers of the rotten bonds of life.
With a slight grasp on the frame of the door, glass crunching under the rags that wrap around his fingers and palms. With a slight lunge to the step, the roads and shops slowly turn into the fog of blowing sand and then even with some way to see farther then the eyes are meant too, even then the particulates of sand and rock still blind the lad. Painted signs that still have the odasity to hang from the frames and the naked frames themselves are signs that the shops might hold things of value. Even over time with various raiders, packs of the few who think that they stand a chance in packs. Fools who learn only by the death of them all. Traveling alone is the best way to make it through this iron maden of a existence.
Metal chains groan as they swing holding the long rusted out signs with flakes of paint peeling off hold slight notions of what might held within. Road showing its broken chunks like a planet splitting its land mass into some macabe land mass. Sidewalks are not but broken chunks of concrete seem to have a slight breathing earth under them as heat radiates off them letting distortions in the air become a marage of waves. Windows, well what was once framed glass now have leather skin drapped over bleached white bones. Either a body thrown in to get to access more human to devour, or bodies thrown out, hanging arms and heads bound together by little more then the last of the dried husk. As if they tried to find some kind of findictive sence of freedom only to see the last light be not more then the skies burning red from the skyscraping embers of civilization. Even the sounds bleek and cold are not but the winds song viberating the burn out buildings. Metal frames being macabe flutes and the tones change to how the rags of curtans change the winds flow.
Even with desires to live, the Lad has more to do then just live. A acidic rage burns quietly that eats at his morals and heart but keeps his frame moving in this desolute existence. Steps that are greeted with the crunches and girnding stones are a sound that is a reminder of the sound of bones being crushed by whatever walked outside the many nights when sleep was a barren concept as with the sounds of bones cracking and creatures of unknow creation drinking the marrow as a drug mule would devour his payment of white dust. A drunken lust is but a cavemanic way to discribe the way of sustance. Yet this is a truer statement then others may have found how to alocate such words to what they see.
The doors on the shop the lad decided to venture was a simple wooden door frame between two frames that once held glass. Light shining through the emty frames light up the floating dust particulates. A hopefull thought is that the particals are but dust and not the ground remains of what ever was the meal last in this boutiuqe of death. With ever so peering eyes on the street to make sure not a being of life or death to walk into this store behind him for its next devotion to its god or its next meal. No matter the outcome, Lad knows it will cost him life and limb, With the last glare into the cavinous streets, The hollowed out door it but a slight step of the unusal then the banquit of of the unknown awaits him.
Ground beneath the soles of a work boot, a soft step to leave the mind to question what could be so soft with little noise. Even the carapace or the remains of digested meats always makes for a noise best discribed as a sqush with tendonious snaps of organic material. With a look to the ground after making sure the hollowed store held not a guest of horror. With a simple transition of his sight, a devilish smile breaks the dried cracked lips. Clothing, simple spring wear and winter jackets are to the ground the same as the tile under them. Not thought of until you need them. Broken clothing racks twined together as something threw them side to side. Broken maniquins are reaching up in a frozen pose to be stood up again. Stairs that are hidden behind a false wall behind the counter where money was once the payment you used. Might be a home for the night once finding out if this place has a way to stop any creatures from finding him in the night.
Mildew scent fills the air as the lad gently steps on various clothing that is still somehow whole. With bars thick enough for spears and not the few in hangers for basic traps. This store of various alocations for bounding the skin from the essence of worldly effects. Walls of what was once shelves of jeans are not but a barren brick barrior. Followed by the heap of various wooden broken shelves and what jeans can be seen are not but a pile of refuse. With blood shot eyes darting across refuse and various objects standing in defience of time. Coffendonts of past memories, thick dust cover the lasting surfaces, this being a sign of little if any defilement of the still air. This being a slight notion of peace that may lie in this box of cloth. With steps ever so soft, ghost like to the pressence of no one, though some say pointless, this lad has seen invisoratuon of human forms from false hope of empty rooms.
Tender confindence fills holes in the heart of the lad, walking ever much like memory, soundless with fog folowuing close in mind to make it through the blastfomous steps to the counter. Each breath causing twisting current of dust in the air, a river of particulates one would not want to know from what. Daring to know the unknown, a small set of steps not to be heard, only the wisps of air through broken panes are vibrating air enough to make a music of mallice. Careful steps to the rain gear amongst hangers and broken racks russle with the lightest of movement, breath stealing noise will be devliverer of hemeragic response. Crawling across the skin, eporvesence of the decayed fabric, all things that build a abundance of fear in beating hearts. A rag wrapped finger slowly extends, followed by the additions of the fingers host to lay upon the counter that holds old technology of commerce. To the wize it is known to be a harbenger of the death with rings and dings that are not of wlecomed noise. The very thing that would notify others of past that the cost was totaled. Now such things are in cost of life, not what lays upon a plastic card, hidden intrest and value in false gods. Groans of the counter to drain the weight off the lads legs and onto the counter makes the lad shut his eyes in fear of his stupidity. Groans of such things being so obvuscated to natural noise that is is but a bell to feeding for the many. Lifting the hand, ever so slowly the groans do not echo the ones of the past and the arm contatining the hand moves ever so graciously to the ragged coats side. Broken confidence slowly rebuilds as the steps into the counters back side view, lad smiles as his eyes lay onto what he sees. A hachle of golf balls, a pack of distractions and excape tools. To have them is to have a second chance to live in a rather paring set of events. Lowering his frame to the bag, his actions could not have been at a greater time. Hiding is not a poor choice, not when the scent of flesh rotten, burnt hair, a sickend pile of shreaded organs are but some of the words to discribe when you know something is not of human origins is stalking the roads and torrment hallways of the mind.
