So, This roughly takes place sometime after the movie, its a little AU but I've got my fingers crossed that I'm keeping the characters, well, in character, we love them for a reason right? Also, I'm sorry for any spelling mistakes, I read it over and over again trying to catch them, Anyhoo, enjoy:)
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"It ain't how hard you are when you're standing over top of someone that really matters.
It's how hard you are when someone's standing over top of you that shows what you're made of."
― Jango's Anthem
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1
This world is a terrible, desolate place.
And I fear all is dead now, everything gone, ripped away and devoured. I frown, chewing on the peeling skin of my lips and watch the burning sun set behind hills of endless sand and desert. What remains of the world I know is nothing more than a rotting corpse, slowly being eaten away by abandonment and time... and war; though even that war is long over now, leaving in its wake a much more ravenous, violent evil.
People have always been monsters, but something about this place, about starvation and pain; has turned them into something...else. For as long as I can remember, there were small camps, people gathering together to survive in the wasteland, but as time wore on the food ran out, sanity ran out.
People changed, and people died.
To say only the strong survive would be a mistake; those with nothing left, those with no light left, survive. There are others, so few and far between that I begin to doubt their existence, but I believe there are a few out there, who still have some soul left, who haven't been consumed by hell and its fires. Its been ages since I've seen such a person, hiding out the way I do. But I can't loose hope, the last light in this blinding darkness. So I sit here, hidden behind nailed, brittle boards, left over from a weak attempt to barricade myself away, and I watch. And I wait. Someone will come and maybe, if I wish hard enough, it wont be raiders.
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By nightfall I am falling asleep in the chair by the window, my eye lids lead weights as I struggle. Its not often that fatigue grips me so tightly, but I suppose that a few days of watching and fearing and waiting have taken their toll... I'm not sure which is more dangerous, I wonder as I peak for a last time through the cracks in the sun bleached wood, daylight or darkness. Both will kill you if you wonder to far, either burnt up by the sun or devoured by the things that live in the darkness.
A shiver runs through my spine as memories, things I would kill to forget, play across my mind and I grip the blade of the make-shift machete tighter in my hand. I seek safety, a way out of the nightmare; but nothing is safe anymore, and to use such a word will only lead to disillusionment and pain.
I have learnt my lesson.
Shaking my head of heavy shadow I walk with, I make my way through the house. Past the dark kitchen, the dining room. Fingers trailing along the wall beside me and I focus on the way the faded wallpaper scrapes beneath my calluses. They way it sounds, soft and scratching. My hand falls away when I reach the stairs, partially hidden by an old rusted out yellowed fridge, and the rest by blackness.
Back before the scavengers and the cannibals destroyed what was left of the small cities, we had managed to maintain a rudimentary form of cultivating small crops, and when I say rudimentary... I mean it, though for myself its much more basic than even that.
The smell of rich, dark earth hits me as I reach the soft ground of the cellar, and I breath it in deep, a brief relief fro the dry suffocating air above. A sharp burst of light and the stink of burning powder and my lantern is lit, the glowing flame brightens little of the small cavern around me, chasing the dark into impenetrable black corners
I assume most places, unlike my farmhouse, haven't fared as well... And I don't think I could explain to you why there is moisture still in the earth below my home, but there is, and it has been, at times, the only thing to keep the life in my body.
Its a daily ritual, coming down here. Lighting the small candle and harvesting what I can from the small plants and weeds that have taken just as much of a liking to the dark as I have. Its no accident that they grow here, weak and sparse as they are, but my little garden is the offspring of many dangerous days searching the surrounding hills for weeds, praying to a god I don't believe in that their will be seeds. Once and a while, I'm lucky. The fact that they even grow here is a mystery, but I don't question, and I don't complain.
My knees crack as I crouch low, the movement pulling at the fraying holes in my old pair of jeans, stained and worn thin from years of this life. I struggle for a moment, balancing on my heals as I pull out a crumpled sheet of tin foil, laying it as flat as I can next to me before I dig my fingertips gently into the soil, and begin pulling the small, nameless weeds from their home. It doesn't take long, but by the time I am down I have enough to fill my pot, and that... that is better than anything. Sighing with relief, I make my way back up into the main floor of this house. Ignoring like I usually do the furniture and other things covered in stained, dusty sheets, bellowing about like ghosts, and head into the kitchen.
Sometimes I wonder why I even use it, its not like I can use anything in here, but it feels right, and at the very least there's a sizable hole in the ceiling I can use to vent smoke form any small fire I have. A hazard to this old dry home, each splinter a match stick; but its a risk I take, opposed being caught outside...
From a cupboard beneath the sink I pull out a faded blue bucket, cloth covering what treasures lay inside and I grow giddy at the prospect of this meal I'm making. Pulling back the cloth I smile down at the slowly dwindling pile of...well I guess you could call it jerky, horse meat to be exact. Rough and chewy and bland but so good that sometimes I think it was fate, me coming across the dead animal like I had last month. Very rarely do I venture outside, only when the need to scavenge becomes detrimental to my survival do I dare. And the last time I hadn't found anything at all, it wasn't until I started to head back, fearful of staying away to long, that I had smelt it. Death, decay. A putrid, burning essence that had me gagging into the clothing wrapped around my face, but as my eyes laded on its massive form I had been stunned.
I didn't think there were any such animals left, other than a few lizards and bugs, I had started to think that humans, if you can even call them that, were all that remained. But this creature, even in death, was beautiful. And if I believed in such things I would think it a sign, a gift, and I dragged that damned beast all the way home; nearly dead from exhaustion and the heat of the sun. That night when things cooled a bit, I took my machete to it, striping it carefully of its skin and rot and slicing the meat into manageable chunks, of which I would spend the next week smoking it the best I could. Really trial and error and after nearly burning my house down before I moved the production outside, regardless of how badly I didn't want that. Most of the meat I store beneath the basements ground in holes, but I do keep enough up above, easy access and all that.
The meat is tough and my teeth ache, it has an odd taste, but its satisfying as I sit, having returned to the chair by the boarded front window, eyes now awake and alert; nothing to do now but watch and wait.
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Three days pass and the moments all seem the same. Monotonous and rigid. The fear that is always with me is a dull humming pulse to my weary heart as I watch the sun break over the sand dunes in the distance. Well, as much as I can see from between the boards.
My eyes squint against the coming burn of heat, a blast of dry air tousles a loose strand of dark hair that has never been lustrous and beautiful. But right now I don't think of my hair, not as dull fear spikes into something electrifying; ice and fire wash over me as I stand to quickly, blood rushing to my head and I nearly smack my face against the wood for a better look outside.
My throat, sticky and raw, hurts as I swallow.
I blink once, twice, a third time. Inhale, steady.
It can't be real. After an age of nothing in those planes, it, it s just can't be- but the mirage in the distance is not disappearing and it looks an awful lot like the shadow a of encroaching vehicle.
My hand snaps to the blade rudely secured to the belt loops in my jeans and squeezes the grip subconsciously. It is my only defense against the horror of man and I am feeble, weak, long past my date with death.
Maybe he has finally come to collect.
In the next breath I'm moving. Eyes wide and heart hammering as I scramble for a plan. Something I've been thinking of for a long, endless amount of time, and now, in the moment of crisis; I come up blank.
Fuck
Its now or never. I'm the only house for miles, there's no way they haven't spotted it. Prepare, take the chance and walk out there... Isn't this what I've been waiting for?
My face is hidden behind old scarves when I finally make it to the front door, careful as I pull the heavy boards out of their locks. My hands shake, this is suddenly seeming like a terrible idea, but I don't want them, whoever they are, anywhere near my house until I know, until i can be sure.
If I had been a little more resourceful I would have rigged traps or something in case this goes sour; which is highly likely, but the lack of, well, anything around has prevented such measures.
So here's hoping I'm as diplomatic as I think I am.
The heat, intense and suffocating explodes in force as I take a step outside onto the front porch. I suck in a breath and choke, even through the cloth covering me the dust is thick and insistent.
The mirage hasn't disappeared, still looming like a black harbinger of death on the horizon, but its bigger now. One shadow splitting into three. One massive thing and two much smaller, each with a noticeable bloom of sand and dirt raging on behind it. From what I can make out as I step off the last old boards of the stairs and onto the scorching earth, I think its a truck of some kind, flanked by two motorcycles.
I'm trying to keep my breath steady, to harden my resolve and my shaking nerves, but its hard as dark flashing images, memories, grope at the backs of my eye lids. A constant reminder of the cruelty of this world. Of man.
I'm 20 yards, give or take few, away from the house now, about 50 away from the oncoming vehicles and this is where I stop. Forcing myself to stay calm, if I can look as in control as possible maybe Ill see the moon tonight.
I think this, and ignore the voice in my head that whispers why even bother. That tells me it takes more than a beating heart and a pair of working lungs to call a life living, a voice that asks what about my own life is even worth the effort.
30 yards.
20...15... at 10 yards I take a quick step back, the truck is gigantic and I realize with a wave of sickening panic that its an oil tanker. The browned, and broken skulls wired to the front fender sneer at me as the monster reduces speed, slowing its hulking body and I take another stumbling step back, my heart hammering so hard in my chest it hurts.
The two motorcycles rev their engines in a loud and ferocious roar and I flinch, my eyes darting between them as they circle me and its about three seconds before this that I realize the full force of the mistake I've made.
I have no power out here, I have no say and no right to even try... No, I just served my ass up on the proverbial silver platter.
"Shit" I hiss, my voice raw and sore as it slips from between the cracked skin of my lips and in the next moment the motorcycles finally come to a stop beside the tanker. A loud clunk and grind as gears shift; a violent shudder and the tanker doesn't move any closer.
I can't see through the windshield from where I'm standing and the two bike riders are completely clothed, head to foot in leather and straps and steal plating. They look big and dangerous and I take another step back despite knowing that I will die now, if they don't just kidnap me first. I have no chance against them, it was a joke to think I did.
The riders don't approach me, they don't say anything either and I watch with shaking apprehension as they take up position on either side of the big ride, riffles in hand.
I am the only one to look when both doors of the tanker slam open and it takes every ounce of self control in me not to reach for my blade.
A woman jumps down first, though it took a second to realize she was a she. With the shaved head and strong body I had instantly thought man, but her face, one look at her face and you know no man is that beautiful. Even the fearsome metal arm doesn't retract form this. A second is spared on this thought though, as the other came around into view. And this, is all man. Big, tall and broad. Even under his cloths, the bulk of his jacket, I can see the thick of his muscles.
I take another two steps backwards, eyes darting wide between the two, my imagination running over time; spitting out images of all the horrifying things that they could do.
"This your place?" the woman yells, her voice sure and strong and she nods her head to the house behind me. The two of them have stopped walking now, the man still silent, is looking right at me. His gaze, intense and unrelenting, makes my nerves tick.
I remember now that I haven't answered her... an Hell, no point in lying.
"Uh, I "a hacking cough sputters and cuts my words off, and I can't remember the last time I've said anything above a whisper to anyone but me. My throat hurts and every time I swollen I can feel the grit of the desert on my tongue.
"Y-yes" I finally manage, squinting against the overbearing sun and the woman nods, casting her... friend, an odd glance. Silent words are spoken with their eyes and I hold my breath, heart beat spiking as I wait with horrid anticipation.
The man grunts, shrugs and I want to scream. The least they could do is discuss out loud what they're going to do to me.
"You mind if we get outta the sun for a bit?"
What?
I blink a few times, and I think its a trick, it has to be a trick of some kind; I only wonder why bother with it? I don't get why they're even talking to me, discussing this like civilized people when we all know what's about to happen. Maybe they just like playing with their food before they eat it.
With that thought in mind and the raging survival instinct that's kept me alive for so long I back up again. My thoughts spinning fast; sure, I'll let them in, play the nice hostess, keep it up long enough and maybe they're tired. If I can just hold on till they fall asleep... get them inside, Ill have a better chance inside. But before I can nod my answer the woman speaks again.
"We have water, a little food to" she says this like its an offering and I almost scoff aloud. How stupid do they think I am?
Sucking in a breath I finally shake my head 'yes' and my shoulders hurt under the weight of my own damnation. Ill die, Ill die here because I was foolish, because I let home and stupid fantasies blind me. With one last glance cutting to the silent man I turn and walk away, hyper aware of the crunching footsteps behind me.
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Hate it? Like it?