"It's a cruel world...and it breeds cruel men."
Sands rolled over barren streets, cracked and faded grey pavement cut a line in the ground towards the setting sun. The dust and sand carried with the wind swept over the old, long faded road. It was howling at the setting, bloody and orange sun. Howling for it to fade to darkness once more, so nightmare's could be reborn.
"Men who roam...killing, burning and destroying their way through settlements after settlements...lives lost out of psychotic rage or toxic souls. We keep dying, over and over again. We're dying...one drop of blood at a time."
A noise chimed through the wind in a steady, determined rhythm. The sound a tin like object hitting that faded and greyed pavement in a steady pace. It grew louder and louder, and as did a faint and also steady ticking noise. Electronic. It drew closer and closer before a figure in cracked, browned leather armor made his way down the street, arm raised to block the sand from hitting his face any more then it already was. The electronics green tinted wording on the screen continued the scroll as the ticking grew ever constant.
"Good men are a thing of the past. A thing that needs to be left in the ruins and sands. They were killed long, long ago. And if you're smart, you'll leave the mantel of a 'good man' alone. It's a fairy-tale in this world. This...wasteland."
He had a black bandana pulled over his face to prevent breathing any more grime then he already was. Didn't know how much good it did, seeing how he could taste the dust and feel it, gritty on his nicotine stained teeth. His black cowboy hat was angled down a little, an attempt to keep the setting sun out of his eyes. The reflection of the sun setting behind a ruined landscape of towers and buildings reflected in the man's sun-glasses.
"In this world, there's three kinds of people. The one's that keep their head's down and try to stay out of trouble. The one's who go looking for trouble, causing nothing but pain in their wake. And the Survivors. The one's who don't live by no man's code. Don't live by old-world-morals. The one's that do whatever they have too to survive this world. THAT is the kind of man you need to be."
His worn, sun faded leather boots pressed against the ground in a steady pace. Sand sweeping across the ground around, against and over them. The spurs on the back of them-which he found in a pawn-shop he discovered-clanked against the ground and spun a little with each step. As he walked, the sun slipped further and further downward. The sands rolled on. He kept his pace, acknowledging what he was passing with a glance, but never slowing down. His feet carried him past a broken and sand worn skull, it's jaw broken off to the side.
"This world has no place for a good man. It has no place for heroes. It has a place for survivor's, though. You hear stories about them. Their name's get carried away with the sand, but their deeds stand like the towers in the Crypt. And so does their titles, even if their names get lost. Couriers and Wanderer's alike. Survivors."
His breathing was an even, slow pace. The leather of his breeches and his six-shooter's holster grinding together on his thigh. He'd need to tie them down better. The sun was setting fast, though. Faster then he wanted. But he didn't break his pace, knowing the city was close. It was so close. He knew, because the electronic ticking from the device on his wrist got progressively faster the closer he got.
He gave a rib-cage of a woman a glance as he walked by it, shredded cloths hanging off the sun bleached bones. After acknowledging it and turning his head forward, the more he noticed. The more obvious it became. The bone's, just littered about. All down the street, all out in the sands. Hundreds. More that he couldn't see. But it was enough for him to see those. His breathing got faster, as did his heart.
"Ask yourself, what kind of man do you want to be? A man who keeps his head down. A man who's a cancer to all life no matter where he goes. Or a man who stands up, and endures. Who wears his scars like a badge of honor. Ask yourself, what kind of man do you want to be?"
The winds suddenly seemed to still as he approached the the first rusted, wrecked car laying on it's roof. Another skeleton laying inside of it, on it's belly with it's arm out-stretched. He was careful not to step on the bones scattered around him. Didn't want to make a unwanted noise. He'd have to take the spurs off before he got into the city.
He watched the sun through the cracks of the sky-scrapers that were still standing. Through the blown-out windows. In some of those window's he was sure he could figures moving, and tried to convince himself it was his mind playing tricks on him. If only he believed that. If only that were true. But he knew the truth, the truth of what he was going into. The closer he got, the more gnawed bones he was forced to walk on in the streets. A faded and scratched up green city sign was posted to his right. It had the common 'Welcome to' but the name was scratched out, and in red was painted "Death" and below it "Turn back!"
So many bones. And as he got closer to the city, they were unrelenting. And so were the abandoned and destroyed cars, trucks, bikes and everything else that would have been drivable hundreds of years ago. There was no escaping what happened here. Not then, and not now. His Geiger counter ticked wildly the closer he got to this old city. But was he too late? He was watching the sun set rapidly, dropping, falling faster and faster in the distance. He was too late.
There should have been a orchestra from one of those old holo-tapes playing in that moment. He began to sprint down the street towards the city, hoping to make it to one of the outskirt buildings before it dropped and all of hell awakened. It was a brief and fruitless mad-dash. He slowed to a stop as the sun dropped out of sight, and the light began to die out to darkness.
That's when the first scream came.
It was a calling sign and it ignited a tidal wave of more screams. Dozens turned into hundreds and hundreds into possibly thousands. 'Run...' every instinct in his body begged him. The howls echoed into the dusk sky as he stepped forward and took off sprinting down the street, spurs clanking and bones scraping and cracking under his boots. He was making way to much noise, they would find him. They would find him and they'd tear him limb from limb. Rip into his belly and pull hand fulls of his guts out and gorge them-selves on it. They'd strip his flesh and choke on his bones.
He wouldn't let them. He turned and ran along side a faded white moving truck. The cracked and rather eerie picture of a smiling woman holding a thumbs up on the bullet hole ridden side of it flashed by as he ran to the back of it. He stepped up and into it, grabbing the edge of one rusty door and pulling it closed. It screeched on it's rusted hinged and he locked it in place.
The howling was getting louder, and he knew soon they would be flooding his way in search for food. They'd flood in all directions in search for food. He moved over and grabbed the other door, pulling it closed and locking it in place. The screams echoed in the back of the truck, louder then ever. Louder and louder, their raspy, horse and scratchy moans got. Their feet stampeding in a loud and out of sync orchestra as they ran towards the truck.
He moved over to the side of the the cab and got on one knee, taking his hat off and pressing his eye up to one of the bullet holes, peering into the barely moon-lit outside world. The thunderous footsteps seemed to have stopped, turning into a shuffling. They no doubt smelled him in the air, but couldn't find him.
One of them shuffled into view. Emaciated and leather like skin hanging over nothing but bones, like a drape over railing. It's upper lip along with it's nose was missing, yet it perked it's head up and sniffed the air. It's milk white eyes searching around for whatever it was it smelled.
The man pivoted away from the hole and held his breath, closing his eyes tight and hoping it wouldn't find him and alert the others. But by the grace of god, something happened. The sound of a tin can moving against the ground in the distance behind him. Probably the wind or some unlucky vermin.
The ghoul howled a hoarse scream, signaling the others, then charged forward. The man moved back and pressed his eye to the hole. The cab began to shake as ghouls poured around it, all emaciated and mutilated by radiation, time and the sun. Dozens upon dozens poured around the vehicle, and that was just on the side he was looking out of. Dust being kicked up and their screams echoing out as they raced forward, looking for a meal. The cab was shaking, rocking back and forth. The man moved away from the bullet hole and braced on the floor, gritting his teeth and holding on for dear life.
His eyes opened and the rumbling of the stampede had past, though it still vibrated in his mind. His brown eyes blinked numbly. He was sweating cold and his heart was racing, fists gripping the bedsheets. He sat up in the bed quickly, glancing around the sun-lit room. He was alone. He was always alone when he awoke.
His body released from it's tensed state, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Feet pressing on the wood floor, arms holding him up on the bed and head bowed. His bare and broad chest rose and fell quickly, damp with sweat. His brown eyes stared down at the ground, and he slowly blinked, trying to erase the nightmare from his mind. But he couldn't. He's never managed to, and perhaps he never will. All he could do was stand up, and endure.
"It's a cruel, cruel world. Filled with death, violence, horror, and war. The landscape is ever changing, but it's people will always stay the same. Do you know why? Because of war...war never changes."