"Wind"
He called himself Martin but the men all called him Bedell. Some of older ones, the soldiers—tough, focused, and organized—called him Major, but he told them not to bother because that rank no longer held and would only cause confusion when he got his new commission.
"That's obsolete," he'd say breezily. "I'm waiting for my promotion."
They were not sure what he meant but nodded and deferred to him just the same. The rest of us said nothing and followed where he guided.
Before we were taught how to fight, to rig traps and lay down fire, we were taught how to run. Running was very important. But there was a difference between running smart and running scared. One got you gunned down, only slightly later than had you stood around looking stupid when shit fell, and the other let you disappear or even turn the tide against what was chasing you if your smart was on Bedell's level. A while back, we came across some old guy who had run straight off the edge of a sinkhole. All we could make out was his head amongst the heap of jagged bones, and that must have been enough confirmation for whatever was chasing him.
"You run? I love to run," Bedell would then smirk and heft his guns higher. The chase was on. Bedell veered swiftly into the hunt.
After running, we were taught how to live. If some unlucky bastard, stupid and desperate, decided to hide out in the first tunnel or sewer cave he found, he would be saving the machines the trouble of cremating his ass to dispose of his body. It wouldn't take much more than a passing HK or slight tremble from the good old tectonic plate for him to be buried. When that happened, he better pray that he was taken out from the first drop because "prolonged asphyxiation due to a crushed lung" was a mean way to go. We came across some old guy a while back gasping and crying weakly for his mama. He was gone before Bedell could lift the last rock off the side of his ashen and powdered face.
"Doesn't matter how warm and dry it is. Check to make sure it won't fall down on you," Bedell constantly reminded, then he would swirl through the list on signs to look for.
Food and water were almost nonexistent. But Bedell taught us the tricks of scavenging. Every warm rain and puddle with swimming larvae was an opportunity. Carry some ground-up coal in a tightly woven cloth with your canteen and you were good to go. Don't bother with supermarkets; anything that could be gotten was gone. Instead, check nondescript warehouses standing in the middle of nowhere and the odd subbasements of isolated houses once overgrown with jungle and weeds. Canned goods and fresh meat must both go through the look, sniff and check. Boiling water or cooking food was a luxury but should be done whenever possible. Ingesting radiation didn't matter much because we were all swimming in it anyways.
One time a while back, we came across some other old guy all dried out and starving. He had died slack jawed with a bloated belly and lying in his own excrement, the remnants of spoiled luncheon meat and dirty water surrounding him. He had horded his food and couldn't finish it all in time.
"You're dead if you skip out on your buddies. We're all together on this even if everyone is expected to carry their own ass up the hill." Bedell was very adamant about this point. It was the locus of his existence and the first thing that flew out of his mouth at the meet-n-greet.
Machines were not the only source of danger after Judgment Day. The people flying with Bedell knew all too well about the ones who would violently take another's water, food, and life. Sometimes, it was better that Metal were the ones to find us. They were not meant to care.
It didn't matter. Bedell was always running smart, he was like the wind; Metal or menace, he would blow them all away. It was his life's ambition.
~Fin~
Note: Any survivalists or military personnel out there, sorry for any inconsistencies and errors.