Looks Like I'm Going to Hell
By Kachimoochi
Chapter I
Begin Again…Tonight
War…War never changes.
When the powers that controlled the world feuded with one another in pointless conflicts and disregard for any and all life, it never changed.
When the old world was washed away by the wrath of the Gods, and who remained started to rebuild, it never changed.
When the forces of God, nature, and science conspired against the survivors, it never changed.
And when the remainders lost their Civilization, and fought to take the ones that didn't belong to them, it never changed.
A man awoke in a dank and dingy warehouse, he was conscious for what seemed like hours, unable to decipher the dream he had woken from, and the reality he'd left.
He had collapsed on the floor either from exhaustion or grief; he honestly couldn't recall any of the day's previous events. He could only remember the phrase he repeated in his head whenever he awoke.
"I have to get out of here"
The man rose from his collapsed state, and jumped suddenly at a shadowy figure that passed his gaze. The shadow was only his reflection, but it wasn't a being he had recognized, not for a while.
The figure he saw in a broken, shattered mirror was a thin and gangly man. His only clothing was brown, tattered robes he had stolen from the corpse of a Brotherhood priest, or perhaps he had killed him, he couldn't remember, he wasn't sure if he cared.
He couldn't see his face, it was obscured by a metal helmet, it appeared to be from a lost age, or rather a resurrected one. It was a model of a bearded statue composed of the remains of a Corvega. One horn protruded from the left, and a broken horn protruded from the right. A broken knife or blade was duct taped to the center of the helmet, perhaps for efficiency, perhaps for style. Neither of which mattered anymore.
Normally the man would have removed his helmet and eaten some of the irradiated food he'd stolen from a Legion Remnant camp, finishing it off with a bottle of Vodka, but he couldn't. He could never look at his face again, not after what he'd done.
He couldn't remember what he looked like, what his life had been, only that he'd awakened one day and the hell he called his life entered another circle. It was at this moment of realization that he took notice of another figure on the ground before him.
It was the corpse of a woman, one whom the man had killed. She was dressed liberally, wearing only leather pants, and a tank top, he'd salvaged her shirt to make bandages. He couldn't remember why he'd killed her, perhaps she attacked him, perhaps he wanted to cut his losses. Either way, this presented an opportunity.
The masked man opened his knapsack which he carried on his back, taking one more look at the corpse he assured he'd created. Her head was bashed in with a metal tire iron; pieces of her head were spattered on the ground and the walls. The point of entry was in her forehead, and her face was contorted in a final expression of agony, her death wasn't swift, though she had gone down fighting.
He could have simply shot her, but his bullets were better spent elsewhere.
None of that mattered anymore; there was an important decision to be made, one that could determine the future of his survival, and even himself.
The only food that the Masked Man possessed was two irradiated cans of pre-war tuna fish. It was no doubt rotten, but it would provide him with substantial energy, especially when cooked on the hotplate he carried with him. But he noticed that there was another option.
The woman, whoever she was is dead, there is no sense in letting her body go to waste, right? Human is just as meat as any ordinary meat, it was just the stigma that made it a sin to eat, but could it be a sin too many for the Masked Man. He could just as easily cut a piece, just a small piece of her off, maybe a leg or an arm, it would uncountable provide him with enough volume and energy to make it for the next several days. But what would the cost be on his mind, his sanity?
Was there anything left inside his head to salvage?
Whether by his morals or his disinterest, the Masked Man belayed the cannibalism, at least for now, the tuna would only fill him for about a day, he needed to find food fast. He took the cans and forced them open with a rusty blade he used as a main weapon and stabbed at the tin, eventually creating a sizable divot to carve out a path. He feasted hungrily at the rotten, chicken-like fish, no time for savoring the morsels. He afterword chugged an entire bottle of Vodka, and as if by a miracle, he didn't feel guilty of killing the woman anymore, and perhaps even cannibalizing her.
Deciding to create an insurance policy, the Masked Man took his rusty blade and cut off the woman's left leg, slicing her thigh off from her torso and leg. He placed it inside its own compartment in his backpack.
"Only for emergencies" he spoke internally, not knowing if he was lying or not.
When his surgery was completed he ventured up the stairs leading out from the warehouse, scouring every cabinet and box for any usable materials.
Abraxo cleaner for deodorant, Fancy Lad Snack Cakes as bait for a gullible traveler, paper files as a desperate snack. These were truths post-apocalyptic survivors memorized.
Begin Again…In My Mind
The Masked Man turned immediately and produced his near-broken 9mm pistol, containing only 4 bullets within. The phrase was sung suddenly and loudly, and it seemed to be centralized in an office room.
"What the hell is that?" he thought
Let's Sway Again…Tonight
The music now seemed louder as he approached a door, accepting that the voice couldn't be coming from a human, it was much to angelic, to real, to old. What could it be then? Was he losing his mind? What was that song? It seemed so familiar.
Your Arm…On My Shoulder, Your Cheek…Against Mine
The Masked Man turned the knob on the door, only to find it locked. This led to him forcing his miniscule body weight against the door, to minute avail. It seemed that to satisfy his curiosity, he'd have to make another sacrifice.
Where Can We Go…When Will We Find…That We Know
He possessed only a single bobby pin, the classic and only feasible way to open a locked door in the wasteland. Using it on such an old door would undoubtedly destroy it, and there was no guarantee that it would open, or indeed that the room on the other side would contain anything that would assist him. He decided that the curiosity must be satiated, the music was pounding against his head, screaming into his mind.
To Let Go…
A satisfying click sound communicated to the Masked Man that his attempt had been successful. He swung the door open, in search of an immediate reward, or at least an answer to the infernal noise.
What appeared before him was tantamount to dream sent by Satan himself. The room wasn't a room, but a void, a long, black, endless void. In the middle of the void was a single activated light bulb illuminating a colored metallic box, flickering every so often.
It was a jukebox, from a time long ago. The Masked Man had seen them before, he couldn't remember where or when. He approached the box and entered the void. He didn't care that he'd wasted a pin, or that there was nothing to scavenge after paying such a heavy toll, he needed to stop the infernal sound. It was corrupting his soul.
Begin…Begin Again Tonight
The Masked Man pushed the box on its back, screeching the music before coming to a complete halt. The color left the machine, the music stopped, and the light above was extinguished. The Man was in complete darkness, his only avenue available being the door that led him here. The doorway was illuminated in white; he was unable to see the room he'd been through to enter the void.
He walked into the room, escaping the void for now, but perhaps the machine uttered a final response, or perhaps it was his sanity.
Begin Again