Friendly Faces

He advanced down the road passing through the ruins of a small town filled with dense vegetation and trees. He was exhausted and desperately needed water. But in luck, he spotted a small river that made its way through the road just up ahead. He rushed towards the creek and quickly drank from it. Then, quenching his thirst, he rested near the river to tend to his wounds. He speculated on what happened to the city and if there was anyone left. He was for sure; an immense tragedy must have occurred for a metropolis like this to be left in ruins. He finished stitching his last cuts and stored his medical tools in the medkit. He then continued across the river, skipping and stepping over rocks.

Furthermore, down the road, he reached a bridge and crossing it; he could see the skyscrapers of the once-great city down the vast river. He took a pause here to admire the human ingenuity. But what caught his eyes was the rising smoke in the distance hidden on the other side. His heart jumped in excitement; He wasn't the only person left in this godforsaken city. But he didn't know how to get there, and he's unsure if they were friendly folk. So he took this time now to check out his rifle. It was an MP5 with a current 30 round magazine loaded with 9mm rounds and a red dot sight attached. He unloaded the magazine and checked how many bullets were left. Discovering there was barely any left, he needed to save his ammo with everything in check; he pressed on towards the city.

He was currently a hundred meters away from the city, passing through the rough terrain and dwelling through the smoldering heat of the sun. As he got closer, the shadows of the tall building befallen him, giving him cool shade and notifying him that he was near. Now entering through the grid-pattern roads, he tried to spot the smoke pillar but couldn't due to the building blocking his view. He roamed through the streets filled with abandoned cars littered throughout, every street he came across, as well as fallen structures blocking most of the roads. But out of nowhere, he heard moans and cries from a building not far from him. He slowly crept towards the door with a conspicuous symbol marked right on the door in a bright red color. He slowly crept towards its with his firearm drawn out. He could hear the cries grow louder with each step he takes. Finally, he pushed the door open to only reveal darkness. He grabbed a flare and set it off to illuminate the room. The room was old and ravished; he took a few steps in until he heard glass crumble beneath his shoes. Before he could even look down, he felt a rope wrap around his leg and then drag him straight through the door, leaving him suspended a few meters up. He tried to reach for his gun, but before he could, a dark figure hit him in the head with but of his rifle, knocking him unconscious.

He woke up resting on a metal pole with his arms tied together around it. He looked around to see he was inside a shed with multiple instruments and tools coated with blood and the rod he is currently tied to, indicating his kidnappers used it more than once. Then, he heard the doors of the shed unlock. His heart sank as the door crept open. The figure entered the shed to reveal a white elderly man in his late sixties. He had a high stature with a long white beard, a shaved head, and tired brown eyes, wearing a rust-colored trench coat, a black undershirt, grays pants, and muddy brown boots. The elderly man looked at the convict with distrust as he turned off the safety of his pistol. Then, he walked towards the convict and squatted to see him face to face. He spoke with a deep and raspy voice.

"What's the government doing near our camp? I thought you were all dead?" The younger man was confused, he responded. "What do you mean?" The old man walked towards the table and grabbed a half-burnt wallet with a CIA badge, showing a picture of a caucasian man with brown hair and green eyes in his late twenties with the name burned off from the fire. The man spoked annoyed."Does this look familiar?" As he showed it right into the so-called agent's face. "No. But it does?" The agent said doubtfully." The response angered the old man, as he thought he was being played for a fool. The man then grabbed a pipe wrench and smirked with a sinister chuckle. "This will surely make you remember." The old man was about to strike him until someone yelled from outside the shed and interrupting, "We're receiving a signal!" The senior dropped the pipe wrench to check it out, but he turned back to the scared young man before leaving. "Don't you think I'm done with you!" He said with an angry booming voice. Alone in the gloomy shed, the young man had improvised a way to escape. He saw pieces of sharp glass from a jar. Gracelessly he managed to drag it with his feat pushing it towards him. He spun around the pole to grab the glass shard and began to cut away the rope slowly. As he was, he listened to the dispute that started to spark outside, "What does it mean?!" one said, and another defined it. "It's morse code, but who here knows how to read it." the survivor said. "Quickly, get someone!" He eventually freed his hand from the binds, slowly walked towards the door, peaked through to view the camp. It was heavily fortified with crushed vehicles stacked together to form a wall surrounding the base; there were many tents and lodges with different signs labeling from the infirmary to the armory. He walked out the door to start making his escape, but the dwellers of the camp spotted him. "Hey! He's getting away!" the survivor called. He began to sprint for the exit passing tents, and lodges. He evaded a tackle from a nearby survivor. He found his way to the exit gates, although unfortunately, it was closed. Before he could try to climb it, he heard a gunshot, a bullet whizzed by him, nearly missing his head, striking the gate. He turned around to face a man with blue eyes, messy black hair in his early thirties, wearing a black leather jacket, white undershirt, azure-colored jeans, and black boots. The guard was pointing the hunting rifle right towards the escapee as he slowly stepped towards him. Another person came behind the guard yet again, and it was the torturer from before. He quickly paced towards the agent, grabbed him by his arms, and throw him to the ground. The old man stepped on the agent's chest, earning a groan of pain. "You thought you could run away, did you?!" The angry old man roared, pressing down harder. "Tell your government about our little community to kill us all!" He finally pulled out his gun to shoot him, but the guard that caught him yelled out, stopping the execution. "Corey! What the fuck! Is this what's really about!" he said, pushing the old man off the agent giving him air to breathe. "You said it was a bandit!" yelled the guard. The old man retorted back, "So what! this CIA ass hole is going to pay for what they've done!" Corey shouted, pointing his revolver towards the agent. "Corey, the government is gone! How many times do we have to tell you! They were wiped out decades ago, remember!" The guard said, grabbing the shoulder of Corey. Infuriated, the old man hit the guard's arm away and walked without saying anything. The guard now looked at the agent on the floor, holding his chest in pain with a sorry look. The guard offered him his hand, and with no choice, the young man took it, lifting him off the ground. Exhausted, he tried to speak. "Now. You're not going to kill me?" The agent said, leaning against the wall, barely able to stand up. The guard smirked. "Well, unless you try anything stupid, I won't hesitate to shoot." The guard chuckled. "Good to know." The agent said, finally regaining his breath. "Hey, don't worry." He said, turning on the safety of his rifle. The guard then offered a handshake. "Names Micheal." He smiled. The young man calmed down and shooked Micheals's hand.

They walked down the dirt trail. Micheal decided to break the ice and asked the new member a question. "Hey, you remember your name?" The newbie responded, "Not even the first letter." The guard whistled at the answer, "You must have bumped your head on something pretty hard if you can't even remember your name!" The guard joked. "Or maybe inhaled something." The agent responded with a severe expression, making Micheal lose his smile. "What?" The guard replied, confused, but before he could question, The agent asked. "Hey, what are they all doing." Pointing towards the group surrounding a radio. The guard answered, forgetting his question. "Well, we've just received a long-range signal, the plays morse code for every 20 minutes we can't reply because our signal is too low, but we've also tried t decipher the morse code still none of us knows morse code." Michal stated, disappointed.

The agent replied, "What kind of survivors don't know morse code." The young man said with a mischievous grin. Micheal explained, "Hey! the last one who even knew morse code died to those godforsaken freak's years before we even received the message." The agent was bewildered by the response. "Freaks?" Not even answering the young man's question, Micheal stated. "Look, just if you do know morse code, please, for god's sake, help us." Micheal pleaded. Now serious, the agent nodded and agreement. Finally, Micheal shouted to the group. "Everyone, clear out! Let him through." The group moved away from the radio, but one remained and retorted to the order. "Who let this motherfucker out." angrily stated as he eyed the agent down. Micheal yelled. "Himself. Now move!" Shoving the survivor away. One of the camp dwellers gave the agent the headset to listen to the message. Micheal and the rest of the group waited anxiously as the young man listened to the morse code. It was very familiar to him as if he heard it before. "Give me anything to right on." Order the agent. Someone quickly handed him a piece of paper with a pen. They all watched as he deciphered the code writing the set of numbers down. Once the agent has finished, they were all beheld to a group of coordinates.

They quickly got a map and began to find where the coordinates locate too. They were all astonished, it was located on the other side of the world, and to even reach there, you would have to cross the largest ocean. Micheal was left speechless. The young man with the map folded it together for safekeeping. "And that's where we should go." The rest of the survivors began to argue whether they should or not, but Micheal had to talk with the agent. "We? Should we go there? I mean, we're talking about crossing the pacific ocean, and we have no idea if things there are better? It might be even worse." Micheal asserted. "You're right about that," he said in agreement. "Well, then I'm done here." He said, walking to the gates. Micheal followed, "Where are you going?" He said, catching up to him.

"I'm going to be gone for a few hours." The young man stated, getting closer to the iron gates. "Well, then your gonna need this," Micheal said, throwing his MP5 towards him. Catching his firearm, he inspected it to see the new modifications done to it. "Since you helped us, I asked Nancey, one of our gunsmiths, if she can add a few parts to your MP5 as thanks." The now new modified SMG had a foregrip, with a new three-sided rail on the forend of the gun, including a green laser light, a new well furbished holographic EOTech sight, and a fifty round drum magazine loaded with 9mm hollow-point rounds. "Someone went all out." He complimented."Yeah, and when you come back, I want you battened down. We're going on a supply run, and we need some backup." Micheal returned. earning a chuckle from the agent. "Well, speaking of backup, I need you to come with me." The agent proposed. "Why not. Got nothing to do here anyway." Micheal said in glee. "Hey Mat! I need my bike!" Micheal called. There came the mechanic with the motorcycle. "Next time, get it yourself, pinche gringo!" The mechanic scolded as he threw the bike at the ground. The mechanic was Latin American, with black hair and yellow eyes. He was in his early thirties, large stature, wearing a gray ragged and torn jacket with various grease stains, dirty work pants, a brown leather belt, and black sneakers. "Oh, come on! Watch the bike!" Micheal replied, but the mechanic went back to his lodge, flipping Micheal the bird. Micheal lifted the motorcycle bringing it towards the gate. "Seems tired of you." The agent recognized as the now annoyed guard was cleaning the dirt off his tank. "Mmmhm," Micheal replied. He then mounted the motorbike. It was a twenty nineteen KTM 790 Adventure heavily modified with steel plating covering the engine, a large shroud mounted on the steering bar, and a large fender on the front. Micheal flipped up the kickstand and then pushed down on the kick start, starting the engine.

"Hop on!" Micheal yelled over the noise of the motorcycle engine. "Well shit alright!" The agent then mounted on the pillion right behind Micheal. "Open up!" Micheal order, then a set of pulleys lifted the gate to reveal the city once again. "Where too?" Micheal asked, revving the engine. "You've guys seen anything fall from the sky?" The agent asked modestly. "You mean that meteorite that just landed a few hours ago?" Micheal replied with certainty. "Yup, that's the one." The agent confirmed, "Well, we were going to send a couple of guys over there. But we can check it out ourselves." Micheal then slowly began picking up speed, moving down the wood bridge.