Wasteland: Nigel’s Post-Apocalyptic Story

[81Ceta_Deta]

TERMINUS
What are we but specks of sand compared to the infinitude of time?
I ponder this many a time, as the waves of time slosh upon the grains of reality. We stand so gallantly, so close to the edge and the far abyss below us, and yet here we are upon this rock we call Earth. Why, I ask myself, does man still live on in this endless venture of chaos? When all we come to know comes crashing down every millenia, as the very meaning of life becomes less so human, and we give ourselves over to artificiality? A constant state of emptiness, a world forged in digital codes, ones and zeroes, and endless multitudes of narcissism take away our sense of humanity. But now I see a dead world. Ashen plains replace the dystopian cities, where many suffered, where our lives deteriorated and we saw no hope for the future, for the days to come would be grim and dark and cold, and what were we to the cruel world? Our leaders spoke for the people, but they spoke only for the people who’s wallets were getting heavier with each election. I title this Terminus, for the end of a civilized time is behind us, and man now reverts to the stone age. The bombs came, and our fears for a better tomorrow were washed away, replaced by a maddening terror for survival. Oh the first days were indeed grim, for whom of us could have foreseen the fate that awaited man, when all we looked for was a better tomorrow? Was this world one of our forging, built from the hateful vendettas of the almighty and powerful and vengeance of the men in suits and jackets who thought only of their survival? Or was this the bane of ***, a wrathful hammer demolishing His failed utopias, while the world burned? I do not know, I can only speculate, think, for that is the one sane thing in this new wasteland ahead of me. I am but one man against a nighted world of madness, fear and hate, where only the greedy and the lucky survive. I say to you now, dear journal, that as I write from the ruins of man’s greatest structure, that this is not judgment day- for judgment day has already passed, that we live in the wastes of His greatest, and failed, creation. You, my dear reader, may call me Crane, and I exist now as a fragment of the world before the mutagenic bombs of 2081 scorched the pitiful Earth. I was born in 2058 in New York city, and as I write this it is dated March 25 2084. In 2072 I was sentenced to prison for arson. I was snetenced to serve 10 years in a pitiful excuse of a prison, and survived the bombs by hiding in one of the concrete cellars whilst the world was blazed and torched above me. When i stepped forth from my foxhole, i saw battered walls of concrete where the walls of the prison once stood, steel rebars and hinges where jai; cells once sat damp. Fires blazed around me as I laid my youthful eyes upon the debris– the melted corpses of my jailmates, men who were scum and lowest of the low, and a gas rose through the air. I became loopy, collapsing after inhalation of the mutagenic fumes. I woke, I daresay, a week after, finding myself in a concrete bunker. A squad of soldiers had found me, men who were fully unaffected by the gas as they claimed, though I suspect they lie. They had been dispatched from a small army outpost, and were sent to look for survivors in the small town around the prison. They found only I- an arsonist, a maniac, the deluded. Their doctors nursed me to health with a smug disregard. As soon as I began to walk, talk, and eat on my own, they let me wander about the camp. Several other civilians were there, and they were unrecognizable- the gas had caused pimples of inhuman proportions to appear on their skin; scabbing and lizard like. Their necks seemed elongated- more snake than human, and hair had begun to fall in clumps as a horrendous change occurred in their jaws. Their mouths had begun to split, forming mandibles of a sort, four mandibles decorated by ghastly teeth, and their eyes were yellow. It filled me with fear, disgust, horror. The soldiers feared them, too, because they always looked uneasy around them, sweating intensively, clenched fists and quiet words of dissent. Some of them saw the civilians, whose number grew continuously with more survivors being encountered, as humans who were simply disfigured. Others saw them as filth- tainted by the fire of the devil. How silly they were, clinging to the fabrics of a sane world like children. The civilians often died- their disgurments, or rather mutations as they are now called, caused horrible disease and rot which killed them. These diseases spread often to the soldiers, and during May of 2082 a severe outbreak of what they called Snakis claimed the lives of 12 soldiers- including the platoon’s lieutenant. All through this time I felt a change occur in myself- a fiery movement within my skin that slithered its way through my body, causing occasional spasms of involuntary movements. But I felt powerful- a new surge of strength, enlightenment, CLARITY sparked through my fiber. In June we ran out of food, and during a supply run, I accompanied the second-in-command, a staff sergeant named Jameson. I hated this man with my full being- he regarded everyone who was not his definition of a human as utter trash, as inferior bags of disease and dishonor. Upon our supply run, we encountered a squadron of United States marines, who now served under an organization called the United States Restoration Corp. They had supplies, and would help us in exchange for two things- the execution of every mutant at our outpost, and the union of our people. Jameson agreed to these terms- he saw a chance for himself at “redemption.”

Tensions had been high amongst the soldiers and civilians for months. The soldiers blamed us for the deaths of their kin, and we blamed them for discriminaton and abuse, which was quite true- they often did abuse the more visibly mutated among us. In July there was a schism. Jameson gathered toh im 15 of the remaining 24 soldiers, and turned on the mutants. A firefight erupted between the two groups- a minority of soldiers fighting their brethren to protect what the world saw as monsters. The firefight ended with 27 dead mutants, 13 dead soldiers, and a USRC captain accepting the few of us left into the USRC. Our camp was scorched- fires raged and disease was potent, the hideous germs carried by the mutants causing a deadly illness. We packed up in a convoy and began to drive out to a USRC encampment in Texas- we were at that moment located in a small town in New Mexico. Along the way, we got hit by bandits. A group of 20 of them ambushed us, gunning down Jameson and his scum just as quickly as Jameson had killed his own people. The bandits rounded up the few of us left, and began executing the survivors. This was when a moment of clarity struck me- all my life I had been seen as a monster, a psychopath, a ***. But was I? I merely was the embodiment of the human spirit- a vengeful phantasm who used what be at hand. The warm movements inside my stomach flared to life, and a squirming began in my ribcage. A voice spoke to me, though from no visible speaker.
“Crane… you know our existence.. You know what must be done. We exist to serve the will of Man, and we shall.” I knew then i was mutated also- except instead of my physical appearance being altered, I harbored within me the future of humanity- a creature that shouldn't exist, but a creature that, together with I, would change man’s destiny. A parasite, perhaps. A creature born into this world from some cosmic dimension? It is a dreadful thought, but I do not disclaim its probability. I know only it is with me, and I am with it. Fire burst forth from fingertips at the bandits, brilliant spectacles of orange and red and yellow dancing in the dry dusk. And oh it was glorious. I felt the power rush through me, I felt my purpose in this harsh place we call Earth. I was destined to change it, and we would. And so we burned. We sought vengeance, building a vendetta against those who dared called themselves human and still yet committed acts of genocide. For almost 2 years I have done thus. I have wandered the wastes, selecting prey from unsuspecting bandits and USRC patrols, and putting at ease the souls of the wronged, and here I sit now in a great steel tower- the frame of an old world skyscraper. It was spectacular- the pinnacle of human achievement that pierced the heavens and showed our superiority to the world. But yet, i wonder, as I watch the dim, nighted sun in the horizon, were we ever superior? What power did we ever hold on this mortal realm?

Until next time, dear reader

Crane.

Threw together a quick Wasteland Story. First time experimenting with religious undertones in stories. I'm also a firm believer that just because a character is the protagonist does not mean he must be the good guy. Tell me what y'all think.

[Bmatt123]

Thats impressive ceta!

[rsjones76]

TERMINUS
What are we but specks of sand compared to the infinitude of time?
I ponder this many a time, as the waves of time slosh upon the grains of reality. We stand so gallantly, so close to the edge and the far abyss below us, and yet here we are upon this rock we call Earth. Why, I ask myself, does man still live on in this endless venture of chaos? When all we come to know comes crashing down every millenia, as the very meaning of life becomes less so human, and we give ourselves over to artificiality? A constant state of emptiness, a world forged in digital codes, ones and zeroes, and endless multitudes of narcissism take away our sense of humanity. But now I see a dead world. Ashen plains replace the dystopian cities, where many suffered, where our lives deteriorated and we saw no hope for the future, for the days to come would be grim and dark and cold, and what were we to the cruel world? Our leaders spoke for the people, but they spoke only for the people who’s wallets were getting heavier with each election. I title this Terminus, for the end of a civilized time is behind us, and man now reverts to the stone age. The bombs came, and our fears for a better tomorrow were washed away, replaced by a maddening terror for survival. Oh the first days were indeed grim, for whom of us could have foreseen the fate that awaited man, when all we looked for was a better tomorrow? Was this world one of our forging, built from the hateful vendettas of the almighty and powerful and vengeance of the men in suits and jackets who thought only of their survival? Or was this the bane of ***, a wrathful hammer demolishing His failed utopias, while the world burned? I do not know, I can only speculate, think, for that is the one sane thing in this new wasteland ahead of me. I am but one man against a nighted world of madness, fear and hate, where only the greedy and the lucky survive. I say to you now, dear journal, that as I write from the ruins of man’s greatest structure, that this is not judgment day- for judgment day has already passed, that we live in the wastes of His greatest, and failed, creation. You, my dear reader, may call me Crane, and I exist now as a fragment of the world before the mutagenic bombs of 2081 scorched the pitiful Earth. I was born in 2058 in New York city, and as I write this it is dated March 25 2084. In 2072 I was sentenced to prison for arson. I was snetenced to serve 10 years in a pitiful excuse of a prison, and survived the bombs by hiding in one of the concrete cellars whilst the world was blazed and torched above me. When i stepped forth from my foxhole, i saw battered walls of concrete where the walls of the prison once stood, steel rebars and hinges where jai; cells once sat damp. Fires blazed around me as I laid my youthful eyes upon the debris– the melted corpses of my jailmates, men who were scum and lowest of the low, and a gas rose through the air. I became loopy, collapsing after inhalation of the mutagenic fumes. I woke, I daresay, a week after, finding myself in a concrete bunker. A squad of soldiers had found me, men who were fully unaffected by the gas as they claimed, though I suspect they lie. They had been dispatched from a small army outpost, and were sent to look for survivors in the small town around the prison. They found only I- an arsonist, a maniac, the deluded. Their doctors nursed me to health with a smug disregard. As soon as I began to walk, talk, and eat on my own, they let me wander about the camp. Several other civilians were there, and they were unrecognizable- the gas had caused pimples of inhuman proportions to appear on their skin; scabbing and lizard like. Their necks seemed elongated- more snake than human, and hair had begun to fall in clumps as a horrendous change occurred in their jaws. Their mouths had begun to split, forming mandibles of a sort, four mandibles decorated by ghastly teeth, and their eyes were yellow. It filled me with fear, disgust, horror. The soldiers feared them, too, because they always looked uneasy around them, sweating intensively, clenched fists and quiet words of dissent. Some of them saw the civilians, whose number grew continuously with more survivors being encountered, as humans who were simply disfigured. Others saw them as filth- tainted by the fire of the devil. How silly they were, clinging to the fabrics of a sane world like children. The civilians often died- their disgurments, or rather mutations as they are now called, caused horrible disease and rot which killed them. These diseases spread often to the soldiers, and during May of 2082 a severe outbreak of what they called Snakis claimed the lives of 12 soldiers- including the platoon’s lieutenant. All through this time I felt a change occur in myself- a fiery movement within my skin that slithered its way through my body, causing occasional spasms of involuntary movements. But I felt powerful- a new surge of strength, enlightenment, CLARITY sparked through my fiber. In June we ran out of food, and during a supply run, I accompanied the second-in-command, a staff sergeant named Jameson. I hated this man with my full being- he regarded everyone who was not his definition of a human as utter trash, as inferior bags of disease and dishonor. Upon our supply run, we encountered a squadron of United States marines, who now served under an organization called the United States Restoration Corp. They had supplies, and would help us in exchange for two things- the execution of every mutant at our outpost, and the union of our people. Jameson agreed to these terms- he saw a chance for himself at “redemption.”

Tensions had been high amongst the soldiers and civilians for months. The soldiers blamed us for the deaths of their kin, and we blamed them for discriminaton and abuse, which was quite true- they often did abuse the more visibly mutated among us. In July there was a schism. Jameson gathered toh im 15 of the remaining 24 soldiers, and turned on the mutants. A firefight erupted between the two groups- a minority of soldiers fighting their brethren to protect what the world saw as monsters. The firefight ended with 27 dead mutants, 13 dead soldiers, and a USRC captain accepting the few of us left into the USRC. Our camp was scorched- fires raged and disease was potent, the hideous germs carried by the mutants causing a deadly illness. We packed up in a convoy and began to drive out to a USRC encampment in Texas- we were at that moment located in a small town in New Mexico. Along the way, we got hit by bandits. A group of 20 of them ambushed us, gunning down Jameson and his scum just as quickly as Jameson had killed his own people. The bandits rounded up the few of us left, and began executing the survivors. This was when a moment of clarity struck me- all my life I had been seen as a monster, a psychopath, a ***. But was I? I merely was the embodiment of the human spirit- a vengeful phantasm who used what be at hand. The warm movements inside my stomach flared to life, and a squirming began in my ribcage. A voice spoke to me, though from no visible speaker.
“Crane… you know our existence.. You know what must be done. We exist to serve the will of Man, and we shall.” I knew then i was mutated also- except instead of my physical appearance being altered, I harbored within me the future of humanity- a creature that shouldn't exist, but a creature that, together with I, would change man’s destiny. A parasite, perhaps. A creature born into this world from some cosmic dimension? It is a dreadful thought, but I do not disclaim its probability. I know only it is with me, and I am with it. Fire burst forth from fingertips at the bandits, brilliant spectacles of orange and red and yellow dancing in the dry dusk. And oh it was glorious. I felt the power rush through me, I felt my purpose in this harsh place we call Earth. I was destined to change it, and we would. And so we burned. We sought vengeance, building a vendetta against those who dared called themselves human and still yet committed acts of genocide. For almost 2 years I have done thus. I have wandered the wastes, selecting prey from unsuspecting bandits and USRC patrols, and putting at ease the souls of the wronged, and here I sit now in a great steel tower- the frame of an old world skyscraper. It was spectacular- the pinnacle of human achievement that pierced the heavens and showed our superiority to the world. But yet, i wonder, as I watch the dim, nighted sun in the horizon, were we ever superior? What power did we ever hold on this mortal realm?

Until next time, dear reader

Crane.

Threw together a quick Wasteland Story. First time experimenting with religious undertones in stories. I'm also a firm believer that just because a character is the protagonist does not mean he must be the good guy. Tell me what y'all think.

You blow my mind

[SrgtGreen]

Excited to see where this goes! Loving it Ceta.

[81Ceta_Deta]

Thanks lads. Anything I could improve on? These last few short stories have been crazy experiments with different writing styles and concepts

[WWIIboy]

Hey green I have a question. Does the ILC have any tanks at its disposal? like Abrams tanks used by the national guard before the bombs dropped or any captured tanks? I want to make a short story about an ILC tank crew.

[SrgtGreen]

Hey green I have a question. Does the ILC have any tanks at its disposal? like Abrams tanks used by the national guard before the bombs dropped or any captured tanks? I want to make a short story about an ILC tank crew.

You know that’s an interesting question. At one point I was going to make a comic about an ILC tank crew myself, but then I decided it would be better to focus on larger scale events, and my own character.

I would love to see you make a comic about an ILC tank crew. Tanks could have been captured, purchased, found or otherwise acquired in small numbers, although I haven’t yet explicitly stated this.

Who would this tank crew be fighting?

[WWIIboy]

Hey green I have a question. Does the ILC have any tanks at its disposal? like Abrams tanks used by the national guard before the bombs dropped or any captured tanks? I want to make a short story about an ILC tank crew.

You know that’s an interesting question. At one point I was going to make a comic about an ILC tank crew myself, but then I decided it would be better to focus on larger scale events, and my own character.

I would love to see you make a comic about an ILC tank crew. Tanks could have been captured, purchased, found or otherwise acquired in small numbers, although I haven’t yet explicitly stated this.

Who would this tank crew be fighting?

I'm not sure yet. It's been awhile since I've been on this site and the lore has probably grown a little bit. I'm sure I will find something that lines up with the lore.

[81Ceta_Deta]

Hey green I have a question. Does the ILC have any tanks at its disposal? like Abrams tanks used by the national guard before the bombs dropped or any captured tanks? I want to make a short story about an ILC tank crew.

You know that’s an interesting question. At one point I was going to make a comic about an ILC tank crew myself, but then I decided it would be better to focus on larger scale events, and my own character.

I would love to see you make a comic about an ILC tank crew. Tanks could have been captured, purchased, found or otherwise acquired in small numbers, although I haven’t yet explicitly stated this.

Who would this tank crew be fighting?

I'm not sure yet. It's been awhile since I've been on this site and the lore has probably grown a little bit. I'm sure I will find something that lines up with the lore.

Could do bandits. Highway patrolmen.

[WWIIboy]

You know that’s an interesting question. At one point I was going to make a comic about an ILC tank crew myself, but then I decided it would be better to focus on larger scale events, and my own character.

I would love to see you make a comic about an ILC tank crew. Tanks could have been captured, purchased, found or otherwise acquired in small numbers, although I haven’t yet explicitly stated this.

Who would this tank crew be fighting?

I'm not sure yet. It's been awhile since I've been on this site and the lore has probably grown a little bit. I'm sure I will find something that lines up with the lore.

Could do bandits. Highway patrolmen.

I'll use that then. Thanks for the idea.