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Rockette π£π¦π΅π΅π¦π³ π΅π©π’π― πΊπ°πΆ.
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0-24 hrs ago
________β________________________________________________________________________________________
Just one more. . .
One more step; one more shuffling tread against a desolate cold, toes rouged and bloodied, flesh scorn rough and pleading against frigid bone as they sunk, ankle-deep, into a bank of snow. Ice forged a rigid path along abused skin, veins sluggish in their endeavor and pallid hues drained of health and parlor and dead against a pale hued mound of slush that gave way under the slightest pressure. Exhales rattled against heaving lungs, a stack of ribs against ragged sacs of oxygen expanding full and fluttering upon wheezes and shuttering breaths of pain, exhaustion, and flagging pulls of warmth that failed to surface upon parted lips. Hooded gazes implored the heavens above to yield solace, redemption, a savor in the yearning for a ray of light to descend upon her in fiery tongues of heat and comfort. But only grey skies greeted pale steel, azure undertones swept under a carpet of silvery tones framed under capes of lashes, delicate sweeps of a butterfly's wing that rested against flaking cheeks of cold bitten skin, falling into surrender.
Just one more. . .
How long -- how much longer -- it was a mantra that pooled through ragged thoughts torn and ruined, each end scattered upon a paranoid consciousness that broke upon every flickering shadow banked upon the desolate world and haunted through a soul rigged to panic at the slightest approach of sound. How long had she been walking now? Minutes, hours, days and unto weeks? Time here held no grounds and it melded seamlessly against the horizon that hazed with both ebonies and greys into a muddled gradient of visual despair on what should've been a calming ambiance. However, the endless frost that swelled between the massive structures of mega-regions was anything but and protruding glaciers of obsidian rock often hindered her path, reflective like glass. She palmed over such an outcropping, slivers of black mercilessly gouged through her flesh, pricking her fingers and slicing beneath her nails, keratin easily conceding to the sharp reproach and assault of repetitive scarring and old wounds that had yet to heal. Miniscule lesions and violet blossoms decorated her from fingertips to wrist, lacing upward along delicate arms and slid around wounded elbows that fell against the rock, she winced, chapped lips peeling back over her teeth; small hisses floating against her throat raw and aching and sputtering into small whimpers as she hoisted over sheer faces of sediment with immense difficulty. It was if a tool had cleaved through these rigid boulders, scattering pebbles that tinked like shards of glass against her barren legs, shins knicked with red, scarlet tears and smudges of crimson ringed in harsh sapphires of bruises that constantly adorned her frozen skin.
She slid, slow and precariously against a sloping facet of the obsidian rises that felt queerly warm beneath the pain that seared her skin and the wind that howled and tore through her tresses, curtains of flaxen hair spilling across her brow and quivering shoulders as she hunched forward. Her fingers, though frigid and her bones aching terribly, curled along her arms and rubbed them vigorously for warmth. Her breath plumed white upon her pouted grimace and she curled inward against another onslaught of wind that sheered through gaps in the glaciers of rock and the fabric of her dress tainted in muddied snow and shorn, her skirts nearly shredded and where lace one decorated the hem, had long been used to bind the worst of her injuries. Browned and bloodied, now dried and flaking upon the once delicate fabric bound along her hands and feet and circling her left thigh where a long, horizontal cut had begun to fester. Red splotches surrounded her wound, signs of infection reining into place, and bearing incredible sensitivity when she applied the slightest pressure, once again checking her binding. Blood wept to the service, oozing in forth in squeamish display and causing her grimace against the onslaught of pain rolling through her nerves in flames of anguish. It was sharp and relentless, waning only when she rolled her weight away from her wounded leg and struggled to stand, favoring her left side and limping across banks of snow, fresh blood now left in her pitying wake.
She had previously been joined with a caravan, a meager group of six that piloted older, more archaic models of transport attached to sidecars and built upward with tarpaulin pulled taut around dangerous displays of metal that adorned the faces of their vehicles in both means of intimidation and defense. Pleading her way to join their travels had been achieved by pitiful eyes glossy in tears and painful innocence that shined beneath layers of steelish azure in those glassy depths, something that had been lost to many generations and lingered in only so few. Something that pinged in her voice and her plying bargaining and promises of being kept out of their endeavors had done something to the guide of their caravan, allowing her to bunk among them as a passenger and even as something as an ally. When her name had been told in relief tinged whispers, they had donned her in the moniker of Eve, allowing her name to something simplified and yet endearing in both acceptance and welcoming graces.
That had been nearly three weeks ago. They were dead now.
Or so, she came to in the conclusion of their sudden disappearance. She had been left behind, or they had been spirited away from the hotel by someone -- or something. They had only permitted a few days of rest and amplifying supplies and exchanging their wares and cargo in a city -- a name that eluded her memory, as her mind held little else save for paranoia, pain, and fear -- somewhere south of Cascadia. What little belongings she had possessed then, had been stolen along with their lives.
She, Evelina, knew little of navigation and only by the trickle of conversation between those that handled the steering of their direction and planned such upon roads labeled by both letters and numbers, had assumed that the California regions were somewhere below, if she only kept traveling south, escaping the north as a refugee sanctioned from The Agenda. Many plights and attempts through the SCS had left her without allowance and homage, her very utterance of calling even perplexing to those that had denied her requests for some form of charity through welfare. Either her parents [for she had to have some, didn't she?] had never registered her through the Social Credit System, or she was now what someone once labeled as a fluke, a glitch in the system that praised and boasted stability in the face of technology that was ever-expanding; dipping into means of mind, body, and soul. Flesh traded for integrated steels and plastic, warmth exchanged for unyielding cold, and blood a currency of conspiracy to youth and immortality of the rich.
Eveline gasped, a fresh bout of agony lancing from calf to thigh, her muscles bundling and coiling tight from the cold, her strength waning into a void. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the rumble of the road, never venturing towards but always keeping near, she avoided public transit and left the crossing asphalt to those with the means. Taut and unbearable, she fell, relinquishing herself to the snow for just a moment and then longer...
No. She had to keep going --
Something trilled in the distance, a sharp, rolling crescendo that pealed through the winds and slid around the obsidian rocks she had mounted previously. Eveline stilled in fear as the sound reached forth and mercilessly cinched its way around her heart, her fists curled against her breast and she nearly succumbed to from the nightmarish wail that followed suit.
They had spotted her.
Who they were though evaded even her knowledge, only that she had been running from them for so long. And she was so very tired.
Very tired indeed.
Evelina panned one lonely glance upon the breadth of her shoulder, peering through strands of tangled curls of ashen blonde, hoping against hope that the wind was merely jesting with her addled body and mind. That there weren't shadows dancing against her treads and hazing over the blood she had lost, fresh and so bright against the white of the snowfall. Metallic twinges suddenly coated her tongue and baited her breath in harsh, rapid pants of adrenaline that prompted her to bolt suddenly, a howl scattering among her thoughts, reigning forth from the pit of her despair and nightmares and sounding from a hellish maw of a red beast galloping after her very soul. She ran upon the slopes that led to the road, falling, scraping her bruised knees further, fresh rivets of crimson pooling upon her palms and nails cracked, sheered, bloodied and clawing desperately against rock that too peaked around the edges of her salvation. She could hear now, instead of wails of bloodlust and death, the heavy treads of those that chased her endlessly. Though how many now haunted her painful steps, she knew naught, only that if she were ever caught they'd snuff out her life that this world refused to acknowledge.
The past yielded such knowledge from the endless pain they bequeathed and forced upon her, the terrifying images and plagues of monsters that canted behind her eyelids and yowled for her flesh.
She cried, a pitying sound of relief, as the road came into view, obsidian slivers clinking down the banks, falling against boulders as she hoisted herself up on the edges and fell graciously to the asphalt upon the heels of her palms. Her knees followed once again and bore the impact of her weakened state as shrill whimpers boiled from her lips, bone sheering against her flesh as fresh tears broke from through her lashes, the edges crinkled in anguish against the sudden lance of heat that assaulted her frigid skin.
Just one more. . .
She rose upon a gulp of air, her ribs protesting, lungs aching, her body upon the verges of allowing an eternal rest -- it hurt so much. She spared only a fleeting glimpse into the void at her heels, panting, her chest heaving and then there: two men stalked her path, coming upon her like specters from her waking nightmare of this hellish reality.
Just one more. . .
With all the strength she had left, though little of it there was, she bolted down the road, eyes of grey and blue and pale misery shining upon her desperation and once more hoping against hope that the sounds of her pursuers were not as close as they suddenly appeared to be.
One more step; one more shuffling tread against a desolate cold, toes rouged and bloodied, flesh scorn rough and pleading against frigid bone as they sunk, ankle-deep, into a bank of snow. Ice forged a rigid path along abused skin, veins sluggish in their endeavor and pallid hues drained of health and parlor and dead against a pale hued mound of slush that gave way under the slightest pressure. Exhales rattled against heaving lungs, a stack of ribs against ragged sacs of oxygen expanding full and fluttering upon wheezes and shuttering breaths of pain, exhaustion, and flagging pulls of warmth that failed to surface upon parted lips. Hooded gazes implored the heavens above to yield solace, redemption, a savor in the yearning for a ray of light to descend upon her in fiery tongues of heat and comfort. But only grey skies greeted pale steel, azure undertones swept under a carpet of silvery tones framed under capes of lashes, delicate sweeps of a butterfly's wing that rested against flaking cheeks of cold bitten skin, falling into surrender.
Just one more. . .
How long -- how much longer -- it was a mantra that pooled through ragged thoughts torn and ruined, each end scattered upon a paranoid consciousness that broke upon every flickering shadow banked upon the desolate world and haunted through a soul rigged to panic at the slightest approach of sound. How long had she been walking now? Minutes, hours, days and unto weeks? Time here held no grounds and it melded seamlessly against the horizon that hazed with both ebonies and greys into a muddled gradient of visual despair on what should've been a calming ambiance. However, the endless frost that swelled between the massive structures of mega-regions was anything but and protruding glaciers of obsidian rock often hindered her path, reflective like glass. She palmed over such an outcropping, slivers of black mercilessly gouged through her flesh, pricking her fingers and slicing beneath her nails, keratin easily conceding to the sharp reproach and assault of repetitive scarring and old wounds that had yet to heal. Miniscule lesions and violet blossoms decorated her from fingertips to wrist, lacing upward along delicate arms and slid around wounded elbows that fell against the rock, she winced, chapped lips peeling back over her teeth; small hisses floating against her throat raw and aching and sputtering into small whimpers as she hoisted over sheer faces of sediment with immense difficulty. It was if a tool had cleaved through these rigid boulders, scattering pebbles that tinked like shards of glass against her barren legs, shins knicked with red, scarlet tears and smudges of crimson ringed in harsh sapphires of bruises that constantly adorned her frozen skin.
She slid, slow and precariously against a sloping facet of the obsidian rises that felt queerly warm beneath the pain that seared her skin and the wind that howled and tore through her tresses, curtains of flaxen hair spilling across her brow and quivering shoulders as she hunched forward. Her fingers, though frigid and her bones aching terribly, curled along her arms and rubbed them vigorously for warmth. Her breath plumed white upon her pouted grimace and she curled inward against another onslaught of wind that sheered through gaps in the glaciers of rock and the fabric of her dress tainted in muddied snow and shorn, her skirts nearly shredded and where lace one decorated the hem, had long been used to bind the worst of her injuries. Browned and bloodied, now dried and flaking upon the once delicate fabric bound along her hands and feet and circling her left thigh where a long, horizontal cut had begun to fester. Red splotches surrounded her wound, signs of infection reining into place, and bearing incredible sensitivity when she applied the slightest pressure, once again checking her binding. Blood wept to the service, oozing in forth in squeamish display and causing her grimace against the onslaught of pain rolling through her nerves in flames of anguish. It was sharp and relentless, waning only when she rolled her weight away from her wounded leg and struggled to stand, favoring her left side and limping across banks of snow, fresh blood now left in her pitying wake.
She had previously been joined with a caravan, a meager group of six that piloted older, more archaic models of transport attached to sidecars and built upward with tarpaulin pulled taut around dangerous displays of metal that adorned the faces of their vehicles in both means of intimidation and defense. Pleading her way to join their travels had been achieved by pitiful eyes glossy in tears and painful innocence that shined beneath layers of steelish azure in those glassy depths, something that had been lost to many generations and lingered in only so few. Something that pinged in her voice and her plying bargaining and promises of being kept out of their endeavors had done something to the guide of their caravan, allowing her to bunk among them as a passenger and even as something as an ally. When her name had been told in relief tinged whispers, they had donned her in the moniker of Eve, allowing her name to something simplified and yet endearing in both acceptance and welcoming graces.
That had been nearly three weeks ago. They were dead now.
Or so, she came to in the conclusion of their sudden disappearance. She had been left behind, or they had been spirited away from the hotel by someone -- or something. They had only permitted a few days of rest and amplifying supplies and exchanging their wares and cargo in a city -- a name that eluded her memory, as her mind held little else save for paranoia, pain, and fear -- somewhere south of Cascadia. What little belongings she had possessed then, had been stolen along with their lives.
She, Evelina, knew little of navigation and only by the trickle of conversation between those that handled the steering of their direction and planned such upon roads labeled by both letters and numbers, had assumed that the California regions were somewhere below, if she only kept traveling south, escaping the north as a refugee sanctioned from The Agenda. Many plights and attempts through the SCS had left her without allowance and homage, her very utterance of calling even perplexing to those that had denied her requests for some form of charity through welfare. Either her parents [for she had to have some, didn't she?] had never registered her through the Social Credit System, or she was now what someone once labeled as a fluke, a glitch in the system that praised and boasted stability in the face of technology that was ever-expanding; dipping into means of mind, body, and soul. Flesh traded for integrated steels and plastic, warmth exchanged for unyielding cold, and blood a currency of conspiracy to youth and immortality of the rich.
Eveline gasped, a fresh bout of agony lancing from calf to thigh, her muscles bundling and coiling tight from the cold, her strength waning into a void. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the rumble of the road, never venturing towards but always keeping near, she avoided public transit and left the crossing asphalt to those with the means. Taut and unbearable, she fell, relinquishing herself to the snow for just a moment and then longer...
No. She had to keep going --
Something trilled in the distance, a sharp, rolling crescendo that pealed through the winds and slid around the obsidian rocks she had mounted previously. Eveline stilled in fear as the sound reached forth and mercilessly cinched its way around her heart, her fists curled against her breast and she nearly succumbed to from the nightmarish wail that followed suit.
They had spotted her.
Who they were though evaded even her knowledge, only that she had been running from them for so long. And she was so very tired.
Very tired indeed.
Evelina panned one lonely glance upon the breadth of her shoulder, peering through strands of tangled curls of ashen blonde, hoping against hope that the wind was merely jesting with her addled body and mind. That there weren't shadows dancing against her treads and hazing over the blood she had lost, fresh and so bright against the white of the snowfall. Metallic twinges suddenly coated her tongue and baited her breath in harsh, rapid pants of adrenaline that prompted her to bolt suddenly, a howl scattering among her thoughts, reigning forth from the pit of her despair and nightmares and sounding from a hellish maw of a red beast galloping after her very soul. She ran upon the slopes that led to the road, falling, scraping her bruised knees further, fresh rivets of crimson pooling upon her palms and nails cracked, sheered, bloodied and clawing desperately against rock that too peaked around the edges of her salvation. She could hear now, instead of wails of bloodlust and death, the heavy treads of those that chased her endlessly. Though how many now haunted her painful steps, she knew naught, only that if she were ever caught they'd snuff out her life that this world refused to acknowledge.
The past yielded such knowledge from the endless pain they bequeathed and forced upon her, the terrifying images and plagues of monsters that canted behind her eyelids and yowled for her flesh.
She cried, a pitying sound of relief, as the road came into view, obsidian slivers clinking down the banks, falling against boulders as she hoisted herself up on the edges and fell graciously to the asphalt upon the heels of her palms. Her knees followed once again and bore the impact of her weakened state as shrill whimpers boiled from her lips, bone sheering against her flesh as fresh tears broke from through her lashes, the edges crinkled in anguish against the sudden lance of heat that assaulted her frigid skin.
Just one more. . .
She rose upon a gulp of air, her ribs protesting, lungs aching, her body upon the verges of allowing an eternal rest -- it hurt so much. She spared only a fleeting glimpse into the void at her heels, panting, her chest heaving and then there: two men stalked her path, coming upon her like specters from her waking nightmare of this hellish reality.
Just one more. . .
With all the strength she had left, though little of it there was, she bolted down the road, eyes of grey and blue and pale misery shining upon her desperation and once more hoping against hope that the sounds of her pursuers were not as close as they suddenly appeared to be.
________________________________________________________________________________________ββ________
Reactionary
Member
Seen
3 yrs ago
________β________________________________________________________________________________________
It sang the Song of Engines. That marvelous machine, explosive and furious, roaring and screaming throughout the vast emptiness of the wilderness, yet muffled by frigid white and stale Death. The murmuring, the vibration, the power; all of it was the opium of his being; an instrument of endless strife and spiteful conflict. The engine and its shell was plated and protected from the outside forces of the world and of Man. Dents, textures, and chains clad its tires capable of Omnitraversal. Suspension, structure, and drive assured the man behind the wheel guaranteed passage wherever his eyes rested. A myriad of horses, lustful gas, and heavy feet surely conquered any distance and competition with mocking velocity and precision. Superior exhausts, hardened exoskeleton, and a hive of gadgets and modifications made his second nature a unique endeavor, a sight not forgotten, a haunting memory forever pestering the enemies of that intimidating Engine. It had been the tip of his supremacy on the roads of the desolate memory of a once great Nation. Scavengers, outcasts, rejects, and other vermin knew the sound of his approach wherever they found themselves. If he decorated their nightmares, it would have been to no surprise.
He had come out of Cascadia. The north-western most mega-region was unlike any other. Of all the places in this New World, the region bordering the Alaskan cold seemed optimal for permanent residence. Yet, this was not his destiny for the time being. The driver of that splendid Engine was a courier. His task was to deliver message and packages of sensitive nature across the country. It was information that could not fall into the hands of criminals and degenerates. The clients handsomely rewarded those who had chosen this utmost dangerous profession. It was a line of work that demanded discretion, anonymity, and precision. The driver had since long abandoned many of the conventional securities and interactions of social life. He had never been able to amply express how far disconnected from worldly things his being had become over the past years. Sorrow and vengeance clouded his sense of direction and empathy for the next of kin on the street. Past faults, injustices, and futile rage had created for the driver a new existence in which he would for all eternity suffer sinister remorse. Now, the only focus was upon the task at hand. Each successful delivery granted him a further step into the Light of things. Information, hidden knowledge, and mechanical power were his favored currencies. These were the typical thoughts of the road. Hours upon hours of nothing else but the mind to take decrepit pleasure in. Fortunately, such would not be the case this day. After nourishing the Engine at Snoqualmie Summit, heading down the nine-zero-six, the driver came upon a bizarre display. It was not the first time he had witnessed such a scenario.
Bereft shadows pursued a pale stranger. Dark stone and deep pine towered their descent along the white road. The engine blazed past the spectacle, a seemingly staged appearance to deceive the mind, and carried no intention of offering halt or respite. Too many times had the wretched roads of the wilderness attempted such trickery only to fling crude contraptions and rusty bullets in attempted robbery. The driver knew well enough not to bother, yet doubt forcefully burrowed itself into his steady pulse. What if⦠the question asked. Those individuals upon this road were an uneven fit, a distasteful stain, a mismatch worthy of recognition. The pale stranger seemed far too meek, fragile, and pure to ever find herself in such a predicament. The shadows, or men, heavily augmented in their spastic motion, uncomfortable for the naked eye to rest upon, present yet distant, were unlike anything the driver had seen before. A faint distortion surrounded their being, tearing at their silhouettes, blending with the terrain behind them. The details were obscure. He could only register so much in the split second that the Engine passed them. The latent decision to offer relief came at a cryptic price. The female in duress reminded him of those dearly who had been part of his life in the distant past. She was a mysterious blend of them all, an enticing combination that assaulted his inner most empathetic core. He cursed beneath his breath as determination came upon him.
The Engine halted dead in its tracks. Long, dark slid marks dusted clean the frigid asphalt. He would regret this decision at some point, the driver thought to himself. The man reached across the gear and panels of the cabin to unlock and open the passenger door. His composure remained steady, on a set course, unmoved by the hurricane of the void chasing what he assumed to be innocent prey. The driver motioned out of the enclosed armor of the Engine and retrieved an extensive rail, firing mechanism, and scope from a series of attachments in the exoskeleton interior. The assembly was rapid. The man had performed these actions many times before. The protective hood of the Engine became to be the bedrock upon which the man would make stable his aim. Heat from the still scorching metal dissuaded the falling white crystals to ever take root. The weapon was firmly embraced by a set of augmented arms, obsidian void in their texture, shining gold in their accentuations. The pale stranger was the first apparition to appear within his esoteric view of the world through the scope of the rifle. The shadowy predators soon followed. The clutch of the trigger was amply balanced between weight and speed, as one would suspect from something mechanical. The explosion of the large caliber bullet exiting the comprehensive rail was loud, echoing far and wide between the murky forests and silent mountains. The force of moving air around the shot whizzing through space and time was strong and close enough to shock the pale stranger in her path. It impacted the predatory shadow nearly at pouncing distance from the girl. Crimson liquid violently burst out of his chest as a gaping hole revealed crushed organs and bone. The horrifying chain of events gave the other shadow a surge of hesitation. The man slowed down in his pace, seemingly staring right at the driver, and then made the decision to retreat into the dank tree line not an armβs length away from the edge of the road.
The driver disassembled the rifle with haste and accuracy. By the time that the pale stranger reached the open passenger door, the man was ready in his seat to liberate them both from these unpleasant set of events. She seemed young, lost, and in great anguish. Picking up walkers, if one could call this alien figure any such thing, was not one of the driverβs usual habits, to say the least. The roads of this gruesome world were not to be trusted at any turn. Someone who claimed to be an ally one day, was the enemy the very next. Other horror stories were frequently whispered among patrons of state sanctioned havens across the country. They were tales of rampant torture, cannibalism, and men turning to their most fundamental primal instincts. No, the roads were not to be welcomed akin to an old friend visiting from afar. Nevertheless, the driver had witnessed enough atrocities and undecipherable circumstances to know when something could not be categorized as such. This girl, whoever she would claim to be or attempt to do, was not a threat to him. From somewhere across the vast abyss of departed souls or in the lost and confused consciousness of those yet remaining, his wife and daughter sang reassuring tones that resonated well with his steadfast pulse. If they would have been in the Engine with him, they would never have hesitated about the pale stranger as he did.
The Engine thundered to life at his command. The aggressive tires gripped the road akin to abductors clinging on to their victims. Yet, the armored cabin, in which the now two travelers sat, remained perfectly steady and unmoved by the dents and cracks of the road. The driver had glanced over the pale stranger upon her initial entry, but ever since that moment his gaze had remained on the horizon ahead. Everything she had seemed to be during the miniscule window of inspection while passing the attempted hostility was unlawfully amplified. The girl appeared much younger, much paler, and infinitely more disturbed and torn. The terrain of the wilderness had not been kind to the poor stranger. The driver reached for a small medical kit in the back seat and handed it to herβwhatever disinfectant, needle, and bandages needed could be found within it. There was no time to stop. There was no place to stop for the purpose of comfort. The driver had made a lot of noise with that rifle. Whatever and whoever within a vast distance could have heard it. The only priority was to get away, and fast. Regardless of her silence or inquiries, the man did not speak a single word before a specific issue came to mind.
βDo you have a phone?β His gruff, hoarse, and nearly crumbling voice uttered. Talking was not something he engaged in very much these days.
He had come out of Cascadia. The north-western most mega-region was unlike any other. Of all the places in this New World, the region bordering the Alaskan cold seemed optimal for permanent residence. Yet, this was not his destiny for the time being. The driver of that splendid Engine was a courier. His task was to deliver message and packages of sensitive nature across the country. It was information that could not fall into the hands of criminals and degenerates. The clients handsomely rewarded those who had chosen this utmost dangerous profession. It was a line of work that demanded discretion, anonymity, and precision. The driver had since long abandoned many of the conventional securities and interactions of social life. He had never been able to amply express how far disconnected from worldly things his being had become over the past years. Sorrow and vengeance clouded his sense of direction and empathy for the next of kin on the street. Past faults, injustices, and futile rage had created for the driver a new existence in which he would for all eternity suffer sinister remorse. Now, the only focus was upon the task at hand. Each successful delivery granted him a further step into the Light of things. Information, hidden knowledge, and mechanical power were his favored currencies. These were the typical thoughts of the road. Hours upon hours of nothing else but the mind to take decrepit pleasure in. Fortunately, such would not be the case this day. After nourishing the Engine at Snoqualmie Summit, heading down the nine-zero-six, the driver came upon a bizarre display. It was not the first time he had witnessed such a scenario.
Bereft shadows pursued a pale stranger. Dark stone and deep pine towered their descent along the white road. The engine blazed past the spectacle, a seemingly staged appearance to deceive the mind, and carried no intention of offering halt or respite. Too many times had the wretched roads of the wilderness attempted such trickery only to fling crude contraptions and rusty bullets in attempted robbery. The driver knew well enough not to bother, yet doubt forcefully burrowed itself into his steady pulse. What if⦠the question asked. Those individuals upon this road were an uneven fit, a distasteful stain, a mismatch worthy of recognition. The pale stranger seemed far too meek, fragile, and pure to ever find herself in such a predicament. The shadows, or men, heavily augmented in their spastic motion, uncomfortable for the naked eye to rest upon, present yet distant, were unlike anything the driver had seen before. A faint distortion surrounded their being, tearing at their silhouettes, blending with the terrain behind them. The details were obscure. He could only register so much in the split second that the Engine passed them. The latent decision to offer relief came at a cryptic price. The female in duress reminded him of those dearly who had been part of his life in the distant past. She was a mysterious blend of them all, an enticing combination that assaulted his inner most empathetic core. He cursed beneath his breath as determination came upon him.
The Engine halted dead in its tracks. Long, dark slid marks dusted clean the frigid asphalt. He would regret this decision at some point, the driver thought to himself. The man reached across the gear and panels of the cabin to unlock and open the passenger door. His composure remained steady, on a set course, unmoved by the hurricane of the void chasing what he assumed to be innocent prey. The driver motioned out of the enclosed armor of the Engine and retrieved an extensive rail, firing mechanism, and scope from a series of attachments in the exoskeleton interior. The assembly was rapid. The man had performed these actions many times before. The protective hood of the Engine became to be the bedrock upon which the man would make stable his aim. Heat from the still scorching metal dissuaded the falling white crystals to ever take root. The weapon was firmly embraced by a set of augmented arms, obsidian void in their texture, shining gold in their accentuations. The pale stranger was the first apparition to appear within his esoteric view of the world through the scope of the rifle. The shadowy predators soon followed. The clutch of the trigger was amply balanced between weight and speed, as one would suspect from something mechanical. The explosion of the large caliber bullet exiting the comprehensive rail was loud, echoing far and wide between the murky forests and silent mountains. The force of moving air around the shot whizzing through space and time was strong and close enough to shock the pale stranger in her path. It impacted the predatory shadow nearly at pouncing distance from the girl. Crimson liquid violently burst out of his chest as a gaping hole revealed crushed organs and bone. The horrifying chain of events gave the other shadow a surge of hesitation. The man slowed down in his pace, seemingly staring right at the driver, and then made the decision to retreat into the dank tree line not an armβs length away from the edge of the road.
The driver disassembled the rifle with haste and accuracy. By the time that the pale stranger reached the open passenger door, the man was ready in his seat to liberate them both from these unpleasant set of events. She seemed young, lost, and in great anguish. Picking up walkers, if one could call this alien figure any such thing, was not one of the driverβs usual habits, to say the least. The roads of this gruesome world were not to be trusted at any turn. Someone who claimed to be an ally one day, was the enemy the very next. Other horror stories were frequently whispered among patrons of state sanctioned havens across the country. They were tales of rampant torture, cannibalism, and men turning to their most fundamental primal instincts. No, the roads were not to be welcomed akin to an old friend visiting from afar. Nevertheless, the driver had witnessed enough atrocities and undecipherable circumstances to know when something could not be categorized as such. This girl, whoever she would claim to be or attempt to do, was not a threat to him. From somewhere across the vast abyss of departed souls or in the lost and confused consciousness of those yet remaining, his wife and daughter sang reassuring tones that resonated well with his steadfast pulse. If they would have been in the Engine with him, they would never have hesitated about the pale stranger as he did.
The Engine thundered to life at his command. The aggressive tires gripped the road akin to abductors clinging on to their victims. Yet, the armored cabin, in which the now two travelers sat, remained perfectly steady and unmoved by the dents and cracks of the road. The driver had glanced over the pale stranger upon her initial entry, but ever since that moment his gaze had remained on the horizon ahead. Everything she had seemed to be during the miniscule window of inspection while passing the attempted hostility was unlawfully amplified. The girl appeared much younger, much paler, and infinitely more disturbed and torn. The terrain of the wilderness had not been kind to the poor stranger. The driver reached for a small medical kit in the back seat and handed it to herβwhatever disinfectant, needle, and bandages needed could be found within it. There was no time to stop. There was no place to stop for the purpose of comfort. The driver had made a lot of noise with that rifle. Whatever and whoever within a vast distance could have heard it. The only priority was to get away, and fast. Regardless of her silence or inquiries, the man did not speak a single word before a specific issue came to mind.
βDo you have a phone?β His gruff, hoarse, and nearly crumbling voice uttered. Talking was not something he engaged in very much these days.
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