07-15-2007, 07:17 AM
Well, seeing as I'm obsessed with post-apocalyptice nuclear fallout media, I thought I'd make a thread for my rantings.
To start it off! The begening of something? The end of it? Perhaps the middle? Will I finish it? Is it any good? I 'ono!
He stood at the crest of the ash covered hill, the grey snow fall fresh from the previous night, and turned his gaze to the eastern horizon. He was looking for movement, that of a truck specifically. They had recently heard from the drifters they passed on the riverbank that there were Reavers nearby. And that they had gasoline. Across the fields of gray there was nothing to be seen; the few houses this far off the main road had long since been torched by either Reavers or lightning, and their ruins dotted the otherwise sterile landscape. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and turned to see the man who stood behind him. His name was Jason; he wore a thick brown leather trench coat over jeans and a tattered brown T-shirt and stood proudly at his full 6 feet and 5 inches. Holding his rusted iron monkey wrench like a weapon, Jason was a hell of a man.
?You see anything?? inquired Jason as he stroked his unkempt dark brown beard, which matched his unkempt greasy hair perfectly.
?If there?s anything alive out there, I can?t see it.? He handed the canteen, an unmarked dull grey piece of salvage, to Jason. He drank as deeply as he dared before handing it back.
?Well Ben, we best get a move on anyway, we aren?t prepared for a raid in the night, chances are if it happens, they?ll know exactly where we are, and we won?t be able to see a thing.?
?I suppose you?re right?? replied Ben with an exhausted sigh. He ripped his makeshift facemask of red cloth off of his face, and proceeded to hastily drink the remainder of the water before tossing the empty container to a quizzical looking Jason.
They set off down the ashen hillside, tasting ash through their masks as their feet lifted it from the ground. Ben wore a pair of aviator goggles on him at all times, he didn?t like ash storms. He didn?t like them at all. As the duo marched westward at a steady pace they stood in stark contrast to one another. Though both bore wounds and scars from battles and trials past, Jason wore them like a crown, standing proudly, happy to just survive; Ben was a different matter entirely. Aged more than his 34 years, he had developed a defeated frown, his clothes fit loosely around him as he never allowed himself to feast, even in the rare occasions when food was near abundant, always being on the verge of death you could say he was ready for it. Despite the rather grim state of the world, Ben was the rarity and Jason the standard. Few could bring themselves to accept the world as it was as their life. They fought on, each morning they woke one day closer to death, but to them they were just one day closer to escaping this hell, to finding happiness. Those like Ben, those who saw what their life was to consist of, never kept the will to live for very long, and their kind was becoming increasingly harder to find. Then again, so was everybody.
To start it off! The begening of something? The end of it? Perhaps the middle? Will I finish it? Is it any good? I 'ono!
He stood at the crest of the ash covered hill, the grey snow fall fresh from the previous night, and turned his gaze to the eastern horizon. He was looking for movement, that of a truck specifically. They had recently heard from the drifters they passed on the riverbank that there were Reavers nearby. And that they had gasoline. Across the fields of gray there was nothing to be seen; the few houses this far off the main road had long since been torched by either Reavers or lightning, and their ruins dotted the otherwise sterile landscape. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and turned to see the man who stood behind him. His name was Jason; he wore a thick brown leather trench coat over jeans and a tattered brown T-shirt and stood proudly at his full 6 feet and 5 inches. Holding his rusted iron monkey wrench like a weapon, Jason was a hell of a man.
?You see anything?? inquired Jason as he stroked his unkempt dark brown beard, which matched his unkempt greasy hair perfectly.
?If there?s anything alive out there, I can?t see it.? He handed the canteen, an unmarked dull grey piece of salvage, to Jason. He drank as deeply as he dared before handing it back.
?Well Ben, we best get a move on anyway, we aren?t prepared for a raid in the night, chances are if it happens, they?ll know exactly where we are, and we won?t be able to see a thing.?
?I suppose you?re right?? replied Ben with an exhausted sigh. He ripped his makeshift facemask of red cloth off of his face, and proceeded to hastily drink the remainder of the water before tossing the empty container to a quizzical looking Jason.
They set off down the ashen hillside, tasting ash through their masks as their feet lifted it from the ground. Ben wore a pair of aviator goggles on him at all times, he didn?t like ash storms. He didn?t like them at all. As the duo marched westward at a steady pace they stood in stark contrast to one another. Though both bore wounds and scars from battles and trials past, Jason wore them like a crown, standing proudly, happy to just survive; Ben was a different matter entirely. Aged more than his 34 years, he had developed a defeated frown, his clothes fit loosely around him as he never allowed himself to feast, even in the rare occasions when food was near abundant, always being on the verge of death you could say he was ready for it. Despite the rather grim state of the world, Ben was the rarity and Jason the standard. Few could bring themselves to accept the world as it was as their life. They fought on, each morning they woke one day closer to death, but to them they were just one day closer to escaping this hell, to finding happiness. Those like Ben, those who saw what their life was to consist of, never kept the will to live for very long, and their kind was becoming increasingly harder to find. Then again, so was everybody.