Of Man

So, I finished this a few weeks ago, and it's been just sitting.

This is the beginning and the end of something, I'm not sure what yet. Maybe I'll flesh out a story in between. Maybe I'll start an RP. I dunno. Figured I may as well share it with some people. Feedback is welcomed, even if you hate it.

--------------------------------

He understood the feeling. A simple collection of biochemical reactions, occurring somewhere within the tightly packed folds of his brain matter. A natural process, no doubt, universally experienced at least once by all members of his species, Homo sapiens, blessed mankind. And yet, as well as he understood it, no pre-war science textbook could succeed in simplifying them, in fully rationalizing the vibrant range of emotions coursing through the inside of his skull, raising his heart and breathing rates to levels the medical texts labeled as unhealthy.

Intense fear was, of course, at this moment, the most powerful of these feelings.

Bullets crashed into the wall behind him, resulting in the explosion of the fuel he’d hoped to scavenge, and engulfing the room in a quick, bright flash. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, dulling the sensation from wounds under his leather jacket, and contributing to the nervous quake in his hands. He began to think. Maybe his initial assertion had been wrong. Maybe these feelings weren’t universal to the whole of mankind, but they were definitely universal to the residents of the urban wasteland, inhabitants of the most, again, according to the textbooks, uninhabitable terrain. He’d credit his survival to objects like these, obstacles which provided cover. Old metal desks forgotten by years of non-use, long discarded and displaced by the aftershock of several successive powerful explosions. They proved perfect for impeding the progress of hot bullets, the kinetic force of which was too low to penetrate thick wood and steel.
The hail of projectiles stopped for a moment, a reload that he knew would be awkward, made difficult by oversized hands, only providing him with a sufficient window of time, during which he could smother his fear and silence his enemy. Brown knuckles clenched around a sweat stained wood grip, he extended his body to its full proportions, rising from his desperate crouch behind the old piece of family furniture. The index finger worked fearful spasms, yanking on the trigger so that the combat shotgun barked four quick blasts, alternating lead shot and slugs, a devastating barrage, even from this distance. The two slugs and dozens of shot pellets made their journey gracefully, impacting the mutant’s skull and neck in ways expected, but no less discomforting. Lead met tight gray skin and underlying bone with a resounding crunch and a resulting splatter of stunted brain and stinking blood, the walls of the old apartment now decorated with a new abstract of reds, greys, and greens. The remaining body fell backward, crushing furniture and snow under dead weight.

Ask forgiveness. He did.

He stepped to the edge of the floor, mindful of the path he took as to not slip across the snow that had piled through the massive gap in the wall. It was as though a giant had simply reached down and tore the face of the building off, leaving many of the superior floors exposed to the elements. Snow floated in the air lazily, and though he hated the cold, he appreciated any rare form of precipitation that provided clean water. Back at home, he knew, bins sat about, waiting to collect usable amounts of the clean frozen water. With the chill stinging his face and open wounds, he decided. It was time to return.

The return trip down wasn’t hard; if anything, it was uneventful, with the building’s dozens of inhabitants having been dispatched hours earlier. He climbed into the elevator shaft, leapt onto the steel cords, and made his way down, half easing and half sliding, some thirty floors. The apartments seemed to have been stripped of anything useful; antibiotics were scarce, the fuel had gone to waste, and he’d consumed the painkillers not long ago. Addictions were little more than a pleasant distraction. He called it opiate roulette; self medicating had become a game of chance. The unmarked chemical tablets lent themselves to the dreamlike haze that covered his awareness and vision, worsened only by the semi-transparent white film of snow. Outside, he lit a cigarette.

They won’t make it. He agreed.

He exhaled, taking a moment to watch his breath become visible in the wicked air. Winter breathed back, persistent with the stinging wind that was funneled in through the skeletized metropolis. The City stood, even after it fell. Buildings rose to claw at the white ceiling above, rusted beams dark red as though stained by the blood of the once vibrant civilization. If the bombs, chemicals, and blights were to be considered a testament to the destructive power of man, then the buildings, he figured, served witness to the creative ability. He tugged off his gloves and fumbled about within the pockets of his jacket, retrieving a century-old city map. With the blue pen he drew an ‘X’ on his current position.

Within the hour, he’d trekked through the snow, and made it back for the report.

Between the cigarettes, the candles, and the oil lamps, the room was lit well enough. It contained light sufficient for dealings to be made across metal tables, on ash covered maps, with tumblers half-filled, and hands hovering hesitantly near pistols. “There’s nothing there.” He jabbed his finger into the fresh ‘X’, emphasizing his point with an exasperated sigh. The assertion was met with muted disagreement in the form of head shaking and uncomfortable shifting, but he pressed his point. “Well, not nothing. Top to bottom, the whole thing’s stripped of anything largely useful. Blasted furniture and NK’s forsaken monsters await, if you’d like me to be honest.”

The mention of the letters ‘NK’ sent a visible ripple through those gathered at the table, despite the fact that the name was on all minds at all times. The tension generated by historical actions was palpable; a tangible sheet that covered the fallen city, mirroring the blanket of snow. The ‘X’s meant failure and death. They signified spent shells and spilt blood. They embodied a struggle, and the Flotilla’s perpetual search.

***
They knew neither what they searched for, nor where they were going.

Nevertheless, they searched frequently.

The searches never seemed to yield anything. It was the same, no matter which site they visited. The city was dead, the continent was wiped, the world was stifled, man gagged, crushed under the weight of his own counter-intuitive schemes of advancement. What remained were the buildings and the busts, emblazoned with plaques of poetic passions that, amazingly enough, lauded and vilified man’s history. But history was contained in more than words and bronze molds. The rusted old aircraft carrier served witness to this fact, its broad metal surface streaked and marred with the wounds of many battles. Deep gouges ran within the metal of the landing strip, grooves that urged he look down and consider his own scarred and damaged hands.

Yes, he was tired.

But that had never stopped him before, had it? Still he stood, two legs and two arms, two eyes and eight fingers. He looked out at the black waters and considered, not for the first time, his death. At his own scarred hands. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the thought. Who on the Flotilla hadn’t? Slowly he turned again, allowing brown eyes to wander out to the rest of the fleet. The Flotilla had existed for upwards of one hundred years, comprised solely of some sixty-plus salvaged seafaring vessels.

The behemoth gave a gentle lurch and groan in response to the coaxing of the waters. The waters, black, save for where waves broke and revealed absurdly white caps, slapped at the side of the ship playfully, nudging and pulling it into submission. Another splash against the side, and the transporter responded with gentle rocking. The waves kicked. He had to stumble to steady himself.

It has been a long time. He didn’t seem to have a response.

Because that was new. That, he hadn’t heard before. That, he couldn’t react to, because they had asked nothing, and they suggested nothing. He ignored them. He was stronger than a word, an emotion, or a suggestion. He was more powerful than the winter’s biting winds and the circling hungry sharks. He was smarter than the monsters and the aberrations, and more conniving than the bullets and missiles. But he was tired, more so than the sun itself, which seemed to pick certain days to neglect whilst bathing others in essential beams. He was deathly tired, a weakness that showed only when he attempted to confront himself.

You won’t make it. This time, he agreed.

Aquatic ebon fingers rose against the hull, black and fragile, but infinite in number. The waves moved, but not to incite the bucking of the ship. They gestured, and this time he fully understood. He walked, slowly, traversing the delicate space that separated him from the edge. He trusted the waters. They were honest, easy to take at surface value, though the surface was indeed the only thing presented for observation. They were as he saw them, unlike the city. The skyline of the city was still in the distance, but it was false. The buildings, grandeur from where he now stood outside, were pathetic from where he had once stood, inside. But the waters had always seemed the same, from any vantage point.

Come. He did.

If the Flotilla embodied the resilience of man and the opportunistic drive of the human spirit, then the waters exploited the human, twisting his search for a consistent truth into a fatal naivety. He knew how to arm the explosives. He understood what would happen when they went off. He knew well what awaited when he flew from the edge. The vessel, his home, seemed to swell, impregnated suddenly in the midsection by a ripple that pushed outward, from nose to tail. Flame ripped the carrier down the middle, a white hot glowing line that demonstrated simple resignation. The ship detonated with a fury, before the crawling tendrils of flame and smoke were grasped and pulled deep down. The wrought steel of man had never been any match for the persistent strength of nature’s gentility and gravity. That, once more, proved true, though it required the assistance of man’s four exhausted fingers and a recovered detonator.

Bravo! It was definitely a worthwhile short read.

Thanks