[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/VjghfrA.jpg?1[/img]

[color=#5F755E][h2]Sasha Belov[/h2][/color][/center]


The sun beat down on him mercilessly, turning his skin into dry leather. Cracked, bleeding, peeling. Three days ago, the sun would have felt good on his skin. He had been deprived of it for so long...but he never got the chance to enjoy it. 

His boots crunched on the sandy ground beneath him. The world around him was barren. There were chunks of what was once civilization everywhere, but none of it could provide shelter for him from the unforgiving sun. He couldn't stop anyway.

For three days he had walked. His body was failing him. He was weak; his legs trembling. He managed to hold himself up with a sturdy branch he'd picked up to use as a cane. His lips were dry and cracked, flaky blood was the only color left. A canteen hung at his side, the last drops of precious water drained just hours ago. It wasn't nearly enough.

His skin was raw and exposed; his body showing signs of torture. The large man wore an old pair of army pants, flecked with blood. Some was his, some wasn't. His boots had been left on him, by some small grace. But his torso was bare. His pale flesh was cut and open in several places, what looked like small to medium burns covering his back. His eyes were both swollen, his face purple and yellow from bruising. The ends of his fingers were bloody, and thick chains hung from his wrists and ankles, the links warped from the effort it took to break them.  It was clear that his injuries had been intentionally inflicted, and obviously not by himself. 

The man pushed himself onward despite his body urging him to stop and rest. The occasional coughing episode would slow him down enough to hack up phlem and blood. The top everything off, the toxic air was making him sick. It slowed him down, but it didn't stop him. He couldn't stop. He had to get to the bunker, so that he could warn the survivors. He couldn't let what had happened to his people happen to them as well.
 
He knew he was close as he began to enter what looked like a fallen town. The buildings were in ruins, and the concrete that had once been streets and sidewalks bore large cracks and holes. He was close. The man only had to push himself a little further before the Bunker came into sight. He had made it.

People were slowly spilling out, muttling around and exploring. The large man leaned on his walking stick and weakly waved one arm. 

"Hey!" He called out, trying to get someone's attention. His voice wasn't nearly as loud as he wanted it to be. It was hoarse and gravely, his tongue thick from dehydration.