The floor finally gave out. The concrete board had grown weak over time, cracking, and finally caving under the weight it once supported. It's creaks of protest had emptied into a resounding crash, pushing its contents out into the broken street. 

An iron lockbox, roughly the shape of a man lay amidst the the cloud of ash that had been stirred during it's decent. Around it was a number of bodies, some of which were adorned with Erubescan uniforms that hadn't been used for quite a few years, proud looking things that bore slashes of royal purple.

The rest were a mismatch of jury-rigged defense items typical of an Ashlander, and pieces from what looked like pre-war special forces armour. 

Whatever technology, power, or force of will that held them all in that room had finally broken. The lingering effects of their time in the house dissipated with a small hum, and the bodies dried into mummified corpses in a manner of seconds.

The lockbox itself aged tremendously, rust appeared on its joints like a sudden sickness, and the lock aged to a point where it could be easily broken.

It would take only a small amount of effort to open, but who would care to check inside of a box surrounded by the dried dead? The desperate perhaps, or maybe one who's curiosity stayed despite the harshness of wasteland survival.

Something within stirred.