(Quick OOC blurb: There is nothing but the Post-Apocalyptic. I once saw an old sandwich-board sign outside a library that read: Post Apocalyptic Fiction has been moved to Current Events. With the state of the world, and the hate that we manifest daily toward each-other, nothing else feels honest. I don't really care if anyone else posts here, or not. If nobody else does, it would likely add to the realism of the thing. Whatever it is. If someone does, don't come crawling to me if my character hides from you, ignores you, lets you pass by and then never ever again interacts with you, tries to kill you, robs you, or leaves you for dead. Also don't come bitchin' and moanin' at me if you don't like the freeform style with which I post. I didn't ask you. Also don't ask me if you can or can't do this, or that. If you're here, do what you like. It's not my world, I just exist in it.)

Fuck this pencil. Short as my thumbnail, and I chew that fucker, too.

Fuck this book too. pages dry as sand, half a them crumble afore I ever get a chance to sully them with my nonsense.
Nonsense.

Hungry today. Can taste blood in my mouth from where I bit at my cracked lips.

One foot infrontof the other. Next, and next, and then one more. Because I'm too damn stubborn to stop. Not because I have someplace special to go. and cuz stopping means I might likely never get started again.

If I just laid down right here, who would care? Never opened my eyes again, that'd be just fine.
But no.
Not here.
This would be a shit place to die.
Busted up street lamp on one side, ground covered in glass and crumbled brick, burnt out car on t'other side.
Honda. Not even a cool car. Nope. Not here. I lie down to die, I want it to be beside some fuckin' cool car, and have some fuckin' grass under my ass.

The hunger sucks. Makes every moment about finding something to suff in my mouth. Dulls all the other senses that you need to keep from getting dead. And there are way worse ways to go out here than just deciding to lay down under a busted-ass lamp-post on a bed of broken glass.

Wild dogs. That would suck. Cannies. That would really suck. Infection would be bad, too. Anything that resulted in a fever and delirium. Had to look up how to spell that shitty word. Weird the shit I don't care if I spell wrong, vs. the shit I can't remember how to spell, and drives me nuts to not know. Like 'delirium' or 'calcium' or 'arthritis.' I always want to spell it 'Arthur-ites.'

Cuz I'm a dumb motherfucker.

Goddamn it. Stone in my shoe.

Day... what the hell day is this? I only found this book (titled 'Travel Diary' and with the name Ashley Goldman inside the cover) a few days ago, and I haven't felt the need to keep track of days in forever.

It's definitely not a weekend. I seem to recall weekends are supposed to be set aside for fun, and family.

It feels like a Wednesday. Yup We're gonna say it's Wednesday. Day number... well, lessee. I'm what -- thirty five? Thirty six? Three hundred sixty five days in a year. Near twenty years since skydark... guess I should start counting from then. Twenty years of 365 days... seven thousand days, give or take.

Day 7000. Wednesday.

Who fuckin' cares. Ain't nobody ever gonna read this, or make sense of it anyhow.
Killed a cat today. Ate some, saved some.
Found a can. Sealed. Not ballooned-up like most you find. Could be peaches. Likely lima beans.

My right boot has a hole in the toe. Need to see to that.

Friday. Found a dog today. Too late. Scavs had found him first. Not much left. Couldn't bring myself to eat what was left, even though I was so hungry I could have. I almost...

Not much that separates me from them. The ones that killed the dog. But there's some things I can't do.

List of things I can't do.

eat a dog.
kill for no reason.

that's... that's about it. And let me be clear. I don't need much of a reason. But I do need one. That list is much longer.

caught them stealing from me.
tried to kill me / attack me.
found them scavv'ing / cannie'ing / slave'ing.
got something I need. (don't love this, but it's a dog-eat-dog world. pardon the pun.)
squared up against me. (that one's not for sure, but posturing often leads to an attack.)
followed me. (see above. leads to an attack. following means they want something from me. something I don't want to give.)

What that means is, there's no trust. Nobody. Everybody wants what you got.

10 years, I had been stuck in prison. Then it happened. The apocalypse. I was free. And oh, the sounds of screams filled the air. But I survived. Because I’m not afraid of killing someone. “Hmph. Sun is going down…” I say aloud to myself. Fuck. I should find shelter. But just in case, I pull out my knife. Just in case there’s a bitch somewhere nearby.

I've always got a book on the go. They're easy to find, but most are in 'use me as fuel for the fire' condition. Half-burnt already, or mouldy, or damp with age, swelled and shrunk, crispy, stiff, stuck-together pages, covers missing, impossible to use as-intended. Finding the good ones, is a job for the determined. Currently I'm reading 'the Stand.' King had a lot right, in the first half of the book.

I'll bet more people die from simple slips and falls, or untreated head injuries, than from Raiders or Scavv'ers, or Slavers. The impermanence of life is drawn into stark black and white in this place, in this time. I was reminded of exactly that this morning, when I approached a house, on full alert, weapon drawn, and stepped onto the porch -- trusting that 20th C engineering would be in tip-top shape, twenty years after the Fall, only to have the wood crumble under me like it was made at the beach, like a fucking sand castle. (remember the beach? Remember when people went and wore stupid costumes, swam for fun, took pic-a-nics... ?) Anyways, got a nail in my boot, a quarter inch from my skin, rusty as the day is long.

Woulda killed me, for sure. Not quick, I don't know how long it takes tetanus to kill... maybe a couple weeks? ...but there's no tetanus shots to be had. Not anymore.

Pulled it out, carried on.

King had a lot wrong though. Second half of the book is complete shite. There's no big battle 'tween good and evil. That shit is for books. Ain't no good here. "God" left a long time ago.

There wasn't even anything in the goddamn house. I woulda died for nothing.

Found something today. Fuckin' root beer. A can of it.
....
....
....
....
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Spent a damn hour drinking that som'bitch.

Day ???

I'm sick. Flu, maybe? Maybe just a head-cold. Disoriented. Fever. Chills. Coughing. I checked to see if I had any cuts or injuries. Nothing. Took the last of my ibuprofen yesterday. The problem is finding a place to hole up that isn't infested with mold, or rats, or rot, or damp, or cold. Most 'shelter' is just a wind-break from the open. Old homes are fine for exploration, for looting (if there's anything that ain't already been taken...) but staying? Staying a night? Many nights? That is rare, now. When I was a kid, sure. But those days are long gone.

People built houses with the notion that there would be power, and heat, keeping them viable. Without that, it's astonishing how fast the old world fell. But sick like this, I can't just camp out under the stars. I wouldn't make it. Exposure. Weakness. Wild animals. I need a place I can disappear for a few days. This is a truly dangerous time for survivors.

I read once (or maybe somebody told me, and I believed them, doesn't matter) that humanity, such as it was back before, only became a 'society' when we started caring for our sick. When we stopped just leaving them behind, to live or die. When we were secure enough to take the time to nurse someone back to health.

I could use some-a that right abouts now.

*six hours later*

goddamn pencil. gotta find me a new one.

Found a garage. roof hadn't caved in. Roll-up door was still in place, covered in weeds and vine. I climbed in a window. soaked my wood in something that seemed flammable. Now I'm hunkered down in some sort of service trough, under an old truck, out of sight, but warm, with firewood to spare, and a roof over my head. I checked. Can't see nothin' from outside. laid some boards against the one window. Hope it's enough. I got no strength left. Gotta sleep.

Stupid, dumb luck. Sometime, the world works in weird ways. Didn't know I needed this, but apparently I did.

Was in a home, searching (as ever) for the things that sustain life, in a world perpetually bent on killing you. Found a somehow-nearly-untouched kids' room, and there was a plastic model, started, but unfinished, on the kid's desk. Glue was still viable.

So, here I am, sitting in the kid's red desk chair, gluing spark plug wires. Who knew that building a '56 Bel Air would make me feel so normal, for a few hours? I think I'll leave it on the kid's desk.

Too bad, all the paint is dried out.

Another city. Cars abandoned. Boarded up windows. No people.

My feet are sore. Always.

Hate the silence. Hate the sounds of rats scurrying away even more.

I gave up on shoes a long time ago. Probably after the soles on the fifth pair of boots completely gave out. My feet are gnarled and numb; always cold. You should try feeling the ground between your feet. Keeping them unscathed is relatively simple, just keep your wits about you.

The dog scampered out from behind a pile of rubble. It had been following me for a few weeks now since I'd given it some inedible rusks. It was nice to have something alive even if the mutt looked more dead than alive. I'm sure I'm no better.

We were only ever animals anyway. Only hubris makes you think you're actually something more.

Grandiose comforts were a thing long forgotten, I've learnt how to revel in squalor. Now even a small fire is a luxury. And forget about sleeping on something soft. The ground is a perfectly suitable bed.

I've trekked through many cities. Sometimes I even loot some of the houses and find something yummy left behind. Rarely. This metropolis was different, there were boot tracks in the ash that lined the streets. There were people here. I'll have to keep an eye out.

I walk the streets with the confidence of a man with nothing to take but my life, and at this point that wasn't much to take.

Tired

Exhausted

Why go on?

The days seem endless, like the emptiness ahead.

The city is full. Abandoned cars. Forsaken buildings. Unoccupied houses. But everything is empty.

Maybe the rats are not so bad.

I was on the way from noplace to somewhere, fences long toppled, signs mostly illegible (or is it ineligable? I can't ever really remember) due to grafitti, rust, chem storms and acid rain. Having a paper map these days is a crap-shoot of guesswork. If you're originally from the area, maybe you have hand-me-down knowledge that this stretch of unremarkable black-top was once Highway 95. Or that the big, burnt-out church is at the corner of Pine and Queen streets. But more often than not, travelling through noplace, heading doggedly for the horizon, the towns are nameless, the street signs long gone.

But like I said. I was on my way from noplace to nowhere. And I found a trail. Coulda been an animal track, something cut into the brush by scavvers or traders. But nope. There, beside the trail-head as plain as you like, a sign board, letters burned into two planks, naming this place the Haldimand rail hiking trail.

I had to laugh. 'Hiking.' For people without a hundred ways to die in a given moment, pointless activities whose goal was exercise and bringing folks closer to nature, in a time when all of that was optional.

Fuckin' Yuppies.

My eyes crack open and light peeks in through the window. I rub my face before I yawn and feel the tiredness in every bone, every muscle.

The calendar on the wall has been unturned for years and I shake my head at the memory. What was the reason?

Calendars. Clocks. Every device we used to use.

Time.

The concept seems so foreign now, archaic even. Now there is only the past, the future and whatever shit this day brings. I'm not even sure there is a future. Seasons might be the only thing that matter. Cold. Warm. Hot. Whatever.

I get up, roll up the sleeping bag and start again.

I'm tired of the quiet. Tired of the sound of my own footsteps and the sound of flies buzzing near half eaten carcasses and freshly dropped dung.

I don't remember the last time I heard a voice. Cries yes, whimpers in the dark. But a conversation, a real god damned conversation. Just two people talking, shooting the breeze.

I close my eyes and try to bring back the memories. Was it back in Vancouver, maybe down in Seattle? How long ago was it when I heard another voice?

Kicking out my foot, I deliberately boot the door in front of me. When the wood doesn't budge and pain shoots up my leg, I scream out ... "Fuck."

But that doesn't count.

Thought I lost this book. Turns out it was just at the bottom of my ruck.

'Growing' season is upon us, which is always a wild ride. Finding a spot that won't get found / overrun / taken / wrecked is an exercise in careful planning. Rooftops are out. Too hot. Too difficult to bring water up / too hit-and-miss to capture falling water. High probability of crop failure.

But farming in the open is out, too. Too many critters that are hungry, too many humans (even now) that would spoil or steal what you worked on.

I tend to look for something protected, but secluded. Rare as hen's teeth, that. This many years since the fall, it's not an easy ask. However, there are some positives to lurking around this wasted land as long as I have. You tend to take note of likely candidates.

Found me a shack in what used to be wine country. Still got one a them clear plastic roofs. Built me some raised beds. Soil's good. Heat from the rain's good too. And it's tucked away behind overgrown vine. All benefits to the operation.

Means you gotta be somewhat local to tend the crops. But don't stay too close, too often. Raiders or scavvers will see the traffic patterns. Gotta come and go in different ways. Hide the entrance. Traps, too, if possible.

I got beans, cherry tomatoes, potato, and bell peppers on the go. We'll see what takes.

well, it's all dead.

All those seeds, gone. All the time spent making sure I found a place that was protected, sheltered, away from prying eyes.

Fuckin' thieves. Worst was, I saw it happen, too. Saw them move in and take my shit. I couldn't do anything. There were four of them. Those aren't good odds. And you can't just gamble on 'it'll be ok' or hope for the best. That's the kind of thinking that gets you killed. So I just watched them as they plundered my plants. Watched while they returned to their camp. Watched while they met up with two others, and began to make a feast out of my hard work.

Now I'm deciding how they die.