Z O N E B A R C H I V E S
J A N U A R Y 2 0 2 9
F O R E C A S T : DAY - 55° CONSIDERABLE CLOUDINESS | West Wind 10 MPH ; MORNING - 34° MAINLY CLOUDY | Northwest Wind 5 MPH
Sunday was Distribution Day for Raleigh, North Carolina’s Safety Shelter. Lines would wrap around the building, spilling through the streets as mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, and many many more waited for their biweekly rationing for food and supplies. Water, soap, bread, and ham. Those were some of the things that were handed out today for those lucky enough to get to the distribution center before they ‘ran out,’ or so they claimed. Some believed they had plenty, more than enough really. They believed that the higher ups, those who ran the shelter were greedy, kept extras for themselves. There was no proof, of course, and without proof there could be no action. The vast majority were too timid, too complacent. They feared upsetting those in charge. They were struggling enough in the shelters as it was. They couldn't afford to seriously upset the power. It was certain death to do such things.
A thin woman with dirty, blonde hair opened the distribution center early that morning. Her eyes were sunken into her leathery skin. They were a dull and watery blue color, just as eerie as the crowded city in which she lived. Her ragged shirt had an old name tag pinned to it, a lasting vestige of her old life before the downfall of humanity. Amanda was her name. A plain name for a plain girl, or at least she used to be.
Amanda used to be pretty. She used be to a healthy size with healthy sky blue eyes. Amanda used to be a lot of things, but fuck, so did everyone else. Everyone had a past out here--ones they’d rather soon forget. It was no use clinging to the past, now. Those lives had long since been removed from them. They would never return, and Amanda would never be the woman she used to be. No. Never. She was just a fucking skeletal woman who did nothing more than hand out dried loaves of bread with shit ham, cheese, one bar of soap, and toothpaste. That's who she was, now. That's who she would be until her last day. She had come to accept that. So, just like every other Goddamned Sunday, here she was -- counting the inventory that never matched the number of citizens in the shelter. She quit taking note of that little side fact, though. There was no use. All she knew was, she was Amanda, and she’d be getting her share -- so long as her sundried hands continued distributing those poorly packaged goods every Sunday at dawn.
The line was long, as usual, and the early morning chill was clinging to the patrons’ bones. Some were tall, and others were young. Some still had a few extra pounds hanging around their stomach and thighs, begging the question as to how they were so well fed. No one cared to ask though. It was too much work and not enough payoff. They were content in this line, following along like blind sheep. Go to the window; show their ID badge; receive their supplies. It was a monotonous task that took little to no thinking. It was just a long Sunday line that shuffled on and on as hours passed.
There was no break as the sun rose higher and higher. The morning chill eventually gave way to the swell of the afternoon heat. Yet even then, as the sun beat on the weakened backs of the poor people crouched, sore feet in line -- dried out dehydrated skin -- these sheep did not waver. They continued their slow patronage forward. They took what the government, or what was left of it, allotted to them and moved on through their drowsy unassuming lives. It was an existence that most most were content to live. It was the only existence they could imagine. But for some, it was different.
They were known as the troublemakers. They were the ones who the ones in charge kept a keen eye on. The troublemakers were the first to go after the sickly. No one knew it, not really. One day a neighbor would glance his way in the morning; a silent nod in greeting; and the next they -- he was gone; vanished -- he had disappeared. No one really paid attention, though, because no one really cared. Their numbers were too high, and the food was too little. They didn't need criminals scavenging their food supply and giving it to unworthy beings. So, the government cleansed without any rebellion to follow. They processed these troublemakers -- criminals -- and sentenced them to banishment. And, just like that, no one batted an eye. They weren't good people. They lied. They cheated. They stole. So, who cared?
A N T O N I O
The sun was hot as it glared down onto what was left of the earth. It bleached the ground, burning whatever exposed flesh anyone dared to show, and dried many a river that once flowed through this land. The sun was high in the sky by now as brown eyes narrowed through the scope of a military grade rifle. A scavenged, aka stolen, gun from a Safety patrol cargo van a few years back. It was a lot better than the hunk of crap he had before that. Just a piece of junk he’d found when he was fleeing from the cities. The hordes there were massive, coming in packs now. The more in the area, it was like they could sniff each other out. The linked up, growing bigger and bigger until there were masses of them stalking the streets. Needless to say he got his ass the hell up out of there.
Antonio’s body was tense in the high heat of mid-afternoon, scoping out the miles of landscape ahead of them. Nothing was out there. Then again, nothing ever was. The asian man rolled his shoulders with a heavy sigh as he leaned back. The muscles were tense, aching with the position he sat in; squatted with hands wrapped around the rifle, ready to pull the trigger at any given moment. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes. He wiped it with the back of his hand, cursing the heat. God he hated this post on days like this. Out in the hot son, boiling in his black uniform, it was like they were trying to give him a heat stroke or something. Perhaps they were trying to quietly thin their numbers under the pretense of natural causes. It might just work.
“Sneaky bastards,” Antonio huffed in sarcastic amusement. It would take a lot more than a hot uniform to off him. Fingers wrapped around his water bottle, more of a tin can really with a rubber stopper at the top. It was completely homemade and crude. He tugged the rubber plug out, chugging down big gulps of the precious liquid before capping it and setting it down again. Brown eyes squinted out over the landscape, watching as the wind blew across, scattering the ever thinning grass. There was no refuge in the wind either, just as hot as the air laying still around him now. “Fucking great,” he grunted, shifting his position and holding the sniper rifle steady as he scoped the land.
“Yo, asshole!” A voice called down from below him. Antonio promptly ignored it, less than happy with being spoken to. He wasn’t antisocial by any means, but unless it was a command to get out of this god awful son he wanted no parts of it.
“Hey! Dickwad, I’m talkin’ to ya!” The rough voice called again.
“The fuck do you want, Flannigan!” Antonio yelled back, jerking away from the gun and leaning over the metal railing that was a safeguard to keep him from tripping and splattering to an untimely death.
“Watch yer language! Fuck man!” Flannigan shot back, an old greaser with more than a few missing teeth and every present smudge marks littering leathery tanned cheeks. He was a tinker. He messed with all sorts of machines and guns, and when they could salvage them, even vans and cars. He got Safety shelter equipment to suit their unique greaser needs. How great amiright? “You gotta mission er sumthin’” his aged voice barked back. “They want yer ass in the meetin’ now,” he spoke up, one greased up hand covering his eyes from the harsh sun, or at least attempting to.
“Alright, Alright,” Antonio grunted, hopping over the guardrail, booted feet catching on the ladder. He climbed down from his post, dropping to the hard ground when he was just a few feet away. He nodded to the tinker and wandered off to where he was needed.
“This better be good,” he grumbled under his breath with a soft sight.
G H O S T
Feet stepped carefully through the forest; muscles tensed as she crept. Her breathing was slow and shallow, silent to remain undetected. Brown eyes scanned the ground before her. Deer tracked led her to the left, feet creeping her hunched form along. Her heart beat steadily in her chest. The adrenaline from hunting coursed through her veins, keeping her alert, tense. She spotted the buck not too far off, grazing with its family; a doe and two fawn. She knelt down beneath the brush, reaching back. Her fingers grazed her arrows, plucking one from the pack on her back. She strung it with ease, pulling the string back until it was taught. Her aim was impeccable, mastered through years of her father’s obsessive training. Where the man was now she didn’t know nor did she care.
The string snapped and the arrow flew across the clearing, sinking into the beast's heart with practiced ease. The buck crumpled to the ground, its family rushing off to find safety. She rose then, thin body athletically muscled as she stepped through the forest. She didn’t try and be so silent now as she yanked the arrow from the now dead carcass and slipped it back into her pack. Slinging the bow over her shoulder, she grabbed the deer by its horned and dragged its body back to her camp. This would last her a few days.
She dropped its lifeless body down, tossing her bow and pack of arrows to the side as she grabbed her switchblade from her pocket. It was time to get to work. She knelt down beside the beast, stabbing it right between the legs, cutting down its belly. Its innards spilled out, blood coating the ground. She yanked out its organs and skinned the deer. The pelt would make a nice blanket for next winter and the meat would be dried and salted to last her a while. The bones would be carved for spoons and forks. The innards she left for whatever animals were around to scavenge it. She didn’t stay in one place for long, packing away her things and moving camp. She walked miles, sure to cover her tracks. She didn’t like being found. She didn’t like people. They were troublesome, loud, and reckless. She was no one’s babysitter.
Finding new ground, she set up a new camp, just to the side of a large oak tree where it would be hard to be seen. The tent was pitched and the skin was pulled taught between sticks as a fire was made to keep her warm. The meat was stuck to a stick and held over open flame, the light flickering in her empty eyes. It was all about survival. There were no friends, no enemies, just those who got in the way. She had no loyalties, not ties to anyone and she liked it that way. It was easier. She hunted, she ate, she cleaned, and she moved. That was the way that she lived, that would be the way that she died. She had found peace with that the moment she left that mans prison. That man who let her mother and brother die. He hadn’t even tried to save them, tried to go out and look for them once things calmed down. He condemned them to death without a second thought and for that she could never, and would never, forgive him.
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Izurich