To the faint sound of chains rustling in the breeze he slowly wiped away the mud from his chin. The events he had just not only witnessed but, indeed, taken part of was something he himself would not have deemed possible.
Was it merely a fit of insanity? A feverish nightmare conjured up by a twisted mind.
A twisted mind?
His mind?
No, not his. This wasn't his nightmare.
He steadied himself in the dark. Listening.
Nothing. And yet. Something.
Not the something of a presence, rather a impression in space time itself of what had happened.
For it had happened. It must have had.
No it hadn't been a nightmare.
If anything, it was the best dream he had ever had.
He rose.
It was morning. Outside pale orange light slowly reached out from the horizon stretching for what was still left of humanity. He didn't actually see it though. He didn't need to. He knew it was there. Just another day.
Morning brew.
Coffee they called it. By tradition obviously. There had been somthing called coffee before the bombs fell. This was some chemical substance cooked up by the chemist in town. Brown, tasteless. But it did its job. Stimulated something in the brain they said.
Nevermind. He had work to do.
Maybe it had been all for the best. The great cleanisng.
People had led their lives ruled by tradition, ethics and religion.
The blind leading the blind. Good riddance.
He holstered his 10mm, his life insurance, and left the small cabin.
Ethics and rules of behaviour. They were all social constructs, not anything that by nature resided in human nature.
This he had learned over the years in the wastes. We clinged to our rules, written and unwritten, as sailors to a sinking ship.
It was sinking. Probably had reached the sea bed by now. And we were still hanging on.
Not him though. Not anymore. This sailor was leaving the ship.
Up ahead in a distance the neightbouring farm could be seen as a phantom slowly revealing itself.
Some said the war had welded humaity together, locking them in a struggle for survival, other said it's every man for himself.
He wasn't much for saying things.
A man of action? No not that either.
He was, he supposed, plainly a man. Not a man man, humanity at its best, just and noble man. Just a man, humanity as humaity.
As he reached the outskirts of the farm the farmhand, Jonesy, looked up from his work and smiled.
"Hiya" Jonesy said.
He looked at Jonesy. Smiled and approached him.
He grabbed a shovel laying on the ground. Still smiling.
Smiling was important. Well, it would be, noone trusted grim faced people.
"I appriciate the help" Jonesy said before being interrupted by the shovel striking home with a wet thud.
He had looked suprised. But who wouldn't, having their skull split open by a man they trusted.
Trust. Yes, trust was the key.
He unholstered his gun and approached the main building.
As he drew closer to the front door, it opened, and Festus the farm owner emerged.
Three shots echoed back and forth in the valley, a bitter symphony to which Festus danced a morbid ballet of death.
He entered the house where Feargus's widow stood screaming.
Screams were only terrible to those who opposed them.
He embraced it.
Smacked her over the face and hurled her to the floor.
And then he raped her.
Not that hew was particularly fond of rape.
But he was bloody sure she wasnt.
And then death.
She probably wasn't too fond of that either.
Too bad she had no choice.
Yes, that was what had happened.
Now he knew it was for real. And he smiled.
Finally he had found his place in life.
The short Tale
