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It was inevitable. Generations stretching back had warned them. Religions spanning across the globe had preached about the end days, trussing it up in phrases that suited their agenda and fed the sheep, and when religion lost the masses and science took its place, professors had said the same thing. The world would end. Humanity divided - not that this was new, they'd been divided since the beginning, too. Family. Tribe. Factions. Politics. None if it really mattered. Maybe not enough of them cared. Maybe if they did it wouldn't have made one sliver of a difference. Unification has never been humanities strength. Too much ego. Too much Us vs Them. Too many - well, whatever.
Truth, they say, is stranger than fiction. And oh how they had made stories of it, from the first books of religion to blockbusters made with Hollywood's greatest names, but none of them were right. And yet all of them were. It was not a great bang, although that could still be across the horizon, but an unfolding of events. Who is to say when it started, where the beginning point was, or the tipping, but they were all familiar with it. Wars in forgotten countries, wars in major cities, spears to guns, guns to bombs, bombs to bigger bombs. Biological warfare. Economic collapse. The zombies weren't that far off - except, Hollywood got that bit wrong. It wasn't aliens either. Or maybe it was, depending who was telling the story; conspiracy theorists become truth tellers, politicians the liars. It could have been the biowarfare or the aftermath of chemical rain.
Mutants. The disfigured. The list of mutations is long is as unique as the strands of DNA, and the affected as common as the unpredictable tides of wild storms. The Fiends though. Those are something else. They're the reason to fear the dark.
Three armoured military Jeeps cruise the winding road that cuts through the wilderness scaling the rolling waves of hills and valleys. The two at front lead the utility truck, filled with the latest haul of raids of nearby towns, while the third brings up the rear. They don't have a name, but they're a known militia in the area and rumours of them spread further out. Times are getting desperate, food scarce, supplies more so. People need hope. They need to believe that somewhere, somehow, there's some semblance of security amongst the chaos. People don't do well with chaos. Chaos is madness. There's no sense to chaos. Chaos cannot be controlled.
That's why there's order and a man like Nate Carter, otherwise known as the Major General, knows all about order. When the world went to shit, there were certain types of people that came out on top. He and his men, former Special Forces and Marines, had forged a unit. Militia is another word for it. They staked out a secluded, former wellness retreat, that just so happened to be in a very strategic area. The beginnings were hard times. Quick to act. Quick to obtain materials. Traitors, perhaps, turning on their own to become thieves. Murderers.
Whatever.
Trees here are thick. Some are recovering from a bushfire that ripped through acres of land a year ago, their green shoots slide out of blackened trunks, but overall the land here is deceptively healthy. Amongst it, getting closer to the compound, nestles watchtowers. Closer yet, traps. Not limited to the spikes hidden in several places across the road. It slows the trip in and out of the area, but better that the fool be captured than to spend a few extra minutes to disengage the contraption and reset it after the procession is through. It's one of these spiked, metal works, that likely lead Taiga to the belief that some rumours have a thread of truth. And, importantly, that he's on a path that leads to a place where trespassers are most unwelcome.
Birds are the first to warn him that something approaches. They take from the trees in a cacophony of noise, slipping out of shadows of branches and into the glow of pre-sunset hours. Wings black against the bright, warm colours of a shifting sky. On the edge of their screeching is the rumbling of engines and, soon enough, the squeak of suspension. The ground tremors as the heavy vehicles thunder down the road, their easy roll slowing.
Truth, they say, is stranger than fiction. And oh how they had made stories of it, from the first books of religion to blockbusters made with Hollywood's greatest names, but none of them were right. And yet all of them were. It was not a great bang, although that could still be across the horizon, but an unfolding of events. Who is to say when it started, where the beginning point was, or the tipping, but they were all familiar with it. Wars in forgotten countries, wars in major cities, spears to guns, guns to bombs, bombs to bigger bombs. Biological warfare. Economic collapse. The zombies weren't that far off - except, Hollywood got that bit wrong. It wasn't aliens either. Or maybe it was, depending who was telling the story; conspiracy theorists become truth tellers, politicians the liars. It could have been the biowarfare or the aftermath of chemical rain.
Mutants. The disfigured. The list of mutations is long is as unique as the strands of DNA, and the affected as common as the unpredictable tides of wild storms. The Fiends though. Those are something else. They're the reason to fear the dark.
--- X ---
The trip back to the compound is three days by car. Vehicles are sought after possessions. There's not many running around, they're too hard to run, and those that have them have a certain level of prestige. Those that have prestige are, more often than not, in positions of power. How far that power goes depends on how many they managed to rally around them. It's hard to argue against the masses. And the armed masses? The only way to get to them, if not through the same show of might, is through cunning.
Three armoured military Jeeps cruise the winding road that cuts through the wilderness scaling the rolling waves of hills and valleys. The two at front lead the utility truck, filled with the latest haul of raids of nearby towns, while the third brings up the rear. They don't have a name, but they're a known militia in the area and rumours of them spread further out. Times are getting desperate, food scarce, supplies more so. People need hope. They need to believe that somewhere, somehow, there's some semblance of security amongst the chaos. People don't do well with chaos. Chaos is madness. There's no sense to chaos. Chaos cannot be controlled.
That's why there's order and a man like Nate Carter, otherwise known as the Major General, knows all about order. When the world went to shit, there were certain types of people that came out on top. He and his men, former Special Forces and Marines, had forged a unit. Militia is another word for it. They staked out a secluded, former wellness retreat, that just so happened to be in a very strategic area. The beginnings were hard times. Quick to act. Quick to obtain materials. Traitors, perhaps, turning on their own to become thieves. Murderers.
Whatever.
Trees here are thick. Some are recovering from a bushfire that ripped through acres of land a year ago, their green shoots slide out of blackened trunks, but overall the land here is deceptively healthy. Amongst it, getting closer to the compound, nestles watchtowers. Closer yet, traps. Not limited to the spikes hidden in several places across the road. It slows the trip in and out of the area, but better that the fool be captured than to spend a few extra minutes to disengage the contraption and reset it after the procession is through. It's one of these spiked, metal works, that likely lead Taiga to the belief that some rumours have a thread of truth. And, importantly, that he's on a path that leads to a place where trespassers are most unwelcome.
Birds are the first to warn him that something approaches. They take from the trees in a cacophony of noise, slipping out of shadows of branches and into the glow of pre-sunset hours. Wings black against the bright, warm colours of a shifting sky. On the edge of their screeching is the rumbling of engines and, soon enough, the squeak of suspension. The ground tremors as the heavy vehicles thunder down the road, their easy roll slowing.
