The Shoveler

1

The Shoveler

By Jameson McConnell

Tan, black, tan, black, tan black. The houses of alternating colors shot by in an odd blur. The dark, starless sky seemed even darker from inside of the protective transparent dome of the line car. In the car sat Peter the 43rd: age 25, medium stature, slim build, brown hair; about as typical as it got. He was called Peter the 43rd not because he was the of the 43rd generation of children named Peter in his family, but because he was the 43rd registered citizen to bear the name "Peter." Occupation: miner. But he mined not for gold or diamonds, but the past.

Peter spent most of his time in a group of about fifty men digging around the outskirts of the city of Fortuna, searching for any tangible evidence of the past before the Great Crash. The Great Crash was an event in which astronomical quantities of personal information were wiped off of all hard drives following a nuclear war. Anything that looked remotely like a computer was affected. This event was orchestrated by an unknown culprit.

Peter worked for Briggs Mining Co., founded by aristocrat Joseph Briggs. He was one of the few known citizens to bear a last name. In the case of Joseph, his family tree remained nearly entirely intact, which was quite rare of an occurrence considering that the program the perpetrator used to take out the main networks was designed to wipe out any and all genealogical records.

This mining company was more of a digging company, considering that a piece of equipment almost never touched an area of dirt more than five feet underground. Peter and his team of about fifty men, and some women alike, were assigned to an area of around five square miles. A question often asked in Fortuna was: 'Why aren't there more women working at Briggs?'

There's one and only one clear, concise answer to that question. The women were too damn smart for that low paying, vile, piece of shit of an occupation. In Fortuna, and most of the other known strongholds, girls were generally better educated than boys. The women worked inside while the men did all the dirty work, which was fine; this was the system and it worked. Why would anyone want to change that?

An automated voice sounded. "You are one hundred feet from your destination, Peter." And why were these things like the one in which Peter was riding called line cars? These vehicles used sensors to follow a white line painted on the black pavement. Fortuna and other stronghold cities had all formerly used rail cars. It was the standard, but this apparatus of lines and sensors had proven much more economical.

Finally, after passing by many nameless buildings, tan and black houses, and the jokers on nearly every corner, the car came to a halt. "You have reached your destination, Peter. Have a nice evening." Peter's black house stood before him. The houses were painted in alternating colors to make it easier to distinguish one from another.

Peter was inside his house now. His almost nightly ration of chicken and noodles--the ingredients of which he had prepared earlier that morning--had been cooking all day in the heat circulator. Peter followed the scent of his dinner through the house and into the kitchen, where through a series of grunts and muffled complaints about the day, he opened a cabinet and pulled out a bowl. He then opened a drawer and looked for ideally a ladle, but hunger didn't give the slightest damn about how you got food into your body, so Peter found a larger than average metal spoon, removed the lid from the heat circulator and helped himself to some chicken and noodles.

He found his way into the living room, plopped himself down on the sofa, and turned on the television. Since nearly every TV network went extinct after the Crash, there was little to choose from in the name of quality programming. The channels were so empty, that anyone could go up to the local TV station, pitch an idea for a show, and get it approved. So it's no big secret that most television was straight bullshit. This was the the reason that Peter hardly ever watched anything other than the local news. He was greeted by an advertisement for some pore cream. "It shrinks pores to a quarter of their original size in two days!" "When are they going to invent a cream that shrinks my sadness?", Peter said aloud. He then thought to himself. Damn, I should really make an effort to be more positive, but then again, why? You can't be happy in this excuse for a city. Everybody's always blaming somebody for something, and I hate it! Well, I guess there's no sense complaining about it.

The display disappeared-it remained gone for several seconds. Peter was a quarter of the way into the suspicion that the television had undergone some sort of technical problem, when like a sudden explosion, or like a car going driving down a door of a barn or something in those old, pre-Crash movies, the sound of drums broke the silence. This was followed by a quick jingle and then the image of a man sitting at a desk got bigger and bigger until the image of actual size was projected six feet from Peter's eyes.

The newscaster began speaking. "Greetings, Fortuna. Thank you for tuning in this evening. I'm Lewis the 89th." It seemed to Peter, as little as he would have liked to admit it, that he knew this man better than he knew his brother, his mother, and maybe even himself. Really? Himself? Surely not. Lewis wore the same grey suit every evening. Peter wondered sometimes if he ever took it off. He had greyish hair, a greyish face-it seemed to Peter that everything about this man was grey. He went on talking about the weather and Peter was zoning out, moving the spoon to the bowl, and then to his mouth in a rhythm-a machine-like rhythm-like a bugless program. His arm was like one of those old, manned airplanes on autopilot, and he was the lazy pilot. All of the sudden, autopilot failed.

Peter spilled a little bit of broth; some of it was on his shirt and some of it was running down his chin. "Ah damn," he said as he got up to go get a napkin. Lewis' voice somehow broke through the invisible citadel that Peter had constructed around himself, entered his ears, and wormed its way into his temporal lobe. Peter stopped to listen. "We are sorry to report that two were killed today in a collision between two line cars." Did he ever say anything other than that? Other than 'we are sorry to report?' Maybe try saying 'we regret to inform you' or 'we are stricken with grief by the loss of.'

Nevertheless, this was a pretty common occurrence. Around twice a week it seemed like, some poor soul-in an attempt to save time by calling for his or her line car earlier than his or her scheduled time to do so, ended up having all the time they needed; eternity. While on the road, their car would collide with the car of someone who called for it at the proper time, usually killing both passengers in the process.

The monotonous newscaster continued. "Tragedies like this one mustn't be forgotten; however, we should laugh about it. Laughter is the healer of all wounds. Peter watched on the holographic, life-like display as jokers from street corners far and wide crowded around this sad scene of two lives, so miserably and painfully taken, and began laughing. Soon, the crowd of onlookers was engulfed in laughter. One of the jokers, with his metallic suit glistening in the seven o'clock sun--the sun sitting on the horizon, almost as if it were reading a book, after it had showered and shaved, for a few minutes before it retired for the night--climbed up on top of the smouldering remnants of the two cars and began shouting remarks such as, 'this is what happens when you can't tell time' and 'this guy won't be late again, I can guarantee you that!' The laughter persisted above this sad and bloody tableau of something this city was all too familiar with, and something Peter had grown more and more numb to over the years.

Peter didn't sleep well that night. The image of the two bodies with the cold, blank expressions on their faces and the dead eyes was still fresh in his mind. During the rocky two hours of sleep he did get, he dreamt. Peter was in a desert, and he could see nothing except for a house in the distance. Parked in the driveway was one of those old manned cars, and when he saw what was in front of the house, he would have dropped to his knees if he'd been standing.

It was the same image he'd seen earlier on the news. The two cars were there, the two bodies were there, and even the jokers and the onlookers were there. But there was something that was not there earlier. A family stood in front of the house; there was an old car parked in front of it. The family consisted of a mother, a father and a young boy. While the jokers and the onlookers went on laughing as they did earlier, the family did not. The three of them just stood there and wept; they sympathized with the victims.

Peter was astonished. He had only witnessed this type of behavior in old stories and in some of the few discovered pre-Crash movies.

Peter was promptly awoken by the automated voice in his house. "Good morning, Peter. Your car will be here in an hour. Would you like to make any changes?" "No," Peter managed to get out through a yawn. He pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the kitchen to make coffee. He couldn't seem to get the dream he had had out of his head. "Sympathy. Compassion." Peter was absent-mindedly mumbling. "Friendly. Welcoming." He slipped on a wet spot on the kitchen floor.

"Son of a bitch," he grumbled. Peter stood up, found a cup of coffee in his hands, and found himself on the sofa. "Noosh," said Peter cupping a hand over his wide open mouth.

The cooling fans of the holographic display whirred to speed, and after a string of beeping noises, Lewis the 89th's grey figure slowly faded into Peter's living room.

"Good morning, Fortuna," said Lewis as he did every morning. He went through his usual hodiernal soliloquies while Peter was half asleep. Peter sipped on his coffee as Lewis went on speaking. "Mayor William embarked on his week long trip to Alba Brevis this morning where he will meet with Council of Cities chairman Benjamin to discuss plans for city-preservation along with Mayor Hector of Sylva Magna and Mayor John of Flumina Montium."

Along with the cyber warfare that was used to wipe all hard drives clean, the nuclear warfare that destroyed most of the world as it had been previously known had destroyed all known libraries. So, in an effort to preserve language-at least English and the Romance Languages-many people traveled to various places around the Mediterranean Sea in order to gather any scripts of ancient languages they could. So Latin, the chicken pox of Western language, was used in naming most of the stronghold cities.

"-and it's pretty dusty out there, so it would be wise for everyone to wear their masks and other protective gear." Peter thought to himself. I can't remember where I put my mask, but my lead coat and boots are in the closet; I think. Lewis the 89th brought his morning rhetoric to a close. "Thank you all for tuning in this morning; I'm Lewis the 89th. Have a safe and happy day, Fortuna!" Peter's brain-dead mumbling continued. "You too, Lewey."

"Your car will be here in ten minutes, Peter. Would you like to make any final changes?" "No." Damn, there must have been a way to set that thing to an automatic mode so Peter didn't have to say 'no' four hundred and thirty seven times a day; a way to get that thing to shut up!

Only by the means of some divine force--a force far beyond the realm of human comprehension--was Peter able to get off the couch and finish getting ready for work.

Peter was in the closet now; he was sifting through articles of clothing, once again thinking to himself. I'll put on my lead coat, but I think my work boots will be enough. Man, it hasn't been this dusty in a long time.

Peter pulled from the closet his grey coveralls-which had the Briggs Mining Co. emblem embroidered on the left breast, his work boots, and his lead coat. He had always been fascinated with the Briggs emblem, regardless of how simple it was. It consisted of a large capital letter 'B' and a pickaxe and a shovel crossing each other--like an emblem of the flags of two countries at war with each other or checkered flags involved with some racing event--below it.

Peter first slipped into his coveralls, then his work boots, and finally his lead coat. "Now where could my mask be?" Peter asked himself. "Your car is one hundred feet away, Peter." "Aw shit." He was going to have to do without it today.

He walked briskly through the house, looking around for any final necessities for his day. Peter gulped down the last bit of coffee in his cup; it beaded down his chin in multiple directions. "Car approaching, car approaching," beeped the intercom system.

Peter wiped his chin and stumbled out the front door, nearly tripping over his own two feet in the process.

The line car's sleek, silver body glistened in the morning sunlight; it also beared the resemblance of a computer mouse. These cars made no noise whatsoever. It came to a sudden stop in front of Peter's house; one second it had been going sixty miles-per-hour, and the next it had been going zero. Modern line cars used a magnetic braking system, a braking system previously found on those pre-Crash amusement park rides.

Peter stepped off of his front porch and began the treacherous journey through the mildly radioactive dust, covering himself as much as possible with his lead coat as he went.

At the very moment the heel of Peter's right work boot entered the five-foot radius of the car, its protective overhead dome lifted up and slid backwards a little bit. At the very moment Peter sat down in the car's lone seat, this process reversed itself; and soon, Peter was riding along the concrete rivers of the housing division and into the concrete ocean of Fortuna Central.

A map of Fortuna with the route to Briggs Mining Co. Headquarters highlighted was being projected upon most of the protective dome. It was already hard enough to see out of the dome due to it being heavily tinted, let alone with a map of the damn city being projected on it. This lack of visibility made Peter uncomfortable at times; he already wasn't in control of the vehicle, so he'd at least like to be able to see out of it.

This never seemed to bother anyone else to the degree that it bothered Peter, but there were still rumors floating around that the map could be overwritten. There were also rumors floating around that overwriting the map caused a glitch in the car's computer system, often leading to deadly crashes. So, it was for this reason that Peter never tried anything he had heard to get rid of the map.

The monotonous, female, automated voice that was standard for all line cars spoke. "You will arrive at Briggs Mining Co. Headquarters in approximately three minutes, Peter." Peter decided to drop all annoyances he had and try to enjoy the ride. Two minutes passed.

"You will arrive at Briggs Mining Co. Headquarters in one minute, Peter. Would you like to make any final changes to your route?" "Nope," said Peter. Peter didn't really know (nor did anyone else in the city, for that matter) why the option to edit your assigned route existed. And why were you asked if you wanted to change anything one minute from arriving at your destination. He guessed it was just to preserve the idea of free will; the idea of choice. If you were to change your route, you would most likely end up on somebody else's; and that's no good.

"Now approaching Briggs Mining Co. Headquarters. Five hundred feet...four hundred feet...three hundred feet..."

Peter wondered how his boss was going to react, or most likely how he already had reacted to the rare abundance of radioactive dust in the air, and how it was going to affect his business. He felt sorry for the young intern or janitor who would be or already had been subjected to Mr. Edward's wrath.

"Two hundred feet...one hundred feet...fifty feet...approaching destination." The car drastically slowed and pulled into a circular drive. It came to a halt by entrance F and began its farewell soliloquy. "You have arrived at Briggs Mining Co. Headquarters. Have a nice day, Peter."

The overhead dome lifted up, slid backwards and Peter stepped out of the car. The dust actually wasn't so bad here, so he thought that the boss might not have wreaked as much havoc has he had originally predicted.

Peter walked toward the sliding double metal doors and observed the strange ecosystem that surrounded him on a daily basis. Miners, electricians, surveyors; they all flocked here on a daily basis. They all migrated to this miniature kingdom every morning to search for something that was long gone.

As Peter stood in front of the metal doors, he reached into the front pocket of his coveralls and produced his photo ID. He dangled it in front of the camera adjacent to the doors, and a green light flashed, signaling his authorized entry. Peter strided in, made a left and walked to the employees' lounge. He approached the computer terminal and placed his ID, still in hand, upon the scanner. Once again, a green light flashed, signaling that Peter had made it to work on time.

Peter now found himself using his ID to open his employee locker. Damn, you need your ID for everything. God forbid you lose it. From his locker, he retrieved his hard hat, his pick, his equipment strap, his radio, and his shovel and closed it promptly afterwards. Peter wrapped the strap around his right shoulder and between his legs, where it would be buckled. He slipped the pick into one of the loops on the back of it and secured it with the velcro strap.

There was not much point in bringing the pick with you, as it was rarely used. The area in which Peter mined was quite sandy, and there weren't many rocks to break apart. But, it was company policy to have all equipment on you at all times while you were on the premises.

Peter went to the sink to fill a couple of cantines and left the employees' lounge. He ran into his coworker and friend, Albert the 66th in the hallway.

"Morning Pete," he said. Peter replied. "Morning Al." Albert was blonde and slightly shorter than Peter, but this was hardly noticeable at a distance. Albert caught up to Peter. "The dust out there sure is a killer, isn't it?" Peter looked out of one of the small hallway windows, noticing that the dust had reached the headquarters. "It sure is. It was at my house this morning but when I first got here it wasn't too bad. I guess it just picked up?"

"Yeah, about ten minutes ago," said Albert. "I can't wait to see the look on Edward's face." The two shared a forced laugh.

Peter and Albert reached the waiting area for all carrier drop-offs and pick-ups. They sat and awaited the carrier that would take them out to their assigned territory.

During this period of waiting, Albert did most of the talking. Peter bided most of his time quietly drumming on his hard hat with his fingers.

"Did you see that accident on the news last night?" Albert began. Peter was not prepared to answer this question. The memories of the dream he'd had the previous night had been gradually fading away over the past few hours, but now they came back. These images pierced Peter's brain like a thousand sewing needles piercing a sewing cushion. Now Peter would have to remove them, one by one.

"Yeah, I saw it. They don't usually phase me too much, but I haven't seen one that nasty in a while." "Yeah," Albert agreed.

The minutes passed. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes, twenty five min- "Mining Troupe 214, please prepare for boarding. Troupe 214, please prepare for boarding."

The two stood up, made sure all of their equipment was in order, and headed for the carrier. Albert whispered to Peter. "We'll find something today; I just know it." They shared a real laugh this time and boarded.

The ride was the usual boring ten minute jaunt to the sandy outskirts of Fortuna, where everyone worked to find something for good ol' Mayor Billy, but everyone silently wanted nothing to happen, so they could all just go home and not have to stay after work to fill out a discovery report. Only a handful of real relics from the pre-Crash era had been found. These included, but were not limited to, a cell phone battery--preserved in corrosion--and a hubcap from an old manned car.

Out of the handful of things found, only a finger-pinch of them ended up being reported. The rest were pocketed and forgotten--just like the world as it was previously known.

It was hot. It was boring. It was a normal day. The medics even had a boring day, as no one fell into one of the many holes created by the countless hours of pointless digging.

Peter went through both of his cantines over a span of three hours. Albert often scolded him about how he worked too hard, but Peter insisted each time that he just had a positive work ethic.

It was lunch time now, and Peter brought leftovers from his dinner the previous night. Everyone ate in silence. When the sun began its final descent, Peter's radio squawked. It was Edward.

"Hey 43, don't go home after your shift's over. I need to talk to you. Tell 66 I need to talk to him too."

Great. Just wonderful. Now I have to cancel my car. Better do it now before it's too late. Peter cancelled the car, finished his duties, told Albert that the boss needed to talk to him, and reported to the carrier with the rest of the troupe.

Everyone else on the carrier was happy the day was over, laughing and joking. Peter and Albert on the other hand could do nothing but think about what Edward wanted.

When they arrived back at HQ, Peter and Albert made their way to Edward's office. This could have been their entire day. If they--Peter especially--were given the option to either work a twenty hour shift or meet with Edward for five minutes, they would have chosen the former.

Peter and Albert were now standing in front of their boss' door. They were recognized by Edward via the security camera and let in. Finally. They didn't need their IDs for something.

This man was short and thin, wore dark glasses, and had an oddly high-pitched voice.

"Gentlemen," said Edward as he pushed up his glasses and rolled his chair toward his desk. "Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice. There is a very important matter I would like to discuss with you, and you two are the only ones I'd trust with this information." These were words that Peter and Albert had never expected to come out of this man's mouth, let alone to be directed at them.

Edward went on before they had a chance to reply. "I'm sure you both know of the various drone expeditions we've sent out over the past two years." Words came out of Albert's mouth. "Yessir." Edward continued. "And I'm also sure you know that none of them have found jack-shit yet." "Yep." "Well, take a look at this."

Peter was blindsided by what he saw. It was true; no drone sent to the far deserts had brought back any positive reports--just a rocky mass about eighty five per cent sand and fifteen percent bone fragments.

Edward activated his voice operated LCD display, and soon, tens of photos appeared. "Look closely," Edward said, pointing a finger at the screen. He was directing their attention to a spot of grey amidst the brownish-yellow of the desert.

Peter and Albert were speechless; they had never seen an area so large of what could possibly end their string of boring days. "Now boys, this might not be anything more than a couple of old cars, so don't get your hopes up.

"Now, here's the bad news. The location is about four hundred miles north, and that's too far to send an unmanned expedition out."

"What are you saying?" asked Peter, unconscious of who he was speaking to. After a cold look from Edward, a real don't talk to me like that look, he answered Peter's question. "I'm saying, we need a crew of at least forty to go out and investigate this, and you boys, being the skilled miners you are, are at the top of my list for such a crew."

Peter didn't think that he had ever seen Edward be this nice. This whole thing must have put him in a good mood.

"So, will you boys do it?" Peter and Albert thought this over together in a sort of joint consciousness that they had and ultimately agreed.

"We'll do it, Edward," Albert said. Edward looked pleased. "I knew you two would be up for the job. I'm going to leave it up to you two to get a crew together, and I need one by next week."

The ride home was full of thought for Peter. He had managed to get another car that fit in with the schedule, and was now on his way just a mere half hour later than usual.

Did he make a mistake in agreeing to risk their lives and the lives of many more to find a few tin cans? Maybe this was the break Peter was looking for. Maybe they would actually find something of significance out in the sand pits. He didn't know.

His evening routine was nearly the same as it usually was; no chicken and noodles this time though. Lewis the 89th talked about the same shit. There was good news tonight: no deaths reported!

Sleep improved slightly; Peter had a few vague dreams of which he had no recollection the following morning. He still felt a bit groggy, but it was nothing compared to the previous morning.

Good morning, Peter. Your car will be here in an hour. Would you like to make any cha- "No," said Peter with a tone of annoyance slightly finer and more noticeable than normal in his voice. Maybe this expedition would be a good thing; anything to get away from that voice.

Coffee, morning news, car ride, work. This was Peter's usual routine, but now he faced the challenge of recruiting a crew to embark on a suicide mission to the sand pits. He and Albert spent four days coercing, persuading, encouraging.

By the end of the week, Peter and Albert had gathered twenty six members. "I told you two that I needed at least forty." "We know sir and we did everything we could to- "To what? To ruin an opportunity? To let the answer decay in the damn desert while we spend the rest of our lives watching?" Peter was sweating now; it was always hot in Edward's office as he never turned the on the air-conditioner because it 'choked his profits.' "Sir, I'm telling you that we- "I don't want to hear it."

Edward stood up, began to march around the room with one hand to his chin. "This will have to do, I suppose. I refuse to let this opportunity pass me." He sat back down; his silent, passive rage seemed to have passed. "Listen boys," said Edward. "I'm already taking a gamble here, and you're making the stakes higher. I'll allow the twenty six to go, but they'd better return alive and well. Is that understood?"

"Yessir," Peter and Albert harmonized. "Make any arrangements you need to, boys, and tell the others the same. You depart in a week."

The days passed just as anyone would expect them to: slowly and dreadfully. Both Peter and Albert did their jobs as well as they could, as did the twenty six men conscripted to join them on this journey to hell.

Sleep returned to the rocky two to three hours that Peter was used to getting while under extreme stress. But a part of Peter yearned for this trip, as it would be an escape from the hellish mundanity of Fortuna. The Crash decimated any variations in living that were known, and the reconstruction process brought back so little; no one wanted such a disaster to occur again.

MAYOR JOHN THE 1ST OF ALBA BREVIS

On Reconstruction

Year Unknown

Friends, we gather here today to discuss very important matters. We have lost the heart and soul of our great fighting force and we must lay down our arms, as we have been defeated. Citizens, I ask you to take a look around you. What do you see? Dust, melted fortresses, total destruction. I ask you all to think for a moment. Think of your fellow members of Earth. Think of your children. Think of your children's children. There is one way, and one way only to survive this mess we've created: we must start again. I have communicated with members of the technology division of the Earth Force and have given them the greenlight to erase all information on this warfare. Not another war shall be waged on the face of this planet. Walls will be constructed around settlements and weapons will be destroyed. The human race will prosper.

The expedition was a day away now, and most things needed had been prepared. Three carriers were prepared. Two for crew members, each seating twelve, and one for provisions and equipment. There would be enough room for all crew members on this expedition; the carriers still had to be piloted by at least two people as there were no lines in the desert.

Peter did his job as normal, as did Albert.

The day finally came; a crew of twenty six would set out to find something that they weren't sure even existed. With tents and food packed away in one carrier, and men in another, the expedition would begin.

Peter awoke normally, with the voice in his house telling him good morning and asking him if he would like to make any changes to his schedule, which he never did.

He awaited his line car normally, rode to work normally, his entire morning routine was virtually the same as it had always been.

Peter arrived at work now, meeting Albert in the employees' lounge, downing a final cup of coffee before finally trekking through the hallway and gathering up the rest of the crew members in the carrier waiting area.

They were all there now: the carriers, the men, everyone. Now it was time to wait. Peter would say goodbye to his routine plagued life in search of what once was. He would be gone for a period of time unknown, but he knew that this is what he had to do.

"All crew to the carriers!" Albert shouted.

Then the carriers were gone.

The desert was a lonely place; it was, especially without the thousands of holes in it from digging. Peter had never seen a stretch of it so spotless.

Four hundred miles was a long way to travel in a lonely facade of the world beneath. This journey was made especially long by the fact that these carriers couldn't reach speeds of more than forty miles per hour.

These carriers were nuclear powered, so they didn't need to be refueled save the need to change the uranium rods every fifty or so years. This trip wasn't long anyway, maximum three days.

Peter and Albert spent most of the journey observing the pilot, sitting high in his seat, moving the control sticks about. The treads of the carriers spun round and round again; they only stopped when the pilots radioed each other when they got tired (which was quite rarely, as they were almost always doped up on some kind of stimulant to stay awake) and everyone set up camp wherever they had stopped and retired to tents for the night.

They were all in the home stretch now. The carriers notified everyone of that with the beeping, the automated voices of the radar systems. Something about this world looked different to Peter. It seemed different. It smelled different.

The voices of the captains filled the air shouting orders to prepare equipment and shouted up at the pilots to constantly be checking the radars and the radiation sensors. Most people of the modern, post-Crash era were immune to low to moderate amounts of radiation but emergency masks were packed along with everything else, just in case.

The upper decks of the carriers were being resurrected after they were dead for the better part of four days. Dead. Dead. Dead. Alive.

They came to a dead halt. It was time to step out to stretch and enjoy the same scenery that had been 'enjoyed' by everyone for the past ninety hours.

Orders were given left and right. Orders to unpack equipment, orders to run safety checks on said equipment, orders to check the status of the vehicles. The crew did as it was told, setting up tents, preparing rations, preparing search equipment.

Twenty six metal detectors found their way into fifty two hands, and the expedition began.

The first six hours slugged by; a few rusty nails were found, but that's as far as it went. Night was upon them now, and the captains called to set up camp. Peter slept uneasily, and so did Albert, and so did the rest of the whole damned crew.

Day two of this expedition commenced, and once again in started slowly. The frequency in the discovery of metal objects increased.

The night sky was now covered in stars, and radioactive hope spilled over them as camp was set up once more.

Day three was bleak and nothing happened. The ground was once again sparse and dead.

Crash! Crash! Pop! Captain Michael was dead.

"Open fire!" These words shot across the sandy battlefield along with the bullets.

The crew scattered, dodging death as they ran. Peter managed to get behind a carrier. Albert was nowhere in sight.

The firing continued for nearly three minutes more. At this point anyone not behind a carrier was dead.

Peter crawled to find Albert bleeding. "Peter"

A hand seized Peter and pulled him up and threw him into a wagon and it soon after began to move.

Albert. Where was Albert? What was happening? Who the fuck did this?

Peter looked down and noticed he was bleeding from where he was nicked by a bullet. He put a hand over it and winced in pain.

Our radios are dead, Peter thought. Our crew is dead for the most part. Edward or William won't know about this.

MAYOR BENJAMIN THE 1ST OF SYLVA MAGNA

On The Preservation of Diplomatic Relations Between Strongholds

All efforts will be put forth to avoid total destruction of ourselves and others. We must not speak; we must not offend the powers of strongholds around, as this will surely lead to certain death for all of us. In order to ensure our silence in this matter, I have prohibited any communication with outside civilization. You all will thank me soon enough, as anyone else will destroy what little we have left.

Peter was awake now; it was dark. The sky was starless and the hard bed of the wagon was painful. As he looked around, he noticed that only two of the crew members he had been with in the wagon remained; both of them asleep.

Peter stood up and looked over the edge, seeing the same sandy desert with a few metal shacks scattered about. A voice broke the silence.

"He's awake! Pull him out of there!"
Peter was pulled over this edge and into a door on the other side of one of the strange metal structures. This unknown figure threw him down onto the hard rocky floor with his head and inch away from crashing into the wall.

The room was surprisingly well lit and the remainder of the crew sat against the wall like Peter did. This light revealed a tanned, scarred face; this face spoke.

"Well, if it ain't the trusted man. Did you happen to see the rest of your crew back there? Ain't no jokers out here to laugh at them." Peter began to speak. "How did you know- "Your friends here told me the boss chose you and old Al back there to get this crew together." As this figure said this he pointed back in the direction in which they came from. Peter was sure he wouldn't see his friend again.

Next to this man stood another mysterious figure. "Walk with me," said Figure 1.

Figure 1 pulled Peter up and guided him through the door, as figure 2 followed with a sharpened knife pointed at Peter's back.

Peter was stricken with the sight of rows of these metal buildings, blocks of these metal buildings, a neighborhood! Figure 1 spoke again.

"Listen up, Pete, I don't got time for bullshit. I just want to know one thing: Why the hell are you here?" "We wanted to investigate a strange image captured by one of our drones."

They were surrounded by loads of manned cars, some operational, schools designed after the pre-Crash schools and old houses without the voices.

"Peter, you live in a ghetto. You want to make us part of it don't you?" "No, not at all!" "We cannot take any chances."

Figure 2 thrusted his knife into Peter's back. Peter was drowning in blood.

Figure 1 spoke up. "Now listen up. We live, you die." He pulled the knife out with no consideration whatsoever toward precision.

Peter fell to the ground, blood all around, and was now staring with lifeless eyes at the dead remnants of the micro-ecosystem that once thrived here.

MAYOR LARS THE 1ST OF FLUMINA MONTIUM

On Exploration

We mustn't fear what we don't know if we want to preserve our society. I hereby forbid any exploration of uncharted territory within a thousand mile radius of this city.

Albert the 66th sat in the carrier, eating the rations brought along for the expedition. His face was bearded and he was exhausted. He was about halfway through the rations, and feared he would soon have to break down and eat the remains of his late crewmembers.

Albert heard a voice. "Hello? Anybody in the carriers?" Albert stepped out cautiously. There was a woman there.

"Our drones picked up some strange readings around here. Oh my god! Are you alright?" "Yes," said Albert weakly. "Come with us." Albert stepped into another carrier. "Sir, can you tell us what happened?" asked another woman inside of it.

They rode onto the barely visible horizon toward the Sierra Madre mountains of Mexico.

The End