although weeks had passed since vegas had left the compound, he felt no closer to the coast. when he’d set out ( backpack heavy, a crutch in hand, and a bountiful supply of canned goods nearing expiration ) there had been only fields of overgrown but workable soil before him. wet with the springtime rains and owned -- as much as anyone owned anything anymore -- by the same people who had built the walls around his makeshift bed. their land, their crops, their small bounty a result of the near decade of work they’d put into chasing stability. and it had been beautiful, but depressingly familiar. the last three years of his life spent trapped up beyond those walls; waiting for the day forward progress seemed plausible once more. only now that he was out and walking, he’d caught onto the catch. fields of wheat have given way to rubble and dirt; stretching for miles between the hollowed bones of once-grand cities and american suburbia. he’d been eleven when the world ended. none of it looked familiar, and the rusting highway signs bore no clues. he’d walked and walked and walked on a bad leg, and now he had no idea where he was.
his overnight was a CVS. no doubted cleaned out by those more local than he, but the windows were intact all the same. vegas hadn’t expected to his the jackpot; only to curl up in the employee lounge and if he was lucky, lock the door instead of barricading it. only lucky, he was not. right as he moved for the back row of shelves, a shuffling became clear in the aisle over. “ hello ? ” he asked softly. it sounded far too organized to be dead, but that didn’t mean it was friendly. running was far from his repertoire. this left him only the option of trying to make peace.
@tactilian !
