Wind.
There was a glow on the horizon, was it the sun? They had fallen asleep for hours. She still slept, alone on thier rough pallet.
He couldn't return to sleep. He got his satchel and, deciding that he wasn't going to get any sleep anyway, prepared him self a shot with morphine, cocaine and a little glucose and B12 in it for volume. They didn't eat very nutritious foods and had to subist largely on packaged vitamins. Weeks went by (or so it seemed) and they barely made a dent in thier supplies.
He went outside into the cold air, swathed in the many layers of jackets and torn fatigues he wore and his blade and rifle. Even so, it was cold. His rush covered the awful sickness that he and his companion felt, it seemed like he should have died. He had felt like he could no longer support the enourmous weight of his own flesh on more than one occasion. Days like that they just hid out of the sun and kept watch with thier guns ready. The strain on thier systems that repeated speedballs contributed was feeble in comparison to thier radiation exposure.
He knew that they were not heavily exposed, the thought that it was quite likely that they'd survive. He did not know how to correspond the symptoms of radiation exposure to the severity. but his guess was a favourable one.
He sat upon a chunk of concrete. Tried to orient by the sun, but he just couldn't convince himself that it was rising, nor that it was setting.
When he was killing a person, he knew that he had felt much better. The last time that they had to fight he remembers his heart racing and forcing blood to his hands, aching like they were going through thier own orgasms as he pulled the trigger and slid the bolt. People contorted from the awful shock and pain of being shot in the torso, as he usually did. He missed low when he did miss. In those moments when he was present for violence, his pain and weakness dissapeared and pure homicidal rage overcame him. He couldn't help himself and killed people that would have submitted if they'd had a chance. He took maddening pleasure in seeing himself as a killer, a monster. But, they wouldn't have survived long after having thier equipment taken and thier companions killed, so there was no loss in killing them, it seemed.
Although he didn't realise it, these moments were flooding his system with adrenaline, which fought off the effects of radiation sickness and improved his chances of surviving.
All that he saw were dead people. Millions had died in two days. Everyone that had survived, such as themselves, thier victims, and those that they had yet to meet, were simply overdue for a horrific death. He knew that this was in store for his companion and himself too. His conscience was at rest because of this. He'd lived his life without aspirations, or ambitions. He had installed himself into sedentiary positions, working only for the money, and concerning himself with how good he could feel- right now. And then all of this happy horseshit happened, disastrously disrupting even his short term schedule, and depositing him in the midst of what would seem to be an ideal situation. Great sufferning juxtaposed with great elation, and the finality of himself very very real at last. Not like when he would say that he preferred to die at 32, now he knew, within, that he was unlikely to see his next birthday, his 24th. Even if he survived that long he would not note the day, nobody remembered dates now.
And for some reason, this depressed him. Then came the thought: "What, now you're unahppy too! What's wrong with you, you ungrateful sod!?" Which was true, he was never content with anything. But then came the thought of all those people that he'd killed, they had had feelings too, probably feelings more sophisticated and superior to his. People that could be capable of contentment. But they were dead, and he was alive, for now, with meant that what occured in his mind still meant something, and they would be remembered. Carried with him. They replaced the space where his humanity used to be.
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He couldn't return to sleep. He got his satchel and, deciding that he wasn't going to get any sleep anyway, prepared him self a shot with morphine, cocaine and a little glucose and B12 in it for volume. They didn't eat very nutritious foods and had to subist largely on packaged vitamins. Weeks went by (or so it seemed) and they barely made a dent in thier supplies.
He went outside into the cold air, swathed in the many layers of jackets and torn fatigues he wore and his blade and rifle. Even so, it was cold. His rush covered the awful sickness that he and his companion felt, it seemed like he should have died. He had felt like he could no longer support the enourmous weight of his own flesh on more than one occasion. Days like that they just hid out of the sun and kept watch with thier guns ready. The strain on thier systems that repeated speedballs contributed was feeble in comparison to thier radiation exposure.
He knew that they were not heavily exposed, the thought that it was quite likely that they'd survive. He did not know how to correspond the symptoms of radiation exposure to the severity. but his guess was a favourable one.
He sat upon a chunk of concrete. Tried to orient by the sun, but he just couldn't convince himself that it was rising, nor that it was setting.
When he was killing a person, he knew that he had felt much better. The last time that they had to fight he remembers his heart racing and forcing blood to his hands, aching like they were going through thier own orgasms as he pulled the trigger and slid the bolt. People contorted from the awful shock and pain of being shot in the torso, as he usually did. He missed low when he did miss. In those moments when he was present for violence, his pain and weakness dissapeared and pure homicidal rage overcame him. He couldn't help himself and killed people that would have submitted if they'd had a chance. He took maddening pleasure in seeing himself as a killer, a monster. But, they wouldn't have survived long after having thier equipment taken and thier companions killed, so there was no loss in killing them, it seemed.
Although he didn't realise it, these moments were flooding his system with adrenaline, which fought off the effects of radiation sickness and improved his chances of surviving.
All that he saw were dead people. Millions had died in two days. Everyone that had survived, such as themselves, thier victims, and those that they had yet to meet, were simply overdue for a horrific death. He knew that this was in store for his companion and himself too. His conscience was at rest because of this. He'd lived his life without aspirations, or ambitions. He had installed himself into sedentiary positions, working only for the money, and concerning himself with how good he could feel- right now. And then all of this happy horseshit happened, disastrously disrupting even his short term schedule, and depositing him in the midst of what would seem to be an ideal situation. Great sufferning juxtaposed with great elation, and the finality of himself very very real at last. Not like when he would say that he preferred to die at 32, now he knew, within, that he was unlikely to see his next birthday, his 24th. Even if he survived that long he would not note the day, nobody remembered dates now.
And for some reason, this depressed him. Then came the thought: "What, now you're unahppy too! What's wrong with you, you ungrateful sod!?" Which was true, he was never content with anything. But then came the thought of all those people that he'd killed, they had had feelings too, probably feelings more sophisticated and superior to his. People that could be capable of contentment. But they were dead, and he was alive, for now, with meant that what occured in his mind still meant something, and they would be remembered. Carried with him. They replaced the space where his humanity used to be.
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