M- Violence, Blood, Language, Death, Nudity, Sexual themes, Alcohol or drug use.
The empty roads of dirt are riddled with a stench of decay, rippling through the air for miles around. The buildings crumble to the will of fires burning from a constant supply of unfiltered and flammable gases, born into the skies by way of the forgotten corpses. The cloudy skies are dense with corrupted particles that bleed into the atmosphere; making clean and fresh oxygen, in some areas unobtainable. Even the rains, when they do come, are feared for their acidic nature and coveted for their possible brewing of fresh water. Within this small, once large and prime settlement, the sounds of men who cower like mice echo in the silence. They work and toil their days away looking for any item that can prove useful to their survival. For some, they seek only for themselves, while others protect their offspring and their precious collections of junk.
Distant sounds of gunfire pluck their strings in the long missed silence of the moonless nights, and within the dreams of the mice cowering in fear, they are reminiscent of a more simple sound. Their echoes play music for us, and while we sleep clocks, the creaking of floors, the flipping of a lock, all contribute to this melody. Not a single twenty four hours goes by that the world doesn’t awaken to heat, breeding the hatred of men on a foreign battleground, which used to serve as a place for a welcome mat.
The signs above train tunnels now read inoperable and only show us the military time on digital clocks, still somehow running even after all the wreckage fell. Crumpled buildings sit, lifeless as the travelers pick them cleaning, leaving near nothing for the rats in the warrens, whether or not those “rats” are men, or mice. There are few signs of hope, until a foreigner, donning the impressive armor, or the wanderer comes plagued with dehydration. That is the hope for those of “The Warrens.”
The old ruins of many cities around the world look and act no different than the description written by a wandering journalist. The “mice”, the “rats”, most of those are metaphors for people who just try to survive. The truth of the matter is what is out there is no less frightening than what has been written. A great many places still hold their walls, and have become strongholds for the powers at be, but the entire crust of the Earth is nothing more than a battleground of smoldering hell. Like coals to the fire, the battles feed the hunger and birth even more scars across the world.
Where ever you choose, to rest your head, know this. On Earth, in our little slab of Utopia, there are no ore heroes, no end, just hell.