For Children of Sands

On a miniscule dotted line between Austin and Eureka two dust buffed, sand scratched black cars sped across a cracked line of tarmac which cut across the horizon of red and orange, a sea of misery and lost hope. Or as some may say, last hope.

The 1967 Cadillac ploughed on after the battered mustang Shelby of the identical age. Both vehicles had patches of different colours, some red, some silver, most unidentifiable. As they rode across the heat cracked tarmac the suspensions creaked in protest, the gas peddles were only jammed harder down and the cars would cough out clouds of pollution; Not that it would matter now.

The window of the mustangs front passengers seat was rolled down roughly. From the rusting window frame appeared a black clad figure which climbed out gingerly. The man clung onto the roof of the vehicle with his cracked nails, he racked back the dry tendrils of his short soot black hair which had became a strange shade of beige due to the skittering on flowing waves of sand and wind. He strained his pale blue eyes to look into the distance, from where the cars had sped like crazed dogs. With more haste he soon ducked back into the narrow window frame of the vehicle and desperation closed the window to hide from the harsh winds.

Once back in the safety of the vehicle his shuck the sand from the folds of the scuffed leather jacket and scraped the pestering grains from his scalp.

“Did you see them? We killed them all, right?” Impatiently questioned the driver of the mustang who was of a similar demeanour. He grinned widely at his passenger as his blood stained knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “C’mon Andy! Did we get them all?” The man persisted.

Grimacing ‘Andy’ turned his grime tousled paling face away from his companions bloodied features. “Yeah Jake, we got them all.” He muttered softly, showing no enthusiasm.

As the half filled canisters of petrol sloshed on the amateurely patched back seats and empty glass bottles rattled across the floor the VHF radio crackles to life, patching through a static broken voice.

“What did your elf eyes see, Legolas?” A man spoke humorously in an over dramatized voice. A chorus of laughter echoed across the radio link.

“The parasites are dead as dead can be!” Jake exclaimed, an immature grin split across his dust polished typically stoic mask.

“What he said!” Andy’s voice picked up a spark of life as he grabbed the communicator from Jake’s clammy hands. “Not a single corpse twitching. You did the trick, Rambo.” He smirked softly.

“Maybe you should have joined in too.” The reply was barely audible over the battle cry of “death to the fucking parasites”.

“Mirkwood Prince to Tank Girl.” Andy spoke across the radio while biting through his laughter, “I repeat, Mirkwood Prince to Tank Girl. Save your goddamn amo!”

“Aye aye, captain!” Came the reply in a very fake gruff Texas accent. Another chorus of laughter broke out. This time the entire ragtag team of peculiar outcasts joined in.

As the adrenaline pumped driver of the mustang violated the hoarse horn of the ageing car the remains of a massacre cooked upon the heat cracked tarmac painted with tire skid marks. Guts splayed across the heated surface in green and brown ribbons as yellowing crushed bones idolized the grey with bullet shells and unidentifiable remains of something that was no longer human.

After miles of tarmac and dunes, ghost towns began to break the even yellow line of the horizon. What used to be homes, schools and stores became grey huts and ruins. Signs became bleached by the sun, store windows became ridden with dirt and cobwebs.

In dragging silence the cars passed these graveyards. With a dull glare Andy watched the slums pass by. A country of dreams and freedom now a landfill of walking corpses and dunes. In the well needed silence he wondered what kind of a neighbourhood this had been once. Who walked these streets and where were they going, what kind of people lived in these homes once and where did they come from?

Three years ago these towns would have been thriving. In Los Angeles, Andy would have never considered to ever take a second glance at a stranger that passed him by, he would have never considered that he may miss the chaotic melody of voices and clammer of feet. Now even a pariah like himself misses the sight of a new unfamiliar face and the sound of a different voice.

The group of survivors kept on trailing through the width of Nevada, they would pause only to refill fuel tanks and rummage through rundown gas stations and stores. Canisters would be filled with petrol and handgun magazines replenished.

The group kept on moving, kept on trudging on through the deserts and ghost towns while clutching their weapons instinctively in their battle calloused hands and keeping their radio crackled conversations afloat.

For the residents of the new world this routine had became natural and the unavoidable bloodshed a second nature. The children didn’t scream. The soft hearted mothers didn’t question their own motives. Their skins hardened too fast and their minds became too heavy with worry.

This new world; where two words floated around you every second of the day, a whisper of the dead. "Good luck."

Ironic when you probably have to run from a hoard of screaming undead every other day and you have one half empty magazine left in your nine millimetre pistol. Ironic.

The developing system of the survival of the fittest would not have been questioned if it were to exist. The remaining population of the United States of America only craved to see a human face which would not rip away your flesh at the first glance and gurgle cheerfully as you became it’s dinner.

Welcome to the new world; the school hall pariahs are the heroes, the outlaws are the providers; the churches are the sanctuaries and charitable giving hands are only the dreams of yesterday.

Good luck.

Notes