There was no need for the Postman to check the address of the lone envelope in his satchel. Even if he hadn't read it over twice already, the thread in his mind would lead him straight to the recipient. He did it anyway, enjoying the feel of paper on his hands, even though some of his fingers were little more than irradiated flesh and bone.

An actual envelope. It was rare for someone in these times to bother finding an envelope to put their message in, but Ben Dawson had bothered, and the Postman appreciated it greatly. He delivered all mail regardless of packaging, but he particularly wanted to deliver this one solely due to Mr. Dawson's consideration.

The terrain the Postman was presently walking through was about as ordinary as they came. The empty street in front of him was littered with trash and hunks of metal that had probably been cars at some point, dead and cracked streetlamps hanging overhead. The sky was gray as always, a roiling mass of dry clouds that never rained. Towering apartment complexes and run-down stores were lined up like massive dominoes, many of the larger buildings tilting or collapsed. There wasn't a whole window to be seen on the whole street, but plenty of boards.

Tucking the envelope back in his satchel, the Postman began his trek to the other side of the city. The road might have been uneven, but the Postman had dealt with far worse than a twisted ankle.

The sound of crumpling wood drew the Postman's attention to a nearby shop that had once been painted a rather cheery blue. The paint was all but faded by now, but the sign above it was still barely legible; something about bait and tackle. He had no idea what the door had looked like, a side effect of its having just been crushed by a primuth.

Shaking its triangular head, the primuth waddled out into the street. Given that the Postman was the only thing standing in the street, it promptly noticed him and reared to its back legs. Tongues slipping in and out of its absurdly wide mouth, it asked him if he was food. He shook his head. "I'm the Postman."

It tilted its head in a universal gesture of confusion. The Postman ignored it, turning to continue on his route. He sensed more than heard the primuth start following him, and he sighed. "Please stop following me. You will startle the human I'm delivering this envelope to." He held up the letter in question. The primuth stared at him blankly, then asked him if he was food again. He shook his head again. "I'm told I taste bad."

The primuth grimaced visibly. Lowering itself back to all sixes, it shook its scales clean of dust and slunk back to the shop it'd come from. The Postman noted it down. Primuths were not the brightest of creatures, but at least they were usually polite to the few people who could speak to them. The key was to lie; the amphibians were notoriously gullible. Although in the present case, the Postman had been telling the truth with regards to his taste and the negative connotations relating to it.

Sliding the envelope back into his satchel, the Postman continued on his way. There was only so much time in a day, and he would wait to use it until it could afford to be spent. Which reminded him...

Rolling his shirtsleeve back, he took a look at the digital watch on his wrist, the only piece of technology on his person. Tech was rarely reliable and even more rarely useful, but he'd grown fond of this particular watch. The readout displayed two thirty-eight, but he wasn't checking the time. "How long?"

The digits flickered and then were replaced by a slow scroll of text.

The Postman addressed the watch in the only he knew how; calmly and clearly. "No, I don't. How long?"

"I'm not dead."

"No. How long?"

The watch died with an almost comical beep. Pushing his sleeve back down, the Postman slung his satchel a little higher up on his shoulder and kept walking. A cold wind blew around him, brushing along what was left of his skin and bringing the taste of dead uranium with it. The ground rumbled as a distant building collapsed. Rats fled from their rooftop perches, trying to find relatively safer places.

A muffled beep drew the Postman's attention to his watch, and he rolled his sleeve up. The watch held a different readout now. A series of numbers, counting down. Zero zero zero zero one nine. The Postman nodded to himself; not much longer to go. He covered the watch up before it could throw another witticism in his direction. He'd had enough to last a dozen lifetimes.

So much time for him, so little time for everyone else. The mail had to be delivered soon.

He paused as he came to a chasm in the road. It stretched a full sixty feet across, the bottom nowhere to be seen. At some point in time, an office building had collapsed on top of it. A sizable chunk of the construction in question was now missing, presumably at the bottom of the abyss before him.

Turning, he found a window close to the ground and pulled the frame out. Stepping through, he paused to observe the interior. The almost horizontal walls were painted a dull yellow, patches of plaster peeling away to expose the insulation and rotting wood behind it. At the outside of it all was crumbling cinderblock, not yet reduced to so many crumbs of stone by the oncoming reach of time.

Shaking his thoughts away, he made his way up the former wall to where the crumbling edge hung over the chasm. Giving the endless depth a brief glance, he jumped across and skidded to a stop on the other side. Almost the moment he landed, the ledge he'd leaped from cracked, and then toppled down, disappearing from sight in mere seconds. He never heard it land.

RIghting his cap, he turned around and slid through a shattered window back onto the street. A small cloud of dust rose from the cracked asphalt, and he straightened.

Some distance away, a dilapidated skyscraper loomed against the horizon. It appeared as though a bomb had gone off near the top, a sizable crater punched through the upper third big enough to fly a chopper through. The bottom floor's windows were covered up by sheets of plywood, thin slots cut into some of them to provide some semblance of windows, or more likely to allow for space to fire a weapon through. All things considered, it was a remarkably stable building.

His watch beeped, notifying him that the timer had finished.

Heading over to the wood-covered double doors at the base of the building, he raised a rotting hand and knocked, giving it two hard raps. A long silence followed.

The Postman waited for a full minute, marked by the watch, and knocked again. He heard something behind the doors, the sound of scuffling shoes and rattling weapons. They paused just behind the door, and then a gruff voice shouted, "Go away. We're armed, whoever you are."

Noting the language and accent, he switched to the correct dialect and calmly called, "I'm the Postman. I have a letter for Maria from Ben Dawson."

He could hear their silence, and the short-lived argument that followed. After a few seconds, one door cracked open. A green eye slid into view and looked him up and down. Disappearing briefly, there was the sound of a rusty padlock disengaging, and the door opened.

There were three people in front of him. A tall, lanky man with curly brown hair and scant body armor over ragged clothes, holding a makeshift knife. A bear of a man with a frizzy beard, wielding a metal baseball bat. A startlingly relaxed woman, eyeing the Postman coolly, a polished revolver dangling in one hand.

The largest man spoke first, his voice firm and cautious, but not rude. "I've never seen the Postman myself, but you sure look like you'd be it."

Speaking out of the side of his mouth, the other man said, "Clyde, it's probably a trick. It could be one of the skinners. I say we shoot it in the head to be sure."

The woman raised her revolver, aiming for the Postman's head. "Sounds like a plan to me."

Clyde put a shovel-sized hand out, placing it on the muzzle of the gun. "Now hang on a moment, Dahlia. If it is the Postman, I'd rather not tick it off." Facing the Postman, he asked, "Can you prove you're real?"

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The Postman stared him in the eye. "Clyde Marley." Turning to the other man, he stated, "Bob Martin." Facing the woman, he finished, "Dahlia Parton."

Clyde let out a low whistle, removing his hand from Dahlia's gun. "I'll be. It really is you."

Dahlia didn't lower her gun. "Okay, it's the Postman. So what?"

The Postman flicked the flap of his satchel open and reached inside. "I have a letter for Mari-"

Before he could finish, Dahlia fired. The sound was enormous, thundering throughout the empty street, but the Postman only took note of the distinct knowledge that there was now a hole through the side of his ear.

A stunned silence followed, the Postman with one hand partially in his satchel and everyone else watching him. The faintest of rumbling could be heard as unseen creatures voiced their indignation at the person who attacked the only truly neutral party on the planet. Clyde's grip on his bat tightened. Dahlia's eyes flicked back and forth between the Postman and the road behind him. Bob looked like he was ready to run.

The Postman's eyes were flat as he reached further into his satchel and removed an envelope. The quiet background noise coming from the street died; the Postman displayed no ill will. Holding it out, he said bluntly, "Ben Dawson used an envelope. I am here to deliver his letter."

Clyde reached out and grabbed Dahlia's gun, forcing it down and putting a smile on his face. The Postman could see emotion boiling like an unwatched pot behind his eyes. "I'd be happy to take you. She's been anxious for news about her husband - she'll be glad to know he's alive."

A subtle hint of worry snuck into the Postman's mind. Ben had given him the letter because he'd been heading for a Pripyatic mobile reactor, which was a death trap on a good day and a nest for who knew what on a bad day. They were ostentatious, suspicious, and above all else, all too willing to open fire. Even the Postman tended to avoid them. To say Ben's odds weren't great would be an understatement of a high degree.

Shaking his thoughts away, the Postman told Clyde, "No need. I know where she is." This close to the recipient, the Postman could almost taste the electric buzz in the air, a distinct itch telling him exactly where to go.

Clyde's expression tightened microscopically, but then he nodded. Accepting it as an acknowledgment, the Postman walked into the building. As he headed further in, he heard Clyde begin berating Dahlia, Bob trying to get between them.

The base was not well-maintained. The ashes of a dozen campfires were scattered around the first floor, fragments of what had once been furniture and had ended up as fuel lying nearby. Studs had been pried from the peeling walls, presumably for either kindling or weaponry, and the gaps stood out like missing teeth. At the other end of the building was a lit fire.

Three more people were around it, one lying down and the other staring into its flames. The Postman disregarded two of them as the itch built to an unbearable level, and he went straight for the woman watching the licks of fire snake towards the ceiling, smoke curling upwards and merging with the thin layer already crowding the ceiling. She was dressed in rough, patched pants and a sewn-together shirt.

She glanced up as he approached, tired eyes widening in surprise. She jumped to her feet. "Who - how'd you get in!?"

The Postman held the letter out to her. "I'm the Postman. I have a letter from Ben for you."

Maria stared at him for a long moment, fear warring with hope until she snatched it from his hands. He couldn't help but wince as she tore the envelope open and yanked the letter from inside, trying to ignore the sound of ripping paper. Her eyes scanned it back and forth. He could actually see it as the tension left her shoulders, eyes moistening. Once she was done, she hugged the letter close to her chest and closed her eyes, swaying slightly. The Postman politely waited for her moment to be done.

Finally, she opened her eyes and jumped as she realized the Postman was still standing there. Folding the letter, she slipped it into her shirt and smoothed the fabric, patting herself down and avoiding eye contact. "I have a letter I'd like delivered to Ben."

With a topic he could focus on, the Postman straightened. "Do you have an envelope?" 

She shook her head apologetically, not noticing the hint of irritation on the Postman's face. "No, but..." She glanced down and saw the discarded envelope, and brightened. Picking it up, she brushed it off. "Okay, now I do. I'll - I'll be right back, I need to write some things down." 

Turning, she walked around a corner, muttering words under her breath as she did. The Postman stood there, trying to process the fact that this madwoman wanted to reuse an envelope. He honestly wasn't sure if he could even accept it. Was it a return-to-sender, or did it now classify as junk mail? It wasn't an issue he'd had to deal with before.

A tug on his pant leg alerted him to the other person sitting at the fire. It was a young boy, curly black hair hanging around the bags under his solemn eyes. "Who are you?" 

"I'm the Postman." The Postman waited for the boy to introduce himself, but he never did. He looked slightly surprised, but he didn't say anything after that. 

The Postman's watch beeped, and he rolled his sleeve up to check it.

He pushed his sleeve down. The boy stared at him. "What's that?" 

"A watch."

"What's it for?" 

"Keeping time and making jokes." 

His eyes widened slightly. "It talks?" 

"Yes. It talks too much." 

An indignant beep came from the Postman's wrist, and he clamped a hand around it. The boy scooted a little closer, folding his legs under him. "Is it a boy watch or a girl watch?" 

The Postman's forehead creased. "Neither." 

The boy sat there for a moment, clearly expecting further information, but sat back when none was forthcoming. The Postman stood straighter, keeping his eye on the corner Maria had disappeared around. The person sleeping nearby rolled onto their back, mumbling something through their sleep. 

"How do you deliver mail?" 

He was a little confused by the question. "I'm given a letter or package. I deliver it to the recipient."

The boy nodded solemnly. "Okay, but how do you find them?" 

The Postman considered the query for a moment. "I have a sense that guides me to them."

After a moment, the boy walked over to his bedroll, picking it up and pulling a yellowing and crinkled piece of paper from underneath the pillow. Turning to the Postman, he held it out and asked, "Can you take my letter?" 

"Who do you want me to take it to?" The Postman managed to look at him and the corner Maria had gone around at the same time, which probably looked a little odd in retrospect. 

The boy didn't seem to mind. He carefully and tediously folded the letter in his hands, making sure the lines were satisfyingly crisp and that the corners all lined up. "Can you take it to my mom and dad?" 

The Postman nodded and held a bony hand out, and the boy stared at it. The Postman wondered what he was waiting for. 

Before he could put the letter in the Postman's hand, Maria came back. She'd pulled her hair back into a rough ponytail, using a simple rubber band as a scrunchie. He couldn't figure out why she'd cleaned up, but then he saw the emergency ax in her hands. "Hey, Postman. I was thinking about it, and I realized a letter isn't going to be enough. So I want you to deliver this, and I'm going to follow you." 

The boy stared at her in shock. "You can't go outside! Clyde says so."

A flash of anger crossed her face before she knelt, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Dan, I'm a fully grown adult. I can make my own decisions, and hang whatever Clyde says." Standing, she presented the Postman with the envelope he'd brought, a thin strip of tape holding it closed. "I'm ready to go whenever you are." 

The Postman nodded bluntly. If this woman wanted to go into the apocalypse with nothing more than an ax, it was her funeral. Possibly in a more literal sense than usual. 

"What's going on?" Clyde walked straight for them, looking at the Postman with an unmistakable expression of distrust. Dahlia and Bob followed close behind, glaring at each other.

Maria straightened. "Good, you're here. I'm going with the Postman to find Ben. Thanks for letting me stay here."

She held a hand out, her gaze challenging the larger man's. His eyes narrowed. "You can't leave."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you going to stop me?" 

"If I have to."

He didn't sound malicious, but his voice was flat. Maria's expression hardened. "Clyde, get out of my way. There's only one thing in this whole crappy world that's worth living for, and the Postman can find him. I'm not going to waste my life surviving here if I can spend it living with Ben." 

Dan tugged on the Postman's leg again, distracting him from the intriguing conversation. Pulling his hand down, Dan put his letter in it and told him quietly, "I want you to take this to my mom and dad, okay?" 

The Postman nodded, folding the letter away in his satchel. Standing straight, he announced, "I have a letter and a place to deliver it to. I'll be leaving unless someone else has business." 

Maria stepped back, raising her ax. "I have business, Postman. You're delivering my letter, and I'm coming with you." 

Clyde stepped forward, his voice low and reasonable. "Maria. Think about what you're doing. You're the only person here who knows how to cook meat properly. If you leave, we'll starve without you." 

Dahlia raised her gun again, aiming at Maria's leg. "You don't need to walk to cook, do you? Stand down, before you can't stand at all." 

Bob waved his arms in a panic, almost dropping his knife in the process. "Whoa, wait a minute! Everybody calm down. What if you get an infection!? Infections can kill people too!" 

The Postman reached out to take the torn envelope from Maria, and Clyde's hand clamped down on his wrist. He slowly raised his eyes to stare at the bigger man. "Let go." 

"Are you going to take that letter?"

"Of course." 

"Then no." 

The Postman calmly grabbed Clyde's forearm and squeezed. Clyde's mouth opened in wordless shock and pain as the Postman pried his hand off, and then relinquished his grip. Clyde stumbled back, holding onto his arm over the reddening handprint and crouching, sucking quick breaths in between his teeth. Taking Maria's letter, the Postman put it in his satchel and turned for the door. 

The barrel of Dahlia's gun pushed into his forehead. "Don't move, or I'll shoot." 

Ignoring her, the Postman stepped around her and headed for the doors. He sensed more than saw Maria start to follow him, and the barrel swung to her. Bob put a hand on her shoulder. "Dahlia, calm down. Let him leave." 

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of the Postman's shoes tapping the cement floor. Finally, a muttered "Fine." came from Dahlia, and Maria started to follow the Postman. 

Clyde's grip landed on her shoulder like a vise. "I'm sorry about this, Maria. But we need you more than Ben does." 

The Postman didn't see her expression, but he heard her crumple to the floor. 

Once outside, he paused. There was only one guide in the air, and it led back in the direction he'd come from. He started walking, fully aware of the implications. 

He wasn't going to be the one to tell Dan.