A Stroke Of Luck

, a touch of Premeditated mischief, flood of irradiated rain water pooled into streams flowing around the entangled masses of the wrestling root tentacles, a pyre of boredom fueled adventurous hearts dragged the two brothers into the dense jungle swamped trenches of called the “Cedar Syringe Forrest”. A place characterized my it’s awe inducing infinite torrent of tooth barked trees, a labyrinth of nature reminding it’s visitors they are no longer the supreme beings in the universe. The seducing, paralysis inducing intimidation of the Black Atlas Cedar ‘spire pines’ seizing the sky with its urchin blitzkrieg of neon colored pine needles ranging from yellow to orange, to corral pink, in lieu of the dominant season. This was the end of the yellow season pushing toward orange with some hints of coral. The cerulean fumes seethed from the cacophony of chemicals in the fresh rain minted marsh streams, that transmuted the air into a glimmering blue haze of throat constricting , humidity dense fog.

The caravan of two youths adventured deeper than they’ve delved during previous perilous peregrinations, eluding the pervasive supervision supervision of their eagle eyed mother, beyond her permissible limits that were of reasonable sanity. Adventure and excitement often attempt to form an alliance against reason, sanity and rigidity, with it’s insatiable allure of uncertainty intervening with the perpetual march of the mundane. The two brothers waded through the flowing , sometimes knee deep pharmaceutical fluid that could generously be called “water”, their sleek steel boots scouring for any stable path they could detect with their feet, a slick rock was still better bet that than sinking your whole leg into a sludge of untrustworthy muck. The fog was a was darker shade of blue, an impersonation of dusk in a London harbor even if it was just barley noon, an enchantment of some vampire to repudiate the already cloud smothered sun. The older brother Vance led the way with a conservative haste, sleek full body armor of some non reflective bright colored stainless steel composite, easy to see in the slurry of rain, he was young but difficult living and athletic genetics made him look beyond his age, he could pass for a daunted 24 year old compared to soft citadel dwellers. Years of learning everything on his own made him a natural teacher and role model, to his brother, and even in some ways to his mom. His static charged, bleach burned orange hair could be seen overflowing pressed against the illuminated glass of his of his enclosed helmet visor like a sphere vault that had become infested with marmalade, with select isolated strands catching enough internal florescent light to match some of the neon pines, while his disregard for shaving regimes left his face a prickly minefield of gold and orange, that became a hazard for the girls at his church. The body of his armor were sleek slabs of steel that were more blocky contours of musculature, that was held together by a midnight navy blue leather jumpsuit to the fully incorporated gauntlets, for elite seamless protection from the natural and unnatural elements. Equipped with an oversized belt housing a bandolier of charge packs that looked clunky compared to the more slender armor plating, with a drooping holster hanging over one of the metal thigh guards, for impetuous uncomplicated fire arm access. These were legacy suits of armor for war foragers which became more and more ubiquitous as even the domestic wildlands became more indisposed with fallout. Zaith was an albino who’s skin was even a shade more pale than his brother’s poltergeist white skin, making resemble an undead incarnation of Harry Potter with his semi transparent skin revealing the dark blue veins in his neck, and the lightning bolt shaped one on his forehead. His hair was a more sleek and relaxed platinum blond color, that echoed his mother’s side of the family, his red eyes with his frost white eyebrows, made him appear more sullen than he ever was, but the gloomy blue light made his eyes look a dull fuchsia color that made him seem more calm and relaxed amidst his kin of trees. Zaith was nearly the antithesis of his brother, years younger but his mind was beyond its age, unlike his body he was only slightly shorter at his age, but he lacked the supernatural savant athleticism of his brother, he was more of and indoor cat. He was more frail and clumsy than he wanted to be, his body could never seem to match the same octane as his brain, but that was okay. He and his brother worked well together, Zaith would follow his brother to the end of the world and back, but he wasn’t one to lead the charge, he was a thinker, a speculator, and spectator, even at super young age Vance was always getting them into trouble , and Zaith was always thinking of the way out, together they were an invincible duo.

Vance was the only person Zaith really admired besides his mom, and his father felt like a distant relative to whom he had only had bits pieces of cherished memory fragments of, even when his dad returned from the war it felt like not all of him came back, he seemed always slightly mired by something, a haunting replicant had replaced him with just enough personality too fool everyone but him, or maybe he was fooling nobody, and the rest of the family just chose not to see it. But it was different with Vance, he had some sort of unsinkable confidence in his dad

“A dormant torch of memories with dad from before the war must still burn within him, but that’s my brother! He never stops believing in people, I wish could more faith in the world like that.” Zaith Studiously conjectured to himself while following his brother autonomously, as he was more interested in combing through his thoughts than the tricky terrain. Zaith followed in his more outdated gaudy armor, with unessential aesthetic adornments plagued by rust splotches. It was a captain’s sub-nautical combat capable model looking like a hybrid of lavish roman gladiator armor mixed with an ancient brass deep sea diving suit with his glass visor only revealing half of his eyes and the bottom of his face, that was previously abused by his older brother until it began to fit him better. Their suits both had built in digital Geiger counters giving off periodical crackling noises of varying intensity, like listening to some freshly opened soda fizz. They enjoyed navigating the Forrest and mapping out paths by leaving reminders, such a carvings and voids of foliage, at interesting land marks they came across some of which, were abandoned structures who’s custody was won by the wilderness, or natural “Dead Zones” where there were somehow odd absences of radiation. They knew these woods better than the game wardens, who’s numbers were frugal, and ranks spread thin. Normally they were given a lot of tasks to maintain their abode, which were strictly enforced by their mother, but she gave them Sundays and Saturdays to enjoy as they wish, with the exception of church attendance, which they despised, not because they actually hated church and socializing, but because it was precious free time they could use to go on expeditions. Even losing two hours shortened a lot of the ground they could cover and chart into their routes before the absolute blackness could maroon them for the night. They both had their own version of a geographic density map printed on the wall in there rooms they would continually update with new route lines and landmarks they enjoyed coining new titles for. Their suits kept track of their exact lines of movement when they wanted it to, so updating a route or splintering it into two paths was a seamless process. Now their maps both looked like big red flower shaped conjunction of lines, or a very very complicated overambitious network of subway tunnels in some more unhinged version of New York City public transit system, engineered by a delirious charlatan that was perhaps charismatic enough to sell people on one of his exorbitantly elaborate episodes of madness, while suffering from the mouth foam symptoms of rabies and malaria combined, that together, were still not strong enough to overcome his evangelical fortuitous ascension into roles of authority. Gargantuan tobacco stalks beamed up from below the tangled roots systems along the banks irrigated by the irradiated streams of coolant fluid, like some enormous leaf hoisting tarantula legs that would occasionally slap against their suits and they brazenly bounced between points of most secure points of terrain they could reasonably leap to. Their accustomed suitable routes sometimes were digested by the oppressive precipitation periods.

“Glad to see you’re not getting winded bro! Looks like you’re actually getting in shape” Taunted Vance jokingly a he chimed in on his wireless helmet to helmet communication system by lightly holding the barley pronounced dome shaped button on the exterior of the helmet , just below where the ear would be, slightly altering his cheerful mid tone voice, as if it was coming through a grocery store intercom.

“We’ll I only seem to get winded when you get us lost out here” Zaith chimed back with a disgruntled roar with his raspier half mumbled deeper toned voice.

“Wouldn’t even be half as much fun if we already knew exactly where we’re going or what we’re doing, we’ve got enough boring back at the farm for the both of us. But I think we’re almost to ‘Cedar Sire’ we’re actually making good time for once, even in this precipitation!” Cedar Sire was the actual name of the place at one time, one the duo’s more familiar pit-stop landmarks to reassure them they weren’t taken hostage by the colluding condescending dimension of wilderness, one of their surrogate refuge destinations away from home. It was once a well functioning small town established in the post apocalyptic renaissance era. A quaint city overtaken by gangs of renegade trees, rendering the city’s structures unsuitable, and the town’s functionality disabled. What was once home to a thriving community of humans was now a thieves den of plunderous vermin folk, scampering delightfully into lumber skewered hulls of many traditional red brick buildings, assaulted by the carnage of time, and the dereliction of it’s stewards. It was a marvel of near forgotten history of a time between wars. The sidewalks, asphalt streets were remarkably still in tact, except for the few eruptions of the black atlas cedars challenging their prevalence. It was another dysfunctional second home the boys could call their own, It was a dichotomy of pristine preservation, as if the rain had somehow altered time and placed some parts in cryogenic suspension, while other sections suffered under the tyranny of the gluttonous jaws of the jungle. Some of which looked liked some sort of fertilized grenades had detonated and basted chunks from the deformed unidentifiable structures. Adjacent to the wide terrace of the library’s concrete steps, was the The brick faced clock tower with a still beating heart of an illuminated moon yellow clock dial, who’s scathing gaze could be felt everywhere in the city, unless obfuscated by the shadows of a brick whale. It was laced with a cocoon of enthralling vines, as if some centipede spaghetti kraken centennial was enveloping the tilting structure into the seclusion of a mud mired fracking cauldron.

“Here we are again, home sweet home!” Announced Vance as he could see the city through the foliage clogged artery of the jungle. The two darted more eagerly up a collection of fractured stone slabs that once to added up to a concrete staircase, who’s still standing steel rail was the only fossil that could report it’s actual existence. The two boys made their way to it’s plateau summit, A concourse of side walks wrapping around a street corner, that could behold the library across the street. They stopped at the top, to bash all but the most resilient chunks of mud off of their metal boots, clanking them against the concrete with the help of the the greasy rain’s lubricative properties. They stood next to a green painted obelisk street lantern suffering from a metal based leprosy of rust that now controlled more territory than the dense green exoskeleton of paint. Attached to this particular street illuminator was a dark engraved brass plaque facing where the old staircase had been, was a sign saying “Welcome to Cedar Sire: est. 226 AAE (after annihilation era). A testament to the fact the slither of human progress could not be so easily thwarted by an atomic apocalypse. “It’s only seldom past noon” Noticed Zaith remarking as he noticed the partially visible sky was a softer azure blue, that could be seen in the buzz saw shaped clearing behind the city. An amputated circular withholding in the veil of the cloisterous canopy’s cartilage of branches, that were wallowing in submissive jujitsu techniques of the wind , who’s jurisdiction was undermined by the constitute of human architecture.

“Let’s chill out here for a bit before we get stared again” Declared Vance

“Sound’s good” Zaith affirmed.

“I’m Gonna go sift through some of the old rubble in the old police fortress, well meet back here in an hour, if not I’ll come find you in one of you’re usual spot’s.” Said Vance with a stare seduced with intrigue.

“Yeah, you know me, I’ll probably be at the library or up in the old apartment building.” Zaith replied.

Their Geiger counters were remarkably quiet with the faintest crackle every minute or so, as close as one could get to a natural dead zone.

Both brothers brushed their hands over a seamless button camouflaged by the designs of their helmets. Their helmets released a gasping squeal as the seal of pressurized air escaped their cranial chamber, while their glass visors sheathed into the helmets, like the wind on a car door.

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“Damn that fresh air feels amazing!” Exclaimed Vance who actually took off his entire helmet with a big sigh of freedom. His bushy cyclone of sweaty red hair was forced into a more aerodynamic shape by the rain ridden breeze. Drops of the unfreezable water began to collect in his hair like meteors getting caught in sponge. He Put his helmet on to his shoulder locking it into place with some ingenious mechanism of convenience. “I’m going ‘dark’ for a minute bro, don’t have a panic attack if you can’t reach me for a while, I’ll find you, I always do!” He said with a flare of elderly brother arrogance and a tooth exposing smirk. , as he walk with an imperative sense of urgency away from his sibling. He loved adventuring with his brother, especially now that he was old enough to reasonably fend for himself for a little while. “It’s nice to have little time away from baby sitting duty, I've taught him well I’m sure he’ll be fine.” He reassured himself, still holding a fragment of his brotherly responsibilities in the back of his mind.

Zaith rolled his eyes as his brother trotted across the glazed concrete

“Brother, why must you be so Intense.” He said to himself knowing no one was there to listen, with long drafted inhale showcasing his lethargic indifference to wandering around separately. Thinking “That’s how things always go wrong, we don’t, stick to plan, we split up, I swear he actually just loves to get us into trouble.”

Vance wrapped around the corner up one of the major city streets that ran all the way over to the clock tower, supervising the soaking city, that was a cemetery for a sedentary civilization. He now slowed his pace taking his time to politely patrol and admire , the precipitation preserved , appliance requiems of abandoned by it’s ancestors. Walking along several weathered storefronts like an exhibit of aliens, seeing which extraterrestrial lair was worth extra inspection. He made his way to another store with a curiously large courtyard, containing obsolete obelisks. “Peculiar… purveyors of petroleum?” He puzzled. He walked through the Greek Parthenon pillars supporting the platform above him next to the gas pumps. The grasp of curiosity’s clasp was draculously attached and frosted his advance. He walked up and glided his glove across he big glass walls of the convenient store. “A church? For commerce?” He murmured to himself as the commercialized design style was more acquainted with churches than businesses nowadays. He approached the obvious entrance, and one of the two automatic sliding doors was still functioning, and opened itself for him. the other door was gunked up by a ramen like siege of veins, and refused to do the same. He was right he thought “This is a church… For Rats” Entire tribes of a thriving rodent empire had formed in the absence of human intervention. They had built their cities an sky scrapers from the refuse of empty container’s and snack boxes, turning the shelves into a chaotic convention of chaos. The presence of his footsteps sent them into a pandemonium squeaks, as if Godzilla had stumbled upon their society. “Maybe these bastards are doing better job maintaining a society than us humans right now, huh? I mean at least rats don’t have wars. Do they?” He stood observing them for awhile before he decided to be on his way. “I've got almost an hour, I better get moving if get a better look inside that police palace.“ Which appeared to be a place of royalty or another to their jury rigged scrap scrounged improvisations to their aging family farm houses

That were the ubiquities of the rural dwellers. Which he had fond memories of, welding a staircase made of excess metal grates that his mom “Got a good deal on!” , to the front porch. He treaded onward at more meandering pace, absorbing as much of the historic irregularities who’s uncanny nature seem amplified by it’s uninhabitation or it’s clever invisible population. He walked several blocks on the sidewalk adjacent to the river of unused asphalt, that were in some areas coiled into mounds by anachronistic inauguration of roots and a confiscating coalition of trees, coagulating the dermatology of the territory, into rippling pools of wreckage. “About time!” He said having finally reached the imposing stoop with two saluting, gun wielding gargoyles atop pillars on each side of the stone stairs of the brick bearing physique of police station. It’s roof and doorways were crested with smoothed polished logs, with some sharpened like pencils tip jutting out at a 45 degree angle forming a halo of spears that would make even competent criminals second guess committing crimes.. located all the way at the other end of the town, it was on the corner before the bend at the end of the road, containing of the sprawling carcass of the train station, that was subdued by the clock tower harpooned through it’s glass cataract contracted chest cavity. Now newly remodeled into arboretum of posthumous paraphernalia, a nest of non-congenial nocturnal hyena-bear hybrids, who’s hunger hypertrophied them into less contentious carnivorous threats. The terrorous tenants somehow made the building more inoperable than it already was. The train station was once the only intended entrance of the prejudicial paradise, which was the main reason for city’s recession of residents, when the train tracks had been capsized by the contagious captivation of invasive habitats, like an avalanche of branches. “’Cedar Sire: Justice Administrazion Department’” He read off a plaque near the oddly welcoming glass entrance doors. “Pfffft… Justice for what? This place never had any crime, unless poverty was considered a crime back in the day? Or perhaps being a slander worthy pariah? This wold has no ‘justice’ anyway, at least none that anyone is actually enforcing, what a joke.” He thought with an air of arrogance. Reflecting once again on the sign he had read before, with less digestion on his earlier visit. He walked into the scantly lit building, with only sickly pale blue light dousing the silhouettes with an obscured glare, as it secreted it’s remaining solar energy through the drop drowned glass, like some kind of above ground mineshaft for darkness poisoned prisoners. He turned light module one located in his palm which a harsh illumination within its range. Despite his previous visits, he rarely had enough brother-less time to conduct thorough investigations. The reception area was a polished wood floor, with clumps of mud formed into a Jackson Pollock near the entry way, with seating area for those wishing to visit people ingested into the criminal justice system. He led himself down the forsaken hallway of charcoal color bricks. He perused into the viewing windows of each room, scanning their contents with his hand light as he passed by, scrying into several rooms, including multiple offices and a fitness center. Allured by the bewitched enchantment of ancestry upon the abandoned temple of law enforcement, he continued to stoke the flames of his curiosity. Until he came across a thick glossy beige vaulted door, with a face sized glass square viewing window, that was a sterilized territory of that looked like a more barbaric medical facility. An internment camp for objects who’s access was restricted, to even the most devoted faculty members for only a handful of sequestered minutes, from what he could gather. “Radioactive exposure in this room I’m guessing?” He assumed with a premature deduction. He slid the sledge of a metal door open, keeping a cantankerous ear on his suit’s Geiger counter for any potential invisible hazards, but it remained religiously calm. He saw a kiosk station with a desk nearby, with a lavish looking sign on the wall behind it that distinctified the room as the “Evidence Storage” area. The room had some sort of auxiliary power source allowing a beacon of perditionary crystalline green light to traverse the realms of mortality in very minuscule regions of quarantine, like a fluorescent bulb powered lighthouse within the dungeons of Hades casting an afflictionated aura of intruder siphoning decay, to prolong vitality in the dormitory of caliginous charged weaponry shrines. He lurked through aisles of shelves within the consecration chamber. His ghost blue eyes became solicited with a feverish avarice of prospecting some exhilarating cashes of a mythological arsenal, the likes of which were mostly impractical or inoperable antiques. But his nearly grotesque resolvancy for improvisational repurposement burned inside his mind, with a wild speculation of ingenuitous applications, based on knowledge of modern farming equipment mechanics and his occasional prophetic intuition. “Damn this stuff is interesting, but mostly garbage! There’s gotta be something cool in this decrepit filth shaft!” He told himself, in disbelief of the anti-charismatic properties of the provisions, or his own lack of creative deductions, after having sufficiently sifted through shelves of unsalvageable shit. But sometimes his best ideas came to him spontaneously, or overtime if he let the ingredients marinate long enough. “If it was easy it wouldn’t be cool I guess.” He told himself, remembering the historic phrase “You can’t rush greatness.” as it may have loosely applied here. “There was one other place I wanted to check before I left…” He muttered, as another provocative secondary investigation destination descended upon his now inviting mind, as he exhumed himself from the room, and resumed to the light-less labyrinth of refuse residue, and gloom of his prior origin. But he was now racing a burning fuse, trying to undo time’s slimy glue, balancing the brevity and thoroughness of his searches with the delicate artisan-ship of hawkish assailant immune to being subdued. Vance’s metal boots dinged against the brick tiles illuminating the path before him cutting through the mist of ink. “Let’s see if there’s a commander’s office.” He thought, as he now escalated his speed with a anxious jolt of fury. He approached a room toward the back of the facility that was preceded by a more casual looking carpeted hallway with two opulently carved wooden doors. He kicked the locked door open in blatant disregard for the building’s seniority. The room had stagnant musk of delinquent fumes, from the sewage soaked ceiling draining it’s sulking wounds into several drizzles channeling from above. The room was a vast vacant tomb of some now unimportant man who used to be chief of this instillation. It had a window wall overseeing the seemingly infinite widowing caucus of trees, congesting the barley visible skylight with their serpentine strangulation of branches, who’s shadowy breach of undergrowth could not be distinguished from the murky depths of the fathomless insidiousy of the swamp’s incarcerating currents of carcinogens. The light halved itself though the weather extorted glass, making it the only the only room with natural unaided visibility, the window poured a majority of it’s enfeeblized light across two once lavish couches separated by a glass paneled coffee table, that was assembled from dismantled pieces of some pharaoh's misappropriated sarcophagus and could comfortably host a monotony of politicians. Faux columns interlocked with the walls scrawling toward the vaulted ceiling giving the illusion of grandiosity. The room was governed by a collection of art and artifacts that took up vacancy in any unitized space across the floor and walls. A tower of books that were for purely aesthetic purposes, due to the grammarless language screeches of the political lizard folk, overlooked the room from where the light could not climb. “I guess abandon the rich abandon their ‘precious’ treasures when nature decides to take them back? Guess they wanted to donate it to me!” He said with nearly villainous levels of glee washing across his face, as the luster of loot liquefied into electricity pouring from his eyes. As if he had cracked the code to a safe using random numbers from a gas station lottery ticket, or some crazed over zealous cereal mascot caught in an explosion of flavor. “Bingo!” He thought, sliding an oversized chair to kick up an awkwardly placed rug behind the commander's desk. A safe was nested seamlessly into the floor with a numerical touch pad on it’s surface similar to a microwave, who’s numbers had mutated from prolonged soaking into undecipherable hieroglyphics. “Too Obvious! People are so unoriginal, I swear, they might as well be donating their prized possessions to me.” he said followed by laugh airing of pretentiousness. “And lucky me I know the code to the safe!” He said flipping his “Blast-Star” laser pistol from out of his gun holster like a switchblade, or an over eager dad flipping open a wallet with a catalog of of family pictures to show to anyone he could corral into a conversation. He sent a series of burning bolts around the perimeter of the safe, giving the gun a second or so to cook a more powerful shot before each smelting discharge. “Whoa!” He said after tossing the melted door pate to side, revealing a silver briefcase that filled up the entire volume of the same. He slammed the case immediately on the table in front of him, popping open the latches sealing it shut intrinsically. The case unsealed with the squeal of compressed air escaping, with a wispy cloud of steam rolling out of the case. He pulled out the relic from its stasis chamber. A technology congested thermos shaped object. “A weapon? Or a preserved sample of some kind?” He wondered scouring the object for an indication of what it was, or a brand of some kind. He noticed a blast hazard label. “A grenade?” A slight sweat of anxiety swept over him now making sure not to detonate his new treasure or himself. He twisted some sort of ring unlocking mechanism, causing the cylinder to telescopically elongate to 3x it’s size by unsheathing. “Nasty! This thing would be super illegal, even for someone active military.” He now knew exactly what it was, due to it’s iconic primitive shape “Pulse Seeker Channeling Cannon” A weapon who’s utility was not diminished by time, due the stagnation of modern technology by the impediment of war funding. Capable of laser branding a designated target, to follow up with a steady pulse of homing laser bombs, that could disfigure a sheild-less Titan Suit with prolonged firing. “So this was the bread and butter of our disbanded infantry corps? Guess ill have to test it later to see if it’s as awesome as they made it out to be.” He said while imagining testing it against one the great spire pines, by blasting it into shards of smoldering bark.