Point of Documentation: Marshall Locke, Phoenix 11
It was something out of a nightmare after his crash landing on Terra. Miles upon miles of unending black desert and ruined cities dotted the landscape around his ill-fated mission. There was not a single safe harbor in sight as he had run from that monstrous hive. It seemed as if some of the creatures had caught his trail from the crash site, yet none of them had seemed to follow him far.
He had come to a high-rise still standing in the buffeting winds and storms that now plague this land. It had seemed to be safe in theory, but his lack of knowledge of the area had shone through in his judgment. He hadn’t recognized the scratches and corpses left at the entrance to denote the lair of Vultures. These were more fed, more evolved versions of the Spawnlings that he had seen out at the crash site.
They had come from the nooks and crannies of the building as the sun fell. Though they held the name ‘Vulture’, Voidlings had no real knack for flying. At least, none they knew of. That made them no less terrifying as Marshall was forced to hide in a closet during that night while those things stalked the building and surrounding area for traces of a meal.
When the sun had risen the Vultures had gone back to roost and seemed to go farther up into the building. He used this chance to escape and travel onwards at once. He collected some non-perishables at a local store before moving on that had not completely collapsed under the stress of decades of storms and the Cleansing.
He had to make camp twelve times, twelve long nights, before he had come upon something that had seemed like civilization. Using his helmet’s ocular zoom function meant to be used in his fighter: Marshall observed this group of people from afar. They had claimed a good couple blocks of a city as their own and fortified it with walls and towers. The center seemed to be some high-rise that had the top broken off of it ten floors up.
Marshall knew relatively quickly who these people were: Wastlelanders. Basically bandits that held some form of society together by enacting feudalism on any and all surviving remnants out here. The strong commanded the weak, and the weak typically died on water and food runs out into the Cleansed Deserts beyond.
A quick detour was the best option to continue traveling. He’d sooner die than fall into the hands of slavers, bandits, and marauders. He’d probably BE dead if he wound up in their hands anyways.
He had found a bicycle on the edge of the town he was leaving. It was in terrible condition, but seemed to be workable at the least. The tires were unrecoverable, but not completely destroyed. He piled onto the thing and rode off down the road. Even with flats, it sped him along faster than he could feasibly walk. A great improvement, he would say!
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That night he had camped in another high-rise a few towns over and into the Badlands. This one lacked the tell-tale signs of an infestation at least. He made camp on the fifth floor with plenty of sight-lines out into the town that this once was. The sand was less in this area, but his contamination meter was still crawling upwards at a steady rate out here. Less so higher up, but still.
Taking stock was another worry for him, as he had run out of water days ago. Headaches were suffusing through his head at a regular rate for dehydration. Tomorrow, after he was rested, he would search the town for a water supply.
He was preparing for an early camp when he noticed lights beaming through the storm that was picking up. Marshall gripped his sidearm with vigor as he stared down at the lights. Were they bandits? If so, why were they so far into the Badlands? It couldn’t be more than a few more days to the Wall, and yet something was moving down there.
He observed for a while longer until some of the dust that was being kicked up from the storm cleared enough for him to get a better view. It wasn’t a bandit! His heart felt lighter than it had been for weeks now at the sight of not openly hostile people.
Dashing from the vantage point he was at, he gathered his items up and made for the stairs. That was when the first shot went off. It cut through the air like a large detonation that shook some silt from the crevices of the stairwell. Fearing the building would collapse, he made his way to the bottom. A second detonation went off shortly after he got to the bottom. Screams of Voidlings filled the air, most seeming to be in pain.
Anxiety replaced hopefulness as the sounds filled the streets. Marshall jumped on to the bike with his items on his back and pedaled like hell towards where the vehicle was but moments ago. A square in the center of town. He rounded the corner to see a gathering of Voidlings feasting on a pile of yet more Voidlings. Marshall rode his bike a street over and went around the square towards the sound of a large metallic vehicle walking.
Soon he was within sight of this behemoth and its spotlights sweeping around it. It slowed to a stop as he neared, and a tight feeling started to flood his chest. Had he made the wrong choice? He didn’t have time to properly think about it as the vehicle’s spotlights swiveled and shone directly on him.
He raised an arm and began to get off the bike. A sudden surge of nausea flowed over him as his feet touched the ground. He tried to speak, a croak coming from him as he did. He hadn’t spoken to a human in so long that he had nearly lost use of his throat. A call came from behind the light on the ground, but the call seemed so oddly far away. He called once more, trying to say who he was and that he needed help. It came out once more oddly disjointed.
Marshall felt confusion as his vision began to sway. Oh right, he hadn’t drank any water in a while, and had just exerted himself. That must be it. His thoughts were as light as his body when he felt the hard hit to the front of his head. The lights went out almost instantly: the first moment of real sleep he would be rewarded after weeks of panic and fleeing.