The road if you could call it a road stretched out before me. In the distance were the skeletal remains of some poor sods who’d no doubt come this way to seek a non-existent safety. Judging by the dried blood stains the attack must’ve happened a few months back. A good sign as whoever did the killing would’ve no doubt moved on long ago. I crouched over the skeleton of what must’ve been a child, a torn fluffy toy lay in the dirt and small bleached bones were scattered nearby. Some beasts had devoured them. I couldn’t tell what. This part of the land wasn’t exactly sparse with critters. I picked up the toy and placed it gently onto the bones. I don’t know why I did it. I never understand why I do these things, it’s not as though there’s anybody to see it. Looking at the other bones there must’ve been six people in total. One skeletal torso still wore a patchworked leather jacket. Rising I walked over to it and removed it from its previous owner. Not like they’d be needing it now. I held it up. It was a size that would’ve been worn by a thick set man. It might be worth something. There were two bullet holes in the material, about the size of my index finger. I folded it as much as I could and shoved it into my pack.
“Ah shit,” I muttered. I only had one bottle of water left and only three more tins of food. This was bad. This meant that I would have to go on a scavenger hunt. I hated those. Resigned to my new task I walked through the scene of slaughter and toward the burned-out husk of a rickety looking car. Vehicles were an incredibly rare commodity and those who did possess them were just targets for the Marauders or even worse those jumped-up soldier wannabe fucks of the Dominion. It was strange either group would’ve destroyed one. I studied the burnt-out wreck and noticed the left-hand side was riddled with bullet holes. One had got lucky striking the fuel tank. No doubt the driver had crashed as a result, the occupants had tried to escape and were then mercilessly gunned down. Did I tell you I hate this place yet?
As the sun began its descent, I realized I had only a few precious hours of daylight left for scavenging. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out the crudely drawn map I had found on another deceased scavenger a few miles back. According to the terrible handwriting and childlike sketches, an old superstore complex lay about a mile ahead. Such places were popular among scavengers but also incredibly dangerous. Any marauder band might have claimed it or, worse, stripped it clean. I was tempted to press on toward the city ruins, but the journey seemed too risky with only one bottle of water. Navigating cities could take days; the last one I ventured through felt like a maze of broken buildings, collapsed streets, and mutants lurking around every corner. It was far from a pleasant experience.
I drew my pistol from its hip holster – a trusty Glock 9mm, easy to use, maintain, and reliably effective. Against people at any rate. Carrying it was a necessity; in this world, you were a fool to go anywhere unarmed. Threats weren't just from people looking to kill you or steal your belongings, but also from hostile wildlife, mutants, robots and worst of all, those creatures that fell from the stars. Those encounters were particularly horrific. I remember sighting one such creature on the outskirts of a devastated settlement down south; the sound it made was unbearable, like fingernails on a chalkboard amplified a million times. Those things were the stuff of nightmares.
Resigned to my scavenging mission, I continued on, my sturdy boots crunching over the remnants of civilization: shattered tarmac, glass, and stone. My gear, acquired from a military supply store after leaving my parents' homestead out west, served me well. If you're wondering why I left, the answer is what you’d expect: they died from typhus. In Wasted Earth, trustworthy doctors are a rarity. My parents passed, and I was old enough to fend for myself. My father, a former military man, taught me how to shoot, hunt, and scavenge. My mother, with her survivalist background, taught me shelter building, food storage, and safe long-distance travel. She took me on a mountain hike at nine, where I made my first kill—a marauder, shot perfectly between the raping bastards eyes with my mother's rifle. As I travelled, their teachings were what kept me alive, along with my ability to read—a skill I later learned was rare among survivors.
Twenty minutes later, the ruins of the superstore loomed ahead, its massive structure casting a formidable silhouette against the fading light. An ideal stronghold for marauders, it stood desolate, a monolith to a world long gone. Stopping in my tracks, I unslung my pack and hunting rifle, the metal cool and familiar in my grasp. Through the rifle's scope, I surveyed the scene: the parking lot was a graveyard of vehicles, twisted and charred, and a couple of skeletal remains lay eerily still among the wreckage. Yet, there was no movement, no sign of life or threat. Edging closer, I stashed my pack in the skeletal remains of an old pickup truck, its rusted frame providing a makeshift hiding spot. One cardinal rule of scavenging whispered in my mind: never carry your supplies into unknown territory. Past encounters had taught me the bitter lesson of loss to opportunistic thieves.
Now unencumbered, I took a moment to stretch, loosening tight muscles and steeling my nerves for the task ahead. Scavenging—how I loathed it. Delving into the remnants of the old world was like opening a box of Pandora's evils, never knowing what horror or treasure awaited. A shiver ran through me as I fought to suppress a haunting memory clawing for attention. Shaking off the chill, I inhaled deeply, preparing myself for the next move.
Staying low, I sprinted across the parking lot, the distance closing rapidly until I reached the shelter of a car husk. I paused, listening for any sound of danger. The absence of gunfire was a promising sign, either indicating a lack of marauders or, at best, an incompetent lookout. I risked a glance over the car's bonnet, eyeing the superstore's entrance. The shutters were ajar, twisted and hanging awkwardly, while the glass doors behind them were bent inward, their glass long since shattered—a testament to violence past.
Seizing the moment, I dashed the remaining distance and pressed myself against the doorway's relative safety. Crouched low, I peered beneath one of the broken shutters, darkness enveloping the space beyond. Clicking on my trusty 1TAC TC1200 Pro Tactical Flashlight, I illuminated the checkout area ahead. Discarded shopping carts lay abandoned like ghosts of a bygone era, and debris littered the floor, a mosaic of neglect. I paused, listening intently, but was greeted only by silence.
"Here goes nothing," I muttered under my breath. Tightening my grip on my Glock, I crawled under the shutters and into the depths of the superstore. The air was still, the silence almost tangible, as I ventured further into the heart of this forgotten monument to consumerism, my flashlight cutting through the darkness, revealing the scattered remnants of a world lost to time and calamity.
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Inside the superstore, the beam from my flashlight danced across aisles choked with debris and the detritus of a bygone era. Shelves, once meticulously organized and overflowing with goods, now stood barren or cluttered with the random assortment of items that had survived looting or were deemed worthless by previous scavengers. The air was thick with dust, and each step kicked up a cloud, making the beam of my flashlight seem solid in the murky interior.
As I advanced, my footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness, a constant reminder of the isolation and desolation that had consumed the world outside. The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the occasional drip of water or the distant creak of the structure settling, sounds that in the absence of human activity seemed unnaturally loud. My heart pounded in my chest, not just from the exertion but from the anticipation of what might lie ahead.
I navigated around a toppled display, its contents spilled and trampled underfoot, evidence of the chaos that had ensued when the world began to crumble. The marketing posters that hung from the ceiling, promoting sales and products no longer available, fluttered slightly in the air disturbed by my passage, like ghosts mourning the world that had been lost.
Reaching the electronics section, I shone my light over the empty racks and shattered display cases, the skeletons of high-tech goods picked clean by scavengers long before. It was a stark reminder of how quickly the artifacts of human advancement could be rendered obsolete in the face of survival. Yet, in this graveyard of consumerism, there lay an eerie beauty—a testament to human ingenuity and folly. Yeah I know how I sound, a foolish romantic pining for a time that I wasn’t even born into, but shit cut me some slack the Wasted Earth sucked and surely any time other than the here and now must have been better.
I pressed on, my objective not to reminisce but to find supplies that could aid in my continued survival. The food court lay ahead, and I approached it with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Food was a rare find in such places, often the first to be looted, but desperation drove me to search anyway.
The food court, once a place of social gatherings, was now just another ruin, a time capsule from before everything went to crap. Must’ve been nice not to worry about where your next meal was coming from. Dam, people back then had it easy. Tables and chairs were scattered and overturned, the counters of various eateries looted and bare. I approached each stall with caution, flashlight and Glock at the ready, searching for any overlooked cans or packages that might have been missed by others.
In a forgotten corner, behind a counter that once served fast food, I discovered a cache of canned goods. Some were had Cola printed on the labels, but the rest were good old H2O. Perhaps overlooked in the chaos or deemed too difficult to reach, it was a small treasure trove in this desolate world. I took a plastic bag out of my pocket, (in this world such a thing as a plastic bag was incredibly useful) and quickly filled it with as many cans as I could carry, aware that my time in this place was limited and that the weight would slow me down.
Just as I was about to leave, a noise froze me in my tracks—a sound distinctly different from the ambient noises of the building. Footsteps? Or was it merely my imagination, heightened by the adrenaline coursing through my veins? I extinguished my flashlight, plunging myself into darkness, and listened. The sound came again, closer this time, unmistakably the sound of someone—or something—else moving through the debris. I could have kicked myself. Walking around this huge mausoleum without a care in the world. I was sloppy.
My heart was racing. The silence that had been my companion now seemed a luxury lost, as every sense was heightened, every shadow a potential threat. Gripping my Glock tightly, I prepared to confront whatever came next, knowing that in this Wasted Earth, encounters with the living were often more far dangerous than those with the dead.
The footsteps grew closer, the rhythmic clanking unmistakably mechanical. My mind raced, piecing together the puzzle before the chilling realization set in. This threat was neither living nor dead, but a thing. A machine. I crawled under a table and silently shuffled over to a pillar. Pressing my back to it and snuck a peek around the edge. There pacing towards me out of the darkness were two shining orbs, the eyes of a Tesla Optimus Mark 6. In the lore of our Wasted Earth, these robots had once represented the pinnacle of technological advancement, a testament to human ingenuity and the potential for a better future. That was, until some asshole of a hacker infiltrated their com network with a virus that altered their behaviour, transforming them from benign helpers into relentless killers.
Millions had perished in the ensuing conflict, a war that raged not just on battlefields but in the very streets and homes where these robots had once served. The world had watched in horror as machines built to enrich human life had systematically dismantled it, their programming corrupted, turning them into efficient, emotionless hunters of the very creators they were designed to assist. And then the rest of the shit hit the fan…
Hiding in the shadows, I recalled the stories of their merciless rampages, of communities overrun and families torn apart by machines that knew no fatigue, no remorse, and no end to their programmed directive to kill. The Optimus Mark 6 models were among the most feared; their advanced AI and physical capabilities made them nearly unstoppable once they had a target.
The footsteps halted, a mere few meters away, followed by the unmistakable sound of servos whirring as it scanned the area. My breath caught in my throat, the darkness my only ally as I crouched motionless, hoping against hope to go undetected. These robots had sophisticated sensors, but perhaps the clutter and the remnants of human civilization could mask my presence. This one still wore a tattered blood stained apron over its metallic torso. No doubt this particular machine had once packed old women’s groceries for them and helped carry them out to their car. Then one day the virus had infected it and judging by the dried blood stains the friendly robot had massacred those it was designed to assist.
Silence ensued, a tense standoff between the past's technology and the human will to survive. Then, as if deciding nothing was amiss, the footsteps resumed, moving away from my hiding spot. I didn't dare move, not yet, knowing that any sudden sound could bring the robot back on a lethal path towards me.
After what felt like an eternity, the sound faded into the distance. I allowed myself a shallow breath, my mind racing with the implications of this encounter. The Tesla Optimus Mark 6 roaming here meant that even places long thought cleared of such threats could still harbour deadly surprises. It was a stark reminder of the world's precariousness, where technology's promise had morphed into a nightmare of its own making.
Carefully, I gathered the scavenged cans, my movements deliberate and silent. My exit from the superstore would need to be as cautious as my entry, with every shadow and sound now a potential harbinger of death. The encounter had changed my mission; survival was no longer just about scavenging for resources but avoiding the relentless pursuit of what humanity had unleashed upon itself. And I was fucking sick of it.