Open Apocalypse

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

His focus is so sharp, he seems not even to notice I am topless: or more probably has seen so many half naked - or fully naked - women with bodies so much better than mine that he doesn't care. Which is ... nice... but I notice it.

"I'm Ruby.." I answer ... "thanks"

In the morning I will offer the proper words for those killed in combat, but for now I am tired - and hungry. "There's food in my pack.. " I whisper: " ..and I'm up for sharing.."

Edited December 4, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

I take some hard tack and cured meats from Ruby's bag. Only now, that I have had time to catch my breath from combat, that the tunnel vision has lifted, do I appreciate the curve of her breasts. I say nothing, because I've got her at disadvantage - though if she gave them willingly I would take them and enjoy it. Not that long ago, I would of just taken them. As I feel the tightness in my pants, I realize she may be observant enough to notice without a mention. I sit across from her, and hand Ruby her share. I know I am safe here, but still I want to eat quickly, devour the food as fast as I can before some other predator can get me - but I resist. I eat slowly. Giving Ruby the chance to do the same.

"After we eat, we need to decide what we're going to do with our friend here?"

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

It feels quite strange to talk - just talk, in a way that once was ordinary, sharing food with someone else.

I am glad he doesn't rush the food: I can see his tension, suppressed, and know that like me he feels the need to be furtive, quick, vigilant, ready to move.

A breath of wind on my breasts reminds me, and I reach for my top, brush off the worst of the now encrusted blood, slip it back on, as casually as I can.

Each of these small things leads my instinct to trust him.

But I don't trust my instinct.

I don't trust myself.

Still, it is .. nice ... to sit, and eat, and talk.

"Nice" is not a word I have thought, for as long as I can remember.

"The watermakers are a threat: but they are organised - civilised, in a way - better than any of .... "

I hesitate, searching for the word:

"..of .. us.. my people, at least."

There are no 'my people' any more: there is no 'us' - the memory is painful.

I would like there to be an 'us'... but I let the thought fade.

"They know how to catch water - and find it. And they say there is a river to the east, but they never go there..." 

 

[DoctoroMindbender]

I have so many questions about her people, but I know that tone too well. I am reminded of when I had people, when I was an us. At the hard scrabble farm commune where I was born, sitting at the long communal table adorned with a bounty of fresh hot foods, our heads bowed while the Prophet led us in prayer. Or out in the dust, surrounded by other cutthroats on bandits, laughing, eating whatever preserved rations we had stolen from today's caravan, later fucking freely with whatever woman or man I could find to work off the tension of the fight, and to get one last moment of pleasure in case tomorrow I didn't come back to camp.

Both of those places were long gone now.

"I give you one guess where the water comes from." I glare up at the prisoner, still hanging from a girder, "Do you know of any settlements near by."

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

My blood runs cold: cold as cold water, as it dawns on me, indeed, where the watermaker cults find their water. Little better than the zombies, then - drinking, rather than feeding, from others of their kind.

He tells me this with a hard, almost callous, casualness: but I can sense the pain, the hurt, the humanity submerged in so much horror.

A world gone wrong. Not just gone wrong but wrong at its core: at our core, 'us' - him and me included - the depths to which we have sunk, in our pursuit of ... survival...

And I remember how it was the Survivors who triggered that rotten selfish ruthless core: it was hope that kept our little community sane - hope, or perhaps just fear, of retribution, of shame, of others more powerful who would shame us, keep us in check. And once we knew  fircsure, that was all gone - that truly it was just every man for himself - then the descent was swift, awful, merciless.

But Sensei saved me. One selfless act, one man who stood for more than himself. I can run, fast. " Strike hard and run" he used to tell me. And at the end, he just said "RUN!" and I did, leaving him to stand, not running, for me.

This man reminds me of Sensei. Except, I never felt this ... attraction ... to Sensei.

"Ask him where the river is: I know only of the ferals who roam this far east"

 

[DoctoroMindbender]

I see the longing in your eyes, you are so vulnerable. I will myself not to stare at your breasts, even as I imagine how soft they are, can see myself sucking on them .... no there is work to be done. I remove my long coat, draping it over your shoulders, careful of you wounded arm. The sun will be down soon, and with it will go the warmth of the day.

The prisoner is awake, looking at us. I consider my options carefully. I could torture him. I could ask him, religious fanatics are eager to talk ... too eager. Then again, I could just torture him anyways. Walking to where he is hanging, I change my tone

"Tell me brother, of the glory of the Watermaker?"

[WritesNaughtyStories]

The Seeker returns.

The Chosen are fallen, save one, captured and hung like meat to dry. Watermaker is dangerously still and quiet. He sat in the darkened tunnel, listening to the wind blow over the collectors. Through the soft, roaring hiss the muffled protests of the faithless being forced into the extractors could be heard.

His skin itched under the mask but he dared not scratch. So he suffered as his anger grew. Bullets. Water. Guns. Lives. Invested in nothing. He worked his jaw imperceptibly before he pushed himself off the stool in front of the controls. The extractors could be set to work slowly and exhaust the sources before it killed them - largely a peaceful passage as one nodded into unconsciousness.

Watermaker wanted his water back and was not feeling patient. He initiated the extraction and started for the temple. The screaming started almost immediately as the water was boiled out by pumping sown the pressure and raising the temperature.  That should be about half of it.

He summoned the Tribe.

"A Crusade is upon us. Fetch the chariots. Summon the Chosen and the Damned."

While the Damned were hitched in teams to drag the Tribe's tools of war, in the ruins the lone surviving Chosen lamented failure and knew the price of absolution.

He hung in the air, above the reach of the shambling dead and worked his skin against his bonds - feeling the blood drip below and beginning to call to the Damned. Soon there would be a gathering of the dead, drawn by his noise and the faint smell of blood in the ash. Watermaker would come.

[DoctoroMindbender]

Despite myself, I chuckle. Then my face turns hard, my voice cold and I speak  "I have been chosen, and chosen to be damned. I have waged crusade from the back of a chariot. Chosen? Damned? Which are you, brother?"

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

There is more to this than breaks the surface: undercurrents of interplay between these two that I do not fathom; understandings between them that I do not understand. Chosen? Damned? Crusades? These are the words of the cult, spoken by Elijah who I judged... I don't know how I judged him, even whether I did - all I know is that not all is what it may seem, no-one is who they may seem to be, nothing is as it should be in this harsh horrid world where the shifting sands are as much of life itself as if the desert.

Brother?

My eyes shift, inconstant as the shifting sands, between the Brother who hangs, bleeding from his wrists, and the ... Brother ... who calls him Brother.

Bleeding, from his wrists.

Bleeding, so that the blood drips  to the sand below...

Blood, that calls the zombies...

"Elijah..." I whisper: "...the blood .. it draws them ... he calls them..."

[DoctoroMindbender]

I curse myself again for missing. Maybe it was the echoes of my past which distracted me. Maybe I was blinded by the promise of water, and what it can buy. Maybe I am growing weak. No matter, it ends here. I draw my knife, and step close. I lean and whispers "I will smite with the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood." With that I drive my shoulder into the fanatic. As he swings out, I slash out at the rope. The force of his body swinging out causes the damaged line to snap. I turn. I do not need to see him flying through the air, arms flailing, face twisted in terror. I close my eyes and pretend I can not hear the screamed prayers to the Watermaker as he falls, as the horde descends upon him. I step away from the edge, into the twilight flowing into our refuge high above. The cold wind of the coming night cuts to the bone, driving away the oppressive heat of the day.

I remove my shirt, thread bare wool and patched. It reveals my chest, hard and lean muscle, burnt by the sun. Scars of battles past adorn my chest, my back is crisscrossed with far older scars. On my arm, a tattoo. Fading black letters read REV 6:7-8, underneath hash marks in three rows, numbering twenty seven in total. I lay on my back, using my shirt as a crude pillow. "It has been a long day, Ruby."

Edited December 6, 2022 by DoctoroMindbender

[WritesNaughtyStories]

The Chosen laughs as you preach. "There are no rivers, fool. Even god's mouth is packed with bitter ash."

As the momentum swings him out, he calls, "There - even the angels are Damned. And now, so are we."

He falls the rest of the way in silence. Knowing his water will be lost, his damnation assured. He greets it with calm resignation. There is the dull, heavy, wet thud as he slams into the ashy desert.

The dead swarm in eerie silence as their empty lungs make no sound. There is the soft rustle of dried skin on dried skin. It is softer but more terrifying than a rattlesnake - it is dry leaves in the wind. A sound no one living has ever heard. There is only the soft, frenzied scratching as dry nails and broken teeth tear at the corpse and rub against each other.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

He is quicker than I: my hand is only half way to the knife in my belt when he slashes the ropes. I don't think he even notices my movement,  let alone sees my intention. But I notice his action, how it mirrors mine: how in the swift moment of decision, we both made the same choice. Brotherhood has its limits, then. Brotherhood of men: of which I am not a part - invisible, unnoticed, an unwanted ally or maybe a burden, not even dismissed, just ... ignored. "Fuck you!" I think, silently.

His chest is marked, scarred: firm, slimly muscled. He just lays back, like that, adjusting his shirt as a pillow. I might as well not be here.

"Fuck you!" I think, again silently.

Despite his disdainful dismissal, I seek his gaze, hold it with my eyes.

My hands grasp the hem of my t shirt, tug it upwards - raising my arms, tugging it up and off.

I am skinnier than I would like, but my breasts are still pert and ripe.

"Fuck you.." I think again, silently - but this time letting my eyes speak the words, showing my intention, as I undo the button of my shorts...

[DoctoroMindbender]

I swallow hard. Sure I had been interested, I had intended to go slow, not trusting my own intentions. I let the facade collapse. It's clear that you're intent on this, so there is no point in hiding the simmering desire, the need I feel rising up in my stomach. I undo the leather ties securing my pants. I have shown Ruby what kind of man I am, what I am capable of, today, and if she makes that choice willingly I will not hide the fire inside me any longer.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

I drop my shorts, step out of them.

He is shuffling out of his pants and I let him: waiting, naked, as he bares himself. It is a long time since I had a man inside me, and now I want it I am impatient but I hold that back - for a while.

But I want it very much, right now - need it - so I am not going to wait on the niceties of it.

His cock is very hard in my hand: very big, very erect as I straddle him, guiding it so that its big hard shiny head tickles up through my cunt hairs, nudging against my soft warm - wet - cunt lips.

I let my thighs lower me, gently, slowly, so that the big hard shaft peels my soft cunt lips wetly open, nudges in between them, pushes in.

"Fuck you..." I whisper, as its hot hard head pops softly through the tight opening.

I take it in.

All of it.

Right in.

All the way.

Fully in.

I arch back, rest my hands behind me lightly on his thighs to support my bare body, savour the feel of being filled.

My head goes back, my eyes flutter closed - then open again, finding his, holding his gaze.

A soft sigh: "mmmppphhhh"

"Fuck me."

Edited December 7, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

Hardened, calloused hands reach around Ruby's waste, helping her shift her weight from her injured arm. My hips roll, moving up to meet hers. I feel the warmth enveloping my cock, shuddering with the joy of pleasure. I bring my mouth to her erect nipples. Carefully, feeling them out with my tongue, before wrapping my lips around her breast, greedily sucking on it. I moan against the softness of her flesh. Each up thrust I force myself inside of her, each down thrust she forces herself onto me. I lose myself completely in the moment. The ghosts of my past, the violence, the screaming and the blood all disappear in this moment. It's not love, or even lust. Just two people, finding the respite, a small comfort and pleasure, using each other, moving together.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

In sex we lose ourselves, but also find something deeper, more primal. He fucks me, I fuck him, it's simple, easy - so very very very oh fuck yes so very fucking easy oh yes fuck yes.

They don't call it 'the little death' for nothing: oblivion, the blinding white heat of orgasm, nothing matters, just the clutching rippling spasms of my orgasming cunt and the throbbing thrusts of the rigid hot cock.

Sex is good: life can wait.

Edited December 7, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

The slow build up.

The tension rising.

Finally peeking, at a moment of pleasure.

The joy of release, feeling my cock twitch, releasing it's warmth deep into my partner.

Followed, by relaxation and bliss, as chemicals in the brain release the muscles in my body. I bring a gentle hand to her cheek, to feel the warmth of her flush cheeks. I don't know who she is, a name but still more mysteries then answers. That is for tomorrow. Tonight I am just happy to share the night.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

"Sleeping with a man".

I have heard the words, but never yet experienced the reality.

Fucking with a man, yes, and last night was very definitely - and very nice - fucking: but sleeping, that I have not ever done. Sex has been ... transactional ... fucking for food, for shelter ... to be spared, to be allowed to live ... or, yes, to sate the primal human need ... but I never, ever, before slept, with a man.

I thought it a ... an ... allusion, a discreet hint at .. well, at fucking.

But now I find that "sleeping with a man" is .. can be .. just simply .. sleeping with a man.

Or more corretly, waking with one.

The low morning sun kisses my bare skin.

I linger, savouring the unexpectedly calm sensation of skin on skin, and then I rise, carefully, quietly, and clothe myself.

Far to the east - very far, further than should be visible - the low sun glints, glows, in points of light so sharp, so bright, that they cannot be natural.

Nearer, but also to the east, smoke rises - a tall column, visible for miles, straight up into the still, windless, air.

To make a fire - to make smoke - is the act of a madman. Or mad men. Or of such supreme confidence that ....

The ferals are mad: or rather .. well ... feral ... but numerous, and numbers breed confidence - justifiably, at least for a while.

But ferals don't make .. metallic  ... glass-like .. glints, seen farther away than they should be.

And things seen farther away than they shoud be, mist be .. taller ... impossibly tall.

Enough. My .. my partner ... rouses: rises.

Naked, limp, he looks funny: less .. feral .. than yesterday.

If we survive the day: if we stay together - I think .. hope ... he will not be .. limp .. tonight.

But for now, I point to the pillar of smoke...

[DoctoroMindbender]

I wake. Too exhausted for the nightmares. But I am covered in cold sweat, so maybe not. I lay, lingering a moment to see her clearly in the sun. The way the light bounces off her bare skin, the curve of her hips and the contours of her body meeting at the soft, dark bush. It has been a long time since I've been with a woman that hasn't been a one-night stand of convenience, or that I simply took. I untangle myself from the coat which served as a makeshift blanket, and stand beside Ruby, unconcerned with our nakedness. With me I bring, a battered pair of binoculars hanging from my pack.

Smoke means people. Maybe they are simple travelers, or a caravan. Peaceful people, who can be negotiated with. Or more likely, raiders. People like me. I peer through scratched, damaged lenses, focusing as best I can. Having seen enough, I hand the binoculars to Ruby ...

[WritesNaughtyStories]

The Crusade rolls across the desert. Engines roar with the imperfect combustion of old and improvised fuel but more terrifying are the Damned. The dead Chosen, dropped to his death hours ago had not rambled madly or idly. They pull the chariots - the shambling dead, hitched to steel carcasses too damaged to repair, chase black clad runners. At their center rolls a straight bodied tanker truck.

Watermaker has some for vengeance. They have brought the Chosen and the Damned.

From behind one chariot a runner sprints forth to replace one who has tired. The dead stumble ever forward, hunting the living.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

I can see why they don't care about being seen. So many of them...and .. I have only seen horses in pictures. The ground rises in a great upward sweep to the crest of low mountains, and they stream in a caravan of riders and drag sledges through the mountain pass to an encampment among scattered pine trees. Not feral, then - ferals lack such organisation, and such ... resources.

I lower the glasses, turn to Elijah:

"Who...what ... are they?"

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Washakie, NPC):

Washakie waves the stragglers on. The long ride overnight has been hard, slow going, up the narrow route into the mountains. The spring must still exist, for the trees survive- men are delegated to find and clear its source. Time now for the People to rest, to tend to the wounded, to lament and honour  the dead.

So many lost, and so needlessly: the shining death machines have extended their range: Washakie curses his own lack of caution, failure to send scouts. The new horses will more than replace those lost but none can replace the men and women.

Time to rest, though, before reclaiming the ancient lands.

[Dirtydan]

Mason stood atop a small clearing in the step mountain path, his beard grown long full of sticks and twigs, his crazied blue eyes starring intently at Washakies group. Mason clenched his old levelu action rifle tightly in one hand his other ha d in his satchel thumbing over the 16 rounds of .308 he'd reloaded himself. "They are here for my spring, it's to small, to small, to small to share, they can't have it" he repeated rhythmically to himself as he swayed. Peering out at the rising smoke from their campsite. He knew deep down he alone wouldn't be able to fend off a group of this size on his own. He'd killed many a legend seeker coming to deprive him of his spring.

He knew what needed to be done he returned the the small path that lead to the small spring the belched up from the mountains edge, he'd constructed a small resvior to collect the flow, and damn past it form small pond no larger then 10ft in diameter a d 3 ft if depth. He collected the thing he would need wire, and ropes. He headed back to the path, and began riddle it with traps tripwires, snares. He worked through the night digging a pitfall and covering it he took residence is small covered makeshift hunting blind. His eyes grew heavy as the sun began to rise, he was exhausted yet refused to sleep he knew they'd be coming. They all would come, but this was HIS water. THEY CAN'T HAVE IT NO ONE CAN!

1 hour ago, Gangsta Moll said:

(Washakie, NPC):

Washakie waves the stragglers on. The long ride overnight has been hard, slow going, up the narrow route into the mountains. The spring must still exist, for the trees survive- men are delegated to find and clear its source. Time now for the People to rest, to tend to the wounded, to lament and honour  the dead.

So many lost, and so needlessly: the shining death machines have extended their range: Washakie curses his own lack of caution, failure to send scouts. The new horses will more than replace those lost but none can replace the men and women.

Time to rest, though, before reclaiming the ancient lands.

 

[DoctoroMindbender]

I set, letting my feet dangle over the abandoned town below. They're carrying too many supplies, too many civilians, to be raiders. A caravan, or maybe homesteaders but the large metal machines belching black exhaust give me pause.

"Don't know if they're friendly, but they've gotta be better then Watermaker. "

[WritesNaughtyStories]

Luring the shambling, rustling dead forward - the new sled dogs of the ashen earth - Watermaker and his crusade found their fallen Chosen.

The guides steered the Damned who pulled the chariots around the Tribe's dead. There was water left to reclaim, but the dead Chosen could join the Damned at any moment. Watermaker's remaining Chosen recovered the bodies and laid them in the extractors before spiking their skulls. Dragging the Damned out of an extractor almost always meant another body going in.

Watermaker sighed behind his mask. 'Wasteful. Inefficient.' He lamented silently as he scanned the way forward. A crowd of Damned were gathered ahead, below the toppled remains of the dead world. 'The tenth...'

He scanned the ancient form and there, huddled at the edge low, dark forms and the glint of glass.

"There!" He bellowed, arm and finger outstretched like the accusing hand of a long dead and forgotten god.

The runners turned that way and the tireless, hungry Damned gnawed against their muzzles and trotted after.

Death came and vengeance followed with it.