cyan's Journal: The Witching Hour

It's the year 2071, or somethin' like that. Nobody really keeps track anymore. It's amazing how what was once important becomes irrelevant when every day is a fight for survival. I pick up the shotgun laying on the dusty office desk and make my way through the facility. The throaty hum of 60hz is loud enough to make my ears ring, but that's just fine by me. My work here is done.

An hour ago, I found an iPod in some old mechanic's toolbox. Man, these things are vintage! Still in the leather case and everythin'. The music on it is garbage, but hey, it's not like there's an orchestra anymore, y'know? You take what you get, and that's just how it is. Back in the day, a person woulda squirmed at the idea of wearing these filthy, used earbuds. Music playing in my ears is worth more than solid gold -- that's the way I see it. Someone else's earwax on these things is the last of my worries, now.

I grab the handle of the large, metallic door, and it doesn't budge. Fuck. At least someone had the decency to spray-paint "EXIT" in bright orange. Probably was whatever color they had left over. It was tough to find your way out without electricity. It's not like the guys who built this place ever thought there wouldn't be any electricity *inside* the building itself. Flashlights? Dude, we live in the dark ages now. A camping lantern is worth a small fortune these days. More than a house, even.

The bass of some kind of electronic music thumps in my ears as I try the handle again. No dice. Fuck it. I raise my leg up and deliver a kick to the handle, and the door flies open, forcing me to shade my eyes from the blazing sun. I've been inside too long. Shotgun over my shoulder, I walk out, bass still thumpin' away.

It's gonna take about an hour to get back to base, but I don't care. It's a beautiful day in the wasteland. Thirty fuckin' degrees Celsius in the middle of January. The bass of the music drowns out the chirping of my geiger counter. I don't even give a shit about how many rads I take anymore. You gotta do what you gotta do, ya know?

I walk slowly along the well-worn path, the countryside a mix of dirt, shelled out buildings, and exposed rock. High above me looms what used to be a transmission tower. It still stands because it hasn't been taken down for salvage, yet. Could you believe that they used to transmit electricity through *power lines*? Man, don't make me laugh! These days, you gotta build your shit nice and sturdy, like. Like the railway. Now there's a fine piece of 21st century engineering.

It's a railway, alright, but sideways. Rails are excellent conductors of electricity, and sturdy, too. Convenient that an old railway ran from the generating station back to base. We just took that thing and put it sideways. The raiway ties, well, they're made of concrete, right? You just slam one of those puppies into the ground vertically, and notch it so that the rails fit in better. Far more durable than that fuckin' wire they used to use back in the pre-war days. Man, people were so *spoiled* back then. Replacing wire whenever you wanted? Please!

I bet you there's not a single locomotive running on this whole God-forsaken Earth. What use is a railway in the ground? May as well use it to feed electricity, right?

A quarter of an hour later, and I'm walking over a low ridge, the wind kicking up dust everywhere. The railway is to my immediate right, like a fence with two tiers. I glance down at my EM Monitor in my right hand. Good. The station is still transmitting power. I can feel a blister forming on my right foot, and my jeans are filled with wasteland grit. Even Ed, the best tailor on the base, can't make stuff as comfortable as they used to be. Man, people were *spoiled*.

Something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I stop and squint. The shimmering air mixed with blowing dirt does nothing to help, so I continue on. The music continues to throb in my ears, and maybe someone would stop the music to pay more attention. Fuck it. Who knows when the battery on this thing is going to die. Who knows if it'd start playing, again! Music is just *that* important.

Ah, there it is again. Shit. I hastily shove the EM Monitor into my back pocket and fish around in my front pocket for the mini telescope binocular. Resting the shotgun on my left shoulder, I look through the binocular and focus with my right index finger. Nothing but fuckin' haze and dirt. I scan the horizon some more, and like somethin' out of an old pre-war science fiction film, a figure emerges from the murk. It's still a good twenty minutes away, slowly shambling forward.

Fuckin' zombies. Who would've known that an early 21st century obsession would come to life? Nobody knew what this much radiation would do to the human race, but now we know. It would almost be enough to make someone double over with laughter at the irony of it all. If you weren't busy surviving, that is. I shrug and put the binocular back in my pocket, and continue on as if the zombie means nothin'. But my step is quicker than it was. Nobody wants to get stuck out here with a zombie by themselves. Nobody.

Zombies are just as brainless as those old movies and books say they are. This one just keeps moving forward, making a bee-line right for me. The shortest route between two points is a straight line, right? Well, this thing was living fuckin' proof of *that* little bit of truth. Sure enough, by the time I get over the last ridge, base in sight, I can smell the zombie's stench on the air. The music keeps on thumping in my ear. Man, this guy *really* loved his electronic music.

I stop and climb up atop a rocky outcrop just behind me and wait. *whomp*whomp*whomp* the music goes - I can't even hear the wind howling throughout the wasteland, but I *can* hear my heartbeat. Man, I wish I had a cigarette. Those things are about as valuable as camping lanterns, y'know? Maybe we'll get a Benson & Hedges factory up and running next. Can't be as difficult as getting a whole fuckin' power generating system online.

I don't even bother to crouch behind a boulder for cover. I just stand atop it and bob my head to the music, shotgun clutched in both hands, and wait. Waiting is always the worst part. The music keeps me company though. Man, where is that little fucker?

On cue, the zombie's head peeks up over the ridge opposite me. He slowly shambles forward, scraps of clothing torn to a million pieces by the wind or something else. That's where those science fiction authors got it wrong, though. These guys make no noise. None at all. They just stare you down like you're playing a game of cards or somethin'. They stare at you with those empty eyes, and move forward.. silently.

I raise my shotgun up, and aim smoothly. The music helps me to relax. It's like I'm high on somethin'. iPods and other music players actually fetch more cash than drugs these days. Who woulda thought? I shake my head and get back to concentratin'. Funny, the things you think of at times like this. Finger on the trigger. Easy.. steady.. just squeeze the trigger, and the little fucker's done.

There's a loud *BOOM* that penetrates the rhythm of the music. It's followed by a loud crackling and sizzling noise. The zombie begins to howl, and I shiver. It's the only time zombies make noise, when they die. It's like some of that human survival instinct is still within 'em, and they know that their time is up. The zombie's limbs jerk and jitter around as they should, after all, the little fucker walked right into the railway. I can see where bits of its flesh have fused themselves to the rail. A couple thousand volts will do that to a person.. or a zombie. The rotten smell of cooking zombie meat fills the air.

I hop off the boulder, and continue on my walk to base as if nothing happened, rhythmic thumping continuing in my ear. You don't really think I'd waste a shotgun shell on a *zombie*, would you? Ammo is fuckin' hard to find, these days! Besides, there's an auxiliary reason we built up the railway sideways.

I walk on, and a couple of minutes away from the base, the music finally dies. Battery finally let out. I let out a long sigh, and take out those filthy ear buds. Just another piece of electronic junk, now. Besides, I can hear the guys celebrating, even from this distance. Good ole' Tom must be playin' the piano again - I think I catch a few notes of the Alaskan Rag carried over on the breeze. Bringing electricity into a whole base ought to cause some excitement, y'know?

My name is Teldin Ostkreuz, and I'm a railway engineer.