The Taàr (Dystopia #01)

mbled down the side of the rubble heap upon which he was working. Echoes of the crash resounded all around bef

arther away. The height of the mound where he stood gave him a good vantage point. Nothing had changed. No movement could be detected as far as his eyes c

rmanently hidden by that heavy crimson blanket, would soon go down in the west. Only a couple of hours remained in which to fi

the heap, and started all over again. Rocks and debris tumbled down the heap as he carefully searched for a way in. He made an effort to keep focused on the rocks he removed. If he dislodged one that held other boulders in place he would end up crushed or worse. It wasn

ny danger. Cold wasn't the only thing that followed darkness in that place. The devil-d

m his brow with the back of his hand. He wore the mask all the time when he was out scavenging. They had plenty of them back at the

nded the day before, and if he went back today and told the Taàr he hadn't found

of loose dirt and rubble collapsed inwardly, revealing a new hole, wide enough for his head to go through. He fished out a li

eye. Doomsday. That's how those who survived the day referred to the massive atomic strike that changed the Earth forever. He had seen hundreds of similar r

and had been out scavenging the zones since he was six. At first just gathering wood and other fuel for fire, later assisting

was coming out with the last load. From that day on, the boy never wanted anyone with him, choosing to work alone. The Taàr disapproved of this, and said so many times, but

ause he had been the only family he had left–other than their Uncle Sam, but he considered him a stranger more than anyone else. Rorik had been the only living soul who could tell him about his

and lived only a few months, and another one lived to three years, then got sick and died in a matter of days. Everyday incidents f

crossed fingers and make a wish. Let's hope we find our share today. He imagined him there, beside him, saying those words in hi

on as Rorik's memory welled up inside him. But now the s

xury. Someone was lucky enough to have a room for themselves, with a bed and matching furniture now rotting, with a small desk s

He had never experienced any of that sort. All he knew

ntil he came to a stairs that went down into complete darkness. He projected the small light in front of him and descended carefully, as quiet as a mouse. Now that he had gone below, the noise of the wind had compl

death walked into that kitchen. The skeleton was still intact from the hips up, with the arms and head resting on the glass surface, while the rest of the body lay in a heap of dust under the table. He had found similar scenes during their scavenges, and he could never understand why some skeletons remained intact while others became dust. Rorik's th

lates and bowls scattered across the floor, some broken, some intact. He was not interested in these artefacts–they had thousands of similar items in their

s of cans of food. The wrapper around the cans was yello

heard a slosh inside. He suddenly relaxed, feeling

. Vivid memories of what had happened when he once dared open a can of food came rushing back to him–the thousands, if not millions, of roaches and rats that surrounded them when he had not even finished eating the

ed food, as well as bottled drinks. Sometimes liquids would be too rancid

h cans. He didn't have enough space to carry out all the loot. When the sacks were full enough, he climbed back upstairs with the first two, we

rved as a marker. When he finished tying, he took off the mask, put two fingers in his mouth,

thing to take home–then replaced the mask and went back inside. It was good

ecame dust as soon as he laid fingers on them. At the bottom he found a couple

were asking him for directions–with the strong wind blowing at all times, it was difficult to determine where a whistle came from. He went ba