Thread: âOverexposureâ - Survivor00 & darkangel76

??Overexposure? - Survivor00 darkangel76 More than twenty years had passed since the last plane took off from the earth. Rusted railways lead into emptiness. The ether is void and the airwaves echo to a soulless howling where previously the frequencies were full of news from Tokyo, New York, Buenos Aires, Moscow. Man has handed over stewardship of the earth to new life-forms. Mutated by radiation, they are better adapted to the harsh new world. Man's time is over. A few score thousand survivors live on, not knowing whether they are the only ones left on earth. They live in the Metro ?? one of the biggest air-raid shelters ever built. It is humanity's last refuge. Stations have become mini-statelets, their people uniting around ideas, religions, water-filters - or the simple need to repulse an enemy incursion. It is a world without a tomorrow, with no room for dreams, plans, hopes. Feelings have given way to instinct - the most important of which is survival. Survival at any price. Wednesday, July 12th 2033 Metro Station 26 - ??Mriya? Arthur Kovas awoke from a dreamless sleep. He never dreamed anymore. From the moment he closed his eyes to the instant he awoke again, there was nothing but oppressive darkness flooding his mind. He often wondered just why that was. He had once dreamed down here, his younger mind retreating into the solace of fantasy, of what the world might have been like had it not been scoured by fires and radiation. There had been the nightmares, yes, of horrible creatures and flesh-melting radiation and fumes, but even those passed and faded with time. Now it was just nothing. He suspected it was because he finally knew how bleak it truly was, and that any dreams of normalcy returning would just do more harm to his psyche than good. Someone who would be just as likely to eat the barrel of their own gun as they would venture to the surface unprotected. It was just his mind's own way of keeping him sane. He refused to ask one of the shrinks about it though ?? the last thing he needed was someone playing around with his thoughts, making accusations over things they really had no clue about. ' Ahh... ' He could imagine them saying, ' Does it have something to do with your mother's death? Or of your father's, you two being in the same line of work...Maybe it is sexual tension...? ' A heavy knock on the door to his 'bunk' drew his attentions away from the psychiatrists. ?? Oi! Arthur! Wake the fuck up!? The voice was muffled through the thin wooden door, but he could instantly place the tone and accent to Virgil ?? another salvager. Groaning, Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bunk, sitting up and staring blankly at the wall across from him. Another heavy knocking. With a grunt, Arthur reached down and rubbed his legs, trying to work the kinks and knots out of his stiff muscles. He coughed savagely, the damp air in the tunnels wreaking havoc on his lungs. He felt nearly ten years older than he actually was, but it wasn??t surprising, given the conditions they had been living in for over two decades. ??Give me a second, Virgil.? He muttered, standing to his feet and rubbing the thin layer of stubble on his chin. Bracing his hand against his chin, he turned his head, using some pressure from his arm to pop his neck a little. His shoulders slumped a bit, a groan of relief rushing between his lips. Using his thumb and index finger to wipe the crud from his eyes, he walked over and threw open the door. Virgil Bowery stood there, a scavenged assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Most weapons nowadays were made in the Metro ?? that knowledge had not faded, and he doubted it would fade anytime soon. But, they were cheap, and often unreliable, made from scavenged parts and scrap metal. If you were able to get your hands on an old-world firearm, and the ammunition for it, it made for a force to be reckoned with. Virgil's outfit was stained with the grit of a surface excursion. ??S'about fucking time.? He grunted, rummaging through a pocked and thrusting out a grime-covered envelope. It carried an oddly enticing mix of sweet perfume and Metro stench. ??Fer you...one of your 'art models' from Rosco Station.? From the tone of voice, Virgil knew that Art had done far more than just draw the woman. He felt no shame in it. You took what comforts you could get. She was pretty, she was already naked, and the apocalypse and the whiskey they had shared had certainly loosened some of the morals that would have existed beforehand. Arthur took the letter, set it aside on the small desk beside the door, and gave Virgil a few rounds of ammunition as payment. He pocketed the ammunition, gave a quick salute with two of his fingers, and left. Closing the door behind him, Arthur dragged a small, crude stool out from under his desk, dropping down onto the unyielding wood. He grabbed the lumpy envelope, tearing one end open and dumping the contents out onto the desk. A folded piece of parchment ?? a letter ?? and several rounds of ammunition. He pushed the ammunition aside, he could use it as currency, or if he was in a pinch, he could use the bullets to give his shots a little extra punch. He unfolded the note, grazing his eyes over the scrawled message. ??Arthur, I hope this letter finds you soon. I know that getting letters out to distant stations is growing harder with each day. I wanted to thank you for the time we spent together. It has been so long since someone has actually made me feel beautiful, instead of just saying it. I know you said our time together was payment enough for your artistry, but a working woman like myself would not find it fair to not pay someone of their services. I hope we meet again soon, Tanya.? Arthur smiled weakly, folding the letter back up and setting it aside. Tanya was, for lack of better words, a prostitute. Things had changed much since the old world. His father had mentioned that prostitution had once been illegal. Now, it was just another occupation...another way to survive. Feeling his stomach gurgle with hunger, Arthur grunted, reaching over and grabbing the dingy sleeveless shirt he had worn yesterday. It was still mostly clean, and it wasn't like everybody had an overabundance of spare clothing anymore. He was already wearing pants, so he quickly pulled on a pair of ratty socks and his boots before venturing out into the world that was Mriya Station. The first thing that hit him was the cold. The ravaging of the surface had plunged the world into a perpetual state of nuclear winter. There were rumors that the temperatures were still warmer near the Equator, and that the skies were still blue. But since no man here had seen the Equator ?? or heard from it ?? since the bombs fell, most assumed that it was plain bullshit. Of course, most hadn't seen a bull before either, but... Moving on. Grumbling under his breath, Arthur quickly ducked back into his 'home', grabbing a faded coat from the hook beside the door. He threw it on over his shirt, stuffing his hands in his pockets. It helped a little. ??Hey, Arthur!? A voice echoed from down the corridor. He glanced over to see Flint ?? another salvager ?? approaching him. His cracked lips were curled in a grin. ??About time your ass woke up.? Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he said, ??Come on. We saved a spot for you at the table. If you hurry, you might still get some good meat.? He turned and headed back the way he came, and Arthur jogged for a second to catch up. In the two decades since the bombs fell, the inhabitants of the Metro had made hundreds of 'renovations' to the existing structures, trying to recreate a modicum of civilization. Plywood and metal 'shanties' served as housing for dozens of families. Luckier ones had homes built into preexisting rooms, their doors numbered. Oil lamps lit the cramped corridors. Fuel was far too rare, and too far valuable, to light the entire Station by electricity. Only the most important areas still had electric lights, such as the hospital. Somewhere, someone was playing a guitar. Somewhere else, someone was singing horribly off key. The low ceilings and concrete walls here echoed like a cave, and it was easy ?? almost impossible not to ?? pick up pieces of conversations as you walked. ??I'm sick and tired of this shit! Why do I put up with it? My mother told me you were no good, and she was -? ??I told you to stay put, young lady! Until you can listen, you're grounded!? ??And then he was like 'Baby, if my wife could cook this good, I'd -? Everywhere, children had drawn images onto the walls, scrawled in chalk, charcoal, marker ?? anything they could get their little hands on. Stick figures, squiggly faces with giant teeth that he guessed were supposed to be the creatures lurking outside. Hand-prints shaped like birds, even though they would have been too young to have seen birds in anything but books. Even he had learned from books either saved from the fires of Armageddon, or scavenged from the surface. Arthur followed Flint up a set of stairs to the main level of Mriya Station. The noise only increased as the collection of people grew. Dozens of voices echoing and mingling, until you almost had to shout to be heard. In the main 'atrium' of the station, the vaulted ceiling gave a feeling of 'openness', only heightened further by the chipped and faded painting of a blue sky above. It was only natural that the space gradually transformed into a meeting place and a bazaar. Merchants from other stations harked their wares, ??Retrieved from the surface!? They cried. ??Only one left in the whole world!? Others sold guns, either bought from other stations, or picked from the bodies of the dead. Arthur dodged a group of children playing a game of Tag in the open space, watching as they ran giggling and shrieking into the tunnels. At the far end of the Bazaar, a group of tables sat around a small fire pit, orange flames crackling, the smoke being drawn out of a ventilation tube. Laughter and camaraderie drifted over from the collection of sentries and salvagers. While the two groups often joshed each other for the hell of it, the two were both crucial to the survival of the Station, and respected each other. ??Well look who finally showed his ugly mug!? Virgil called out upon seeing Arthur approaching. Several of the other salvagers and some of the sentries laughed and waved him over. Arther chuckled tiredly, sitting down on a bench alongside his fellow salvagers. Someone pushed a tin cup of steaming coffee into his hands, something he gratefully accepted. It wasn't real coffee anymore, but a substitute made with chicory root, molasses, and some other crap that he didn't really know. It tasted like shit, but it still woke you up when you needed it to. ??Here. Add some of this.? Virgil quipped, tossing him a metal flask. Even with his reflexes slowed by drowsiness, Arthur still managed to catch it with one hand. He undid the cap, and poured a few deks of gin into his cup. He fixed the cap, tossed back the flask, and lifted the cup to his lips. The temperature burned his tongue, the gin burned his gut. Regardless, it woke him up. He coughed again, more from the burning than from the dank air. ??Shit, that's some powerful stuff, Virgil.? He rasped, wiping his mouth on his arm. ??Malta Station's finest!? He praised, lifting the flask into the air. ??I've got some mates there with a private still. Best field doctors I've ever met.? ??Field doctors?? A salvager named Tucker pushed his way into the conversation. ??Seriously?? ??Would I lie? The two use the gin as an anesthetic. S'crude,? He said, before taking another swig, ??But it's effective. And , they don't need to open up the suit. Medics got it hard enough trying to treat us, without exposing us to the radiation.? ??But gin's not going to keep them from bleeding out -? Arthur let their conversation slip away into the background noise, lifting the tin cup to his lips again, nursing the oily black liquid, letting the warmth of the drink thaw his veins and loosen his joints. He leaned back, looking up at the faded painting on the ceiling, knowing that soon, soon he would be going up there once more.