Grotesque Tales of Dystopia & Madness

Smoke. Heavy, asphyxiating smoke. The dreary smoke and fog of the city hung heavily over the convoy. Four trucks clattered with welded on, homemade armor snaked their way through destroyed intersections. A neighborhood long forgotten is now patrolled by survivors of the War. War that graced this forgotten city with angels of death and destruction. The forsaken convoy has exited their protected territory, off on a mission to procure fuel for the Confederation.

Percy sits in the bed of a worn out, beaten old pickup truck. A truck forged long ago before hellfire reigned down upon the city. Long before the United States Government collapsed, abandoning its people to the wrath of invading forces. A rusted out vehicle that at one time was perhaps seen as a pristine beauty of manufacturing. A vehicle hocked by a chubby, balding salesman at an auto dealership long since destroyed by ceaseless violence. Perhaps what remains of the dealership still stands, now occupied by the dozen factions that call this city home, or by one of the hundreds of small raider groups, lying in wait to pray on those who wander into the Wastes. The jostling of the truck snapped Percy back into reality. Years ago, perhaps this could have been a smooth and luxurious ride, but the road, or what is left of it, is now rife with debris. Rubble, twisted steel, and skeletons of those past now litter the desolate street. Potholes caused by fire and brimstone forced the suspension to creek and groan as the driver attempted to navigate the fallen city. Percy did not mind the choppy and bone shaking drive, it sure as hell beat patrolling and scouting on foot.

Percy was not alone in his less than comfortable tour of the city. The truck he was placed in carried four other men, all ranging in age. Boys as young at sixteen and men as old as seventy have been known to brandish arms for the glory and survival of the Confederation. Percy Zimmerman was towards the lower end of the spectrum of age. He was the prime age of twenty-three, or so he thought, Percy knew little of this early upbringing, especially the day of his birth. The day he was forced to live in filth, squalor, and warfare. All Percy knew was that he was old enough to no longer be considered green, but young enough to still have years of service ahead of him.

He shared the rusted out truck bed with two greenies and two much older, hardened veterans of the Wastes. The difference between the two pairs of men was astonishing to Percy. It was if he was gazing into his past on one side of the truck. Bright eyed, acne ridden, nervous as all hell, and greener than a dollar bill from the government that long abandoned them all. All recruits started like this, no matter how well they hid their fear, how tough the presented themselves, they were all scared shitless. Through skill and quick wit or just pure dumb luck, some of these bleary eyed recruits might live long enough to transform into one of the grizzled vets that sat upon the other side of the dilapidated truck bed. Bright eyes turn to an icy, unnerving thousand yard stare. Acne ridden faces transitions to a face full of scars, bags under the eyes from years of sleep deprivation, and a perpetual film of oil and filth that never seems to leave the skin of those who frequent the Wastes. The talkative and nervous recruit slowly breaks down to a malignant silence from a vet, no longer needing words to express a fear in which they have faced on countless excursions. Numb to the pain and despair of the Wastes.

"Where the fuck are we actually going?" Percy utters, slicing into the silence that surrounded the five men.

"Don't worry about where we're going, that's the drivers job. Worry about how we're going to survive getting there." Quipped the veteran with a gravely and hostile tone. That filthy old vet was Dempsey, the leader of this so called squadron.

Dempsey was right after all. Percy was failing at his job as a soldier. While he sat, bogged down by his own introspection, he was neglectful of his immediate surroundings. Any single one of these piles of rubble formerly thought of as buildings could house an ambush. Whether or not they survived almost always depended on who was ambushing them. Would it be a rag tag group of raiders, hopped up on whatever substances their so-called "chemist" could create? When dealing with raiders, the Boys of the Confederation had a much greater chance of repelling an ambush, a chance to survive to another day. The other factions that call this wasteful hellscape a city, were a much different story. Borderline professionally armed and trained groups were a major problem for Confederation long patrols. The Confederation was not nearly the strongest factions to patrol the Wastes, but it was nowhere near the weakest of the bunch. When it came to the strongest factions, those who's influence could reach the outskirts of this forgotten city, English was never the common tongue. The Russians and a Chinese expeditionary force known as the Worker's Liberation Frontier have the northside of the city locked in a totalitarian chokehold. Those Russian fucks and Chinese dogs that make up the WLF were a plague amongst those just trying to survive a war that they caused. A joint invasion that left this city, and the rest of the United States smoldering.

The WLF was an expeditionary force, and those bastards were the worst of them all. They were not in the city to colonize, to set up any sort of Chinese state within their conquered lands. Their goal has and always will be one thing, resources. WLF forces were here to drain the land of resources to send back to China's monstrous war machine. Those bastards were the worst one's to fall prey to, they had zero regard for any human life that was not a Chinese National. If a man were to surrender to the WLF, he would learn to wish they had killed him on the spot. Prisoners of War captured by the WLF had a couple differing roads that they could travel down, however, all roads paved by the WLF reached the same heartbreaking destination, a hopeless, excruciating death. The lucky one's were simply executed on the spot in which they fell to their knees in surrender. The WLF did not fancy wasting bullets on possible POWs. After crossing the pacific, shipped to Chinese forces, and finally loaded into a soldier's rifle, that singular bullet was deemed too expensive to be wasted on a person who would not even fight back to defend themselves anymore.

Instead of wasting such an expensive bullet, the commander suggested his soldiers get creative in their ways to dispatch. Many POWS were beaten with fists or rocks, skewered with bayonets, or lead to whichever building still remainder and pushed off. If the WLF had the time, a fresh POW could be brought back to one of China's freshly constructed labor camps. After being forced to work in the camps, there is no return. The Chinese simply worked their captives to an early graves, viewing them only as a interchangeable cogs within a deadly machine. Getting worked to death was the easiest way out of the work camps, the worst road taken by POWs was experimentation. Vivisection was commonplace within the barbed wire fences, a fate well known by those who populated the camps. The Chinese loved the idea of human experimentation without repercussions, especially the testing of horrific new chemical and biological weapons. Synthesizing new ways to weaponize the new found diseases and chemical compounds found within the Wastes was a glorious past time to WLF scientists. Those who managed to survive these weapons tests were then quickly hanged in order for field doctors and scientists to conduct their sickening and defiling autopsies.

Percy's truck screeched to a grinding halt, it was a miracle that the brakes even worked. There could not be much left of the pads besides a wisp of brake dust and a prayer for the truck to come to a stop.

"Alright boys, lets bail out of this rust bucket." Barked Dempsey. "Weapons hot, keep your eyes peeled and your traps shut." He continued.

"Aye Sir!' Responded the mismatched group of soldiers, Percy included.

"We've got reports that some of those Ember Raiders or whatever the fuck they call themselves now got their filthy hands on a serious amount of gasoline and diesel. Now they'll use it to cook up whatever makeshift napalm bullshit they constantly use against us, but we need that fuel to keep those gas guzzling beasts we drove in on here moving." Dempsey stated, his gravely voice booming in the silence of the Wastes.

Percy's worn out combat boots slowly crushed debris underneath them, creating cracks and pops that could possible alert nearby Embers that happened to be close to their position. Thankfully, the trucks had stopped well away from the encampment, so running into an Ember was unlikely for now. The Confederation troops stacked up into a row as they slithered through alleyways toward their mark. Dempsey led point, ready to alert the rest of the men to fan out and hide if trouble were to arise. Percy's squad of five men approached from the south of the encampment. The other three squads approached from the west, southwest, and southeast. They hoped that attacking from multiple directions would give the enemy the false idea that they were dealing with a force much larger than the twenty man assault team. Hopefully this façade would cause some of the Embers to surrender or flee. One could always hope for as little bloodshed as possible.

The squad reached the outskirts of the encampment. As silent and as graceful as a tiger stalking its prey, the men fanned out. They took staggered positions behind burned out cars, broken walls, and major mounds of twisted steel. Percy raised his rifle to rest upon the hood of a burned out sedan. Dempsey signaled for the men to stay quiet, keep their heads down, and wait for the signal flare. Silence. Dead silence as the men stared at the Ember's encampment. Its guard towers were not nearly tall enough to spot the men lurking in the shadows. Makeshift fences dotted the edges of the encampment, it was clear that the Embers had been recently attacked. There were clear gaps in the fencing derived from what Percy believed to be explosive charges. Percy gripped his rifle tightly until his knuckles turned white due to the sheer intensity. The two green recruits quivered and sweat as their nerves finally set in for their first assault. The squad from the west sent out a flare. A burning hot glow of red fire crested over the encampment, illuminating the soon to be killing field.

"Fire! Fire at will god damn it! Aim for the guard towers first, then the men along the fence." Dempsey's voiced roared over the sound of gunfire as the smell of sulfur flooded the night's cool air.

A machine gunned barked and roared not too far from Percy's ears. The large caliber machine gun tore through the Ember's flimsy guard tower. The raiders struggled through the ambush, scrambling to respond to the hellfire brought down upon them from Confederation forces. Once the raiders managed to establish their footing, they began a foolish and ill fated counter assault. Like most raiders, the Ember's combat strategy was simple minded and brutal. Storm the enemies' positions with an all out charge. Armed with rifles and Molotov cocktails, the Embers screamed a battle cry and sprinted towards Percy's position. The Embers made a crucial mistake with their opening strategy. The scorched gaps within their own fencing acted as fanciful chokepoints, forcing the Embers to come through one at a time. Percy lined up his sights, gently squeezed the trigger and sent two shots of hot, brazen lead towards a shadowy figure. It crumpled. Its body folding upon itself, falling to the cold ground. Percy slayed two more men before the raiders realized their detrimental mistake. It was now Percy's turn to advance, Dempsey raised the signal, he was to lead, Percy and the greens were to follow. The machine gunner was to lay suppressing fire until the men crossed the threshold of the fence. Unlike the savage and idiotic raiders, the men did not rush blindly through the gaps in the fence with a death wish.

"Ready the sticks! Prime your explosives and toss them! Once it blows, rush in during the chaos and find cover. We need to hold our ground inside until Marcus follows with the machine gun." Dempsey's voice continued to cut through the roar of gunfire and screams as he barked orders at his men.

The men threw their sticks, improvised explosive devices, a couple of yards past the fence, entering the raider's camp. The devices exploded, sending shrapnel and fragmentation throughout the air, forcing the Embers to take cover. Percy dashed through the fence and took up a firing position, as did the other men. Rifle fire from both sides continued as they held the line for the machine gunner to make his move. Percy fell three more raiders with deadly efficiency, he was no veteran, but he was nowhere near the acne ridden greens that covered his left flank. The men continued their suppressive fire as Marcus and his lead thrower made it halfway through the destroyed fencing. A single crack shot pierced Marcus's skull. Silently he fell, no words ushered in his final moments, he was dead before he even hit the ground. No pain, no screams of agony as he crumbled to the dirt.

"Oye! Omar! Get your green ass over to that machine gun and lay down some fucking fire!" Dempsey's voiced graveled voice pierced through the chaos induced symphony of small arms fire.

Omar sprinted as if his life depended on it, as it in fact did. Bullets danced the ricocheted around his slim frame. He managed to retrieve the machine gun and began to lay fire down upon the encircling Embers. The men needed to control the southern side of the camp in order to rendezvous with the other three squadrons. Embers began to appear on the left flank, crowding Omar and the other unlucky green bastard. Omar veered left and began to let the machine belch and coax as it sprayed hell upon any who dared to advance. Raiders began to drop as the bullets pierced and ripped through their cloth drabbed bodies. The blood sprayed from their wounds, creating a volatile red mist that clung onto the killing fields. Through the asphyxiating mist, a raider holding a bottle of fire and brimstone rushed Omar's position. Omar's molten lead thrower tore through the man's abdomen, sending him to meet whichever god he may pray to. Not before he managed to lob the Molotov cocktail, it burst onto Omar and his uniform. The burning flames stuck closely to Omar as fire engulfed him and his machine gun. His screams of agony sliced through the cold night air. Frightened by the blood curdling screams of his comrade, the other greenie rushed to his feet in a feeble attempt to save Omar's dwindling life. It was a fatal mistake, before he could even reach Omar's soon to be smoldering corpse, bullets ripped through his midsection. Adding to the red mist and gun smoke that clung to the night's crisp air.

Percy needed to cover the left flank. He and Dempsey were the only men in their squadron left. Percy began tossing his explosives towards the Embers, blowing their forces on the left to smithereens. He picked off the survivors with his trusty rifle and his monstrous precision. With the left covered, Percy set his sights on his original position next to Dempsey. He saw that in his absence, Dempsey managed to completely obliterate whatever raiders crossed his field of vision and entered his kill zone. Before Percy could sprint over to aid Dempsey, the last bullet flew from the barrel of Dempsey's rifle, boring into the skull of a fallen raider. A singular Ember heard the unmistakable sound of Dempsey's empty rifle clicking as he ignored his fallen comrade. Dempsey brandished his combat knife and charged the lone Ember. The raider tackled him to the ground, making a move for the knife. The two men grappled upon the death soaked earth. The pair traded blows as they struggled to out muscle the other for a chance at the sterling silver blade glistening in the moonlight. Dempsey would gain the upper hand first, using a handful of bloody dirt to temporarily blind the raider. In the blink of an eye, Dempsey was on top of the bastard, thrusting the blade deep into the raider's chest. He ceased to move, coughing up blood that choked out any chance of final words.

Dempsey pulled his bloodied blade out of the dead man's chest, twisting it as he withdrew. He then stood up, retrieving a flare gun tightly strapped to his belt. Pointed towards the sky, Dempsey triumphantly pulled the trigger. A bright green flare arched through the moonlit sky, its bright hues signifying that their squadron's quadrant had been secured. Three more green flares illuminated the sky, the camp now belonged to the Confederation. The fight was over, it was time to gather the supplies they came here for, and to lick their wounds. The four trucks met the men at the encampment, the squads loaded as much gasoline and diesel as they could. The trucks suspension groaned under the weight of the precious gasoline. Percy thought to himself, hoping that the fuel would be worth the lives of three of his comrades. Gasoline kept the blood of the Confederation flowing, blood that would be spilled to gain more and more god damn gasoline. A cruel and vicious cycle that Percy himself will most likely fall victim to one day. With the rest of the supplies loaded, and their fallen comrades bagged and stacked in the truck bed, Percy and Dempsey climbed aboard. Silence once again filled the air.

The truck jostled and bumped as it veered towards the desolate road. Percy sat back, exhausted from the assault. He was covered in blood and dirt, a sheen of grime and filth stuck to Percy's face, never to be washed off. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, he admired the tobacco filled paper in his fingers before setting it in between his lips. Using a hand to block any wind, he flicked his lighter and lit his cigarette. The sweet inhale of tobacco coated the inside of his lungs. A brief feeling of relief washed over him due to the nature of his chosen addiction. The smoke he exhaled rose up into the night sky, dancing as the wind dissolved it. Percy wandered back into a state of deep introspection. He wondered how long until their would be a gruesome death with his name on it. He hoped it would be quick like Marcus, relatively painless, dead in an instant. He prayed he would never fall victim life poor Omar, kicking and screaming, clawing his way through the dirt as fire engulfed him. All Percy knows is that his death will not burden him today. He took another deep drag of his cigarette, he sighed as he exhaled smoke. Heavy, asphyxiating smoke.