Year 2451

____

Flash

Earth is just one big, awful hell.

Gangs rule these lands now.

Ever-shifting borders, no countries exist.

With an insatiable hunger, they long for more-more power, more control, more flesh and blood.

Twisted remnants of humanity exist, known as the Freaks. Wars and radiation altered their bodies with each generation. Their camps spread rumours about unspeakable acts against the free people.

I've seen their handiwork.

There's no reasoning with them; there's no room for mercy.

Despite the madness, I can feel a shift happening.

New alliances form.

But there are no certainties.

Yes, life is hard.

Yet... Despite everything, today is a fantastic day.

The sinking sun casts a soft orange glow across the horizon. In our little garden next to our wooden house, we have created a small paradise filled with the aroma of ripe figs and the prickly beauty of cacti. Our oasis in the middle of this wasteland.

My hands reach out, plucking the cactus figs, their dark, round forms hidden among thorny pads.

The dry air carries the smell of sagebrush, the cactus prickles my gloves, and my family's singing nearby creates a calming atmosphere.

I hear Claire giggling behind me, barely hearable because of the gentle breeze that caresses my face.

Her little sister Farah huffs in response. She's probably upset that Claire's picking figs faster than her. Her cheeks puff out in the way she does when she's about to pout, her tiny fingers fumbling to twist a fig free.

I smile to myself.

Jessy stands just beyond the kids. Her eyes scan the patches of cacti. Bending over, she gauges their ripeness by dabbing them with her fingertips. She catches my eye and offers a small smile before returning to her task.

Even after all these years, that smile still does something to me, something deep in my chest.

I return to the figs and twist another free.

A sharp pang hits my hand as a spine slips through the glove.

I clench my jaw. The pain brings me back, a reminder that I'm here and still able to feel. Jessy did that. She saved my life, kept me grounded, and still does.

I thought I would end in violence and anger. But she did something to me. She gave me purpose and hope.

"Dad! I got one!" Farah says, holding the fig up like a trophy. Her grin spreads wide, bright with pride.

Claire smirks. "Finally," she teases, rolling her eyes. She then glances at me. I wink at her, and she giggles again, her shoulders shaking.

She's growing fast-too fast. Every time I look at her, I see more of Jessy in her.

"Don't eat too many before dinner," Jessy calls out. Her tone is soft but firm, which she uses when she's only half-serious.

I can feel my muscles relaxing as I watch her stretch her back, standing a little taller with one hand on her hip.

"I'm not!" Farah says, already halfway through biting into the fig. Juice runs down her chin, staining her hands red.

Typical.

I move to another patch, hands still busy but my mind wandering. The rhythm of this work, the steady picking, brings back memories. Empty roads, dust clouds, and a gun in my hand. It's like old times. I was like a ghost, just going from one fight to the next, thinking that was the only way to survive.

Oh, Jessy, I'm so glad I found you.

Holding a bunch of figs, Jessy straightens herself up. She walks over to me; her steps slow, eyes scanning the horizon like always.

She sets the figs in the basket beside me, then reaches up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "How's the haul?" she asks, her voice low.

I check the basket.

"Good," I say. "Better than last time."

Her fingers hover close to mine, and we're just there, kids laughing, sun going down.

She looks at me, and something passes between us. It's not a worry, but we both know how fragile this peace is.

She turns back toward the kids.

"Farah, Claire, don't wander too far," she calls out.

I watch her walk away, the basket of figs balanced on her hip.

Oh, how much I love her.

Farah runs over to me, her face all sticky from fig juice, her hair all messed up by the wind. "Dad, look! I got the big ones!" she says, her arms full of figs.

She holds them out to me, her eyes wide and bright with pride.

I crouch down and inspect them. "Nice work, kiddo. You're getting good at this."

These moments, these minor victories-they're what matters. Not the fights, not the chaos out there. Just this.

The sun disappears as we grab the last figs and head back home. The sky looks so beautiful with the fading light, creating long shadows on the sand. I'm taking it easy, just following Jessy and the girls.

This is the life.

We get to the house, and Jessy stops at the door, giving me a quick look. There's something in her eyes, maybe a question or a reminder of how far we've come. I nod, and she smiles again, small, but it's all good. Enough to keep us going for one more day.

____

It's morning.

I sit at our wooden table with my children. Jessy cradles the cactus figs from yesterday. She selects each one, making sure it's the perfect choice.

She's got a cute smile.

Her work makes Farah and Claire's eyes sparkle with wonder and hope.

Our door swings open, hitting the wall with a hard thump. My heart turns to ice, and I see the same fear in Jessy's eyes.

The Pale Eyehound stands at our door opening, breathing heavily via his mouth mask. He wears ominous black armour and embellishes his mask with a radiant blue eye. The soft hiss of air escapes from the tube attached to his face covering, connected to oxygen tanks on his back.

His disfigurement is visible. The Swifters stole his eye in a brutal fight, which he replaced with a robotic one. Since then, he has hunted those still with eyes for sport, seeking the NAVI module that should lead the way to Eden, the myth, the paradise in the Far East.

What can I do now? It's too late to get to the basement. I have no weapon and don't want to take the risk.

With heavy steps, the Pale Eyehound enters while I spot three vehicles full of Freaks behind the warrior outside.

My heart pounds in my chest.

"Tell me. Where is the NAVI module?" he asks, his robotic voice infused with chilling coldness.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I stammer.

"You should know. A child and a woman who bear resemblance to yours stole it from me," says the USR warrior.

My eyes shift to Jessy, who clings to the children.

"I know nothing, either. You can search through everything in our house," she says, trembling.

Remaining calm, the Pale Eyehound laughs. He takes his walkie-talkie from his belt and says, "Come and get them."

"No, no... Take me!" I fall to my knees.

Jessy and the kids cry as I grab the Pale Eyehound's pant leg.

"I can grant mercy," he utters slowly."Someone could make a sacrifice."

A shudder runs through my body as I whisper, "What do you want from me?"

He directs his finger towards my eyes. "One eye. Your eye," he says coolly. "And then I will spare your family."

"No, Dad, don't do it!" my daughters cry.

The choice is inhumane and horrifying. Even with doubts, my mind focuses on the safety of Jessy, Farah, and Claire.

"I'll do it," I say.

As the Freaks grab me, my heart races. With a lighter, their leader heats his knife.

After that, he inserts the tip into the side of my eye. A burning pain shoots through my eye socket. I bite my lip to stifle the scream.

Gasping for breath, I fall to the ground.

"Brave," the Pale Eyehound says, and his companions laugh.

"Take them," he continues.

"No, I did what you asked," I protest.

"Daddy!" my daughters scream.

I try to get up and fight, but a hard blow to my chin turns everything black.

____

Light.

I awaken in the dimly lit living room, shrouded in an eerie coldness.

My fingers trace the raw scar where my eye had once been.

Gasping for breath, I rise, pushing through the pain by concentrating on my family.

As I look around, I find it hard to focus.

I want to steady myself and grab a chair.

Instead of grasping it, my hand closes around nothing but empty air.

My field of depth is gone.

There is no time to worry about that.

They could still be alive, so I have to press on.

My steps lead me to the kitchen, where I reveal our hidden door on the floor leading to the basement.

While going down the wooden stairs, my head spins. Bracing myself against the wall with my hands, I take a deep breath and push forward.

Here, I examine my supplies, ensuring that I have enough ammunition, weapons, water, and food for the journey ahead.

After placing my bulletproof vest on my body, I proceed to attach knives to my belt.

I step outside, and a vast desert landscape greets me.

With the sun scorching over the endless sand expanse, the air shimmers with intense heat.

I look for our car. Of course, it got jacked.

While I clench my jaw, I move into the wasteland.

____

Hours pass.

The biting sand stings my face, and my parched throat begs for relief.

I spot a caravan on the horizon, a mirage-like promise of salvation.

Swifters.

Struggling against the scorching soft sand, I feel my legs becoming leaden. Each breath becomes a dry rasp, but the sight of a convoy fills me with renewed strength. I push myself harder, nearly collapsing at their feet.

The Swifters, having been hardened by the desert, look at me with wary eyes. Their weather-beaten skin and dusty, worn-out clothes tell a story of outdoor living.

An older woman steps forward, her gaze etched with the wisdom of countless survival stories.

Sinking to my knees, I rasp, "Please. They took my daughters and my wife. I need a car, and fast."

Beside me, the older woman kneels, and her eyes soften as she examines the fresh wound where my eye once was.

She signals to one Swifter, who brings over a first-aid kit, and then gently cleans the wound. The antiseptic sting feels sharp, but it is crucial for preventing infection.

Using her skilled hands, she dresses it and secures a bandage around my head, concealing my injury.

In a steady voice, she says, "We can't let you go in this state. You need to rest."

While I want to argue and insist that I can't afford to waste time, my body betrays me.

With exhaustion tugging at my limbs, I know that she is right.

The Swifters guide me to a shaded area, offering water and food.

Upon nightfall, the older woman positions herself beside me. "What are you planning to do?" she asks.

"Find them," I reply, my voice raw. "And make those who took them pay."

She nods. "It's a dangerous path. But a necessary one, I suppose."

"Why are you helping me?" I ask.

"That's what we Swifters do. We help people survive this awful place."

I nod. United by a code of mutual support, the Swifters remain as survivors in a world devoid of humanity.

The next day, strengthened by rest and care, I sensed the urge to continue. I met with the older woman at her truck. The weathered truck, with its patches of silvery, unscathed bodywork, gleams brightly.

She then takes me to a car with enormous wheels, its exterior cloaked in dust and sand.

"This old wreck is all yours," she says. "Take it. Go before the sun sets, and the darkness becomes even more treacherous."

I nod, gratitude swelling in my chest. "Thank you. But driving... I don't think I can do this anymore. My vision got screwed up."

Pointing to an old man in his mid-sixties, the woman says, "Silver will go with you."

Silver stands with a slight hunch, leaning on a cane. Deep lines carve his pale face, and silver hair strands catch the light.

A scruffy, grey beard covers his jaw.

As he shifts his weight, his scuffed boots softly thud while his worn clothes hang loosely on his skinny frame.

She grips my arm, her eyes boring into mine. "Find them and return. Working together, we can help you regain your vision, and you will also contribute to our efforts."

I nod.

"You're not alone in this. And remember... The Swifters are with you."

With a mix of fear and determination, I climb into the car.

Dents and scratches mark its bodywork.

Silver joins me by sitting behind the wheel. He shakes my hand.

"Good luck," the woman says.

With a lump in my throat, I thank the people of the caravan by nodding at them.

My hands tremble while the image of my family remains at the forefront of my thoughts.

The seats are comfortable and resilient, providing respite for weary travellers while allowing ample storage space for supplies and equipment. Under its weathered exterior, the car houses a well-maintained engine.

It roars to life, and we speed away, leaving a cloud of sand billowing in my wake.

With my eye fixed on the horizon, I race through the desert for hours alongside Silver.

____

In silence, we drive as the tyres hum against the cracked road.

While gripping the wheel with one hand, Silver casually rests his other hand on his cane beside him.

The wind whistles through the open windows.

Silver breaks the silence, eyes still on the road. "What do they call you?"

"Flash," I say, scanning the horizon.

He nods, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "So you're fast, like lightning?"

"I was... But my family..."

"Yes, I heard. A wife and two daughters." Silver's fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel. "Must be tough, trying to keep 'em safe."

I don't answer; I keep my eyes forward, tracking the faint tyre marks on the road ahead. They lead us deeper into the wasteland, where the sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the ground.

After a while, Silver speaks again. "I used to have a family, too. A long time ago. I'm glad I could help you out."

"Thank you."

Suddenly, he slows the car, squinting at something in the distance. He pulls off the road, stopping behind a thicket of dried-out bushes.

"There," he mutters, reaching for his binoculars.

I follow his gaze and spot the Freaks' cars parked near an old well, rusted and crumbling.

Silver raises the binoculars to his eyes, scanning the area. "No sign of that Pale Eyehound," he says, lowering the binoculars.

He hands them to me, and I take a quick look.

The Freaks are milling around, unaware of us, but I don't see the Eyehound either. I hand the binoculars back to Silver and reach for the door handle.

Silver's grip on his cane tightens as he watches me. "I'm not much use in a fight these days." His gaze locks with mine, and we share an unspoken understanding. "Let's wait till the darkness of the night keeps you safe."

____

Night has fallen.

I give a quick nod to Silver and step out of the car. My muscles tense as I move, and I feel every heartbeat in my chest.

As I approach the Freaks, I move with the silence of a shadow.

I crouch low, using the dunes and rocks for cover as I close the gap between me and the grotesque figures in the distance.

In the night's cover, my dark clothing and the absence of any glinting metal make me almost invisible against the barren landscape.

I take measured and shallow breaths, like a lone predator stalking its prey.

My hands grip the cold metal of my knife and pistol, ready to strike with deadly precision. My remaining eye, sharp and focused, scans the area, searching for the perfect moment to strike.

The talking Freaks remain unaware of my presence.

There is my first victim. I slide my knife out of its sheath and silently close in on the Freak. From behind, I seize the man, muffling his cries.

With a mighty jerk, I end the Freak's life.

Blood flows over the sand.

The other Freaks turn to the source of the muffled voice of their comrade and run my way.

I aim my pistol with a steady hand at the approaching horde of six Freaks. My fingers grip the trigger. I have only six bullets, so I must not miss, even though I struggle to aim because of my missing eye.

The first Freak charges at me. His eyes blaze as he reaches out with claw-like hands.

I dodge the grasping warrior and aim my pistol at his head. A single shot rings out, the bullet piercing his skull.

In the blink of an eye, I focus on the next Freak, who bears down on me with bloodthirsty intent. I pull the trigger once more, and the bullet finds its mark on his neck. The Freak crumples to the ground, choking on his blood.

Amidst the scents of gunpowder and blood, I press on. Even with one eye, I can scan for targets without slowing down by moving my head.

I face the encircling group of the remaining four Freaks, refusing to back down.

Shot after shot, each bullet pierces through flesh.

The Freaks fall one by one, screaming in pain.

Finally, the last cannibal falls.

My breathing is heavy, and my hands tremble. I gaze at the ground, littered with fallen enemies. I swallow to moisten my dry throat and search for my family.

Not far away, I spot a pickup truck.

It's them.

I rush to the truck and stop at the sight of three lifeless bodies. My whole body shakes as I see my wife and youngest daughter; their lives drained away.

A faint moan draws my attention.

There is Claire, my eldest daughter, wounded and clinging to life, next to the pickup truck.

I hurry to her side, kneeling in the sand. Her breath is feeble.

"Papa... I'm so scared," she whispers.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I clasp her. "Stay with me, Claire. Keep fighting. We're here together, and I'll be there for you, no matter what."

She musters a weak smile, her hand gripping mine.

Her grasp weakens as life slips away.

I feel her final breath and watch the light fade from her eyes.

A raw scream of pain and despair escapes my lips as I cradle Claire's lifeless body.

With Claire's last words echoing in my mind, I stand up, my gaze fixed on the wasteland. I promise to set everyone free from the USR and the Freaks.

Their reign will be over!