When the bombs fell, we were all damned.
Those who survived found themselves in ruins. The old world order was gone, destroyed by humanity's own foolishness. Nothing was built to last; the mightiest of civilizations rise and fall. Perhaps, it was time for our own to fall. Nuclear winter fell over the land, blotting out the sun and casting a cold sheet over the world. Crops would no longer grow, natural heat would no longer come. What was left of humanity survived by scavenging the food that was left in the ruins of cities and towns, a rare few by raising, breeding, and finally slaughtering any animals they could find. It was back to square one.
Were it not for the survival of most pre-war weaponry and equipment, then humanity would have returned to sticks and stones. Guns could be used to scare off any sort of trespasser looking to steal your things, vehicles used to safely traverse the now hostile landscape. Mutants, the result of animals reacting to the radioactivity in the air, began to emerge. What various forms of entertainment taught us about mutants was not true; these were feral and monstrous beasts, dying slowly of radiation poisoning and refusing to go down without a fight. Some humans too close to blast zones were unlucky enough to join these mutants, becoming husks of their former selves. In this new world, it was kill or be killed.
My family was thankfully spared during the initial strikes, finding refuge in their home town of Marston, a small farming community in southern Arkansas. The town quickly acted in securing and defending their homes, using everything at their disposal to do so: broken down cars were formed into walls, abandoned homes were torn down and the scrap used for construction of watchtowers, all the guns in the town were stockpiled and used for defending it. What was once a small town you'd drive past or through without a second thought in the old world was now a well defended stronghold in the new one.
I was not around for this, of course. Most of my knowledge of it comes from my parents and the older folks in town. It wasn't until several years after the bombs fell that I was born. At the beginning of a story like this you expect the hero to be from special circumstances, but no; I was not the first nor last of the children to be born in the new world, I did not have amazing powers, nor was I heavily mutated. I was a healthy baby boy, one of quite a few delivered in the year 2028, and my parents were hard working citizens of Marston. They named me David, after my mother's father.
Growing up in a world such as this, only hearing of the way it used to be from pictures and stories... It's a strange experience. My parents were happy knowing that I thirsted for knowledge of the old world, of the way things used to be, and happily gave it out. The people of Marston were more mixed on the matter. When I asked, I would get one of two reactions: some would stare away in the distance wistfully, thinking of a time far gone, before telling me what I wanted to know. Others would stare that same wistful stare before shaking their heads and telling me to let the past die. The only constant between the two types of person is that bittersweet memory of the old world. I'm not sure if I would want to experience it.
Childhood in the new world was different from how my parents grew up. There was time for playing, but all children were expected to start working and recieving training at the age of 10. Nothing strenuous, mostly sorting food, gathering scrap, or running messages through the town. The training was mandatory for all children, teaching them how to shoot, hunt, and scavenge. Everyone needed to pull their weight in the town, and teaching them how to do so from a young age seemed to be the best way.
When I came of age my father trained me personally when he could, on top of the mandated training I received from the guards. He was also a guard for the town, watching over it at night to keep us safe from any mutants or hostile humans looking to hurt us. He had experience handling weaponry, seeing as he was a hobbyist hunter before the collapse, and passed down everything he knew to me. Were it not for his guidance, I don't think I would be able to handle myself as well as I can.
When I wasn't receiving training from father or the other guards, I was spending time with my mother. She was a doctor before the collapse, and ran the town's infirmary. Though I didn't pick up first aid as well as I did shooting, she still gave me invaluable skills to use should I find myself in a situation where I have to patch someone or, God forbid, myself up. In this world, not having even minor knowledge of first aid is a death sentence.
Most of the people my age in town had grand aspirations, from venturing to larger cities and discovering what lies in the ruins, or even reforming the government. Myself? I had no such dreams. I simply wanted to live as normal a life as I could. Defending the town like my father, or running the clinic like my mother. Settling down with a nice girl and living a quiet life in my hometown. Leaving the safety of the scrap walls seemed unthinkable to me.
However, things do not always work out the way we want them to. You wouldn't care much for my story anyhow if it was just a recount of my day to day life at home. This is the story of how I left my home town to save it, and the many perils I came across on the way.
As with any tale, I'll start at the beginning. Hopefully, I have your ear.
