back. They
were cute in a grisly sort of way beneath the sores and the flaking flesh and the cracked lips. Kids were kids, even when
they were radioactive.
Stone could hardly bear to look at the entire assemblage all staring at him. One of the dogs jumped up to be petted but tumbled
back to the ground, hardly able to get up the energy. It fell over on its three working legs, the fourth a shriveled up little
leathery thing, and squirmed around the ground pushing itself in a circle but unable to quite rise. Stone closed his eyes
for a second and then opened them and started forward. He didn’t look back.
As he drove along he saw others as well. The region was actually quite well-populated considering he hadn’t seen a soul for
about a hundred miles. And they all had the same radioactive afflictions covering their bodies. Shacks along the roadway were
selling all sorts of things—foods, skins, artifacts from the past. And all of them were burnt and half destroyed—pelts hanging
on a wall were actually burned through with holes in some places. Yet people were buying the stuff. To this crew it was all
normal. A whole society based on the acceptance of radioactivity in everything, even themselves.
Stone wondered what happened to them when they died as he didn’t see a single body lying around anywhere. With this bunch
one would think death would be an hourly occurrence. But as he drove on past three more craters about five miles apart he
came upon a line of several dozen of the dying. They were marching along slowly as if they had all the time in the world—which
they didn’t, seeing how they were rotting as they walked. These were even worse off than the ones he’d already passed, skin
hanging off bone, faces dissolved down to the skeletal core. Drops of red and brown dripped from tears in their clothes, which
were numerous. They had their arms atop the shoulders of the one in front of them like the blind leading the radioactive blind.
And some clearly were without their sight anymore, with sockets filled with pink and black custard.
They took not the slightest heed of Stone as he drove slowly by them. The leader of the group looked the most diseased of
all with no face whatsoever, just a mass of raw flesh and some holes where a mouth and nose and ears should be. Yet he led
them forward with purpose, one shrunken leg slamming down, then the next. Stone gulped and turned away from the face which
did not deign to look toward him. They were of two different worlds, heading in different directions.
Stone wondered just where the hell these guys were in such a mind to get to, but as he drove ahead about two miles he saw
where they were going: to their burial ground. This was the field alongside the road where their ancestors had already marched
the same trek. The dead fields on which not a thing grew were filled with bones and still-rotting corpses. There must have
been hundreds of them, with their bones spread out for an acre or more. Some of the skeletons were in the shadows of the rocks
that rose here and there, and Stone could see in the dimness that they glowed. The place must have been a sight at night,
with all the remains glowing up a storm. A man could open an amusement park, or a restaurant across the road. The Eat By The
Light of the Radioactive Dead Chow House. He wondered if he was cracking up.
It was getting dark but he didn’t stick around to see the bone fireworks while heading south as fast as he dared travel in
the twilight as the road grew steadily worse. He drove into the night, the Harley’s headlight cutting through the blackness
with a wide beam. Stone didn’t stop until near midnight when he couldn’t see a single one of the bomb craters, even standing
on top of the bike and looking around 360 degrees. He made himself gulp down another can of Spam and some hard biscuits, then
a handful of vitamins he had snatched from the bunker.
He camped
were cute in a grisly sort of way beneath the sores and the flaking flesh and the cracked lips. Kids were kids, even when
they were radioactive.
Stone could hardly bear to look at the entire assemblage all staring at him. One of the dogs jumped up to be petted but tumbled
back to the ground, hardly able to get up the energy. It fell over on its three working legs, the fourth a shriveled up little
leathery thing, and squirmed around the ground pushing itself in a circle but unable to quite rise. Stone closed his eyes
for a second and then opened them and started forward. He didn’t look back.
As he drove along he saw others as well. The region was actually quite well-populated considering he hadn’t seen a soul for
about a hundred miles. And they all had the same radioactive afflictions covering their bodies. Shacks along the roadway were
selling all sorts of things—foods, skins, artifacts from the past. And all of them were burnt and half destroyed—pelts hanging
on a wall were actually burned through with holes in some places. Yet people were buying the stuff. To this crew it was all
normal. A whole society based on the acceptance of radioactivity in everything, even themselves.
Stone wondered what happened to them when they died as he didn’t see a single body lying around anywhere. With this bunch
one would think death would be an hourly occurrence. But as he drove on past three more craters about five miles apart he
came upon a line of several dozen of the dying. They were marching along slowly as if they had all the time in the world—which
they didn’t, seeing how they were rotting as they walked. These were even worse off than the ones he’d already passed, skin
hanging off bone, faces dissolved down to the skeletal core. Drops of red and brown dripped from tears in their clothes, which
were numerous. They had their arms atop the shoulders of the one in front of them like the blind leading the radioactive blind.
And some clearly were without their sight anymore, with sockets filled with pink and black custard.
They took not the slightest heed of Stone as he drove slowly by them. The leader of the group looked the most diseased of
all with no face whatsoever, just a mass of raw flesh and some holes where a mouth and nose and ears should be. Yet he led
them forward with purpose, one shrunken leg slamming down, then the next. Stone gulped and turned away from the face which
did not deign to look toward him. They were of two different worlds, heading in different directions.
Stone wondered just where the hell these guys were in such a mind to get to, but as he drove ahead about two miles he saw
where they were going: to their burial ground. This was the field alongside the road where their ancestors had already marched
the same trek. The dead fields on which not a thing grew were filled with bones and still-rotting corpses. There must have
been hundreds of them, with their bones spread out for an acre or more. Some of the skeletons were in the shadows of the rocks
that rose here and there, and Stone could see in the dimness that they glowed. The place must have been a sight at night,
with all the remains glowing up a storm. A man could open an amusement park, or a restaurant across the road. The Eat By The
Light of the Radioactive Dead Chow House. He wondered if he was cracking up.
It was getting dark but he didn’t stick around to see the bone fireworks while heading south as fast as he dared travel in
the twilight as the road grew steadily worse. He drove into the night, the Harley’s headlight cutting through the blackness
with a wide beam. Stone didn’t stop until near midnight when he couldn’t see a single one of the bomb craters, even standing
on top of the bike and looking around 360 degrees. He made himself gulp down another can of Spam and some hard biscuits, then
a handful of vitamins he had snatched from the bunker.
He camped
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