The Old Divide
Post-apocalyptic world.
I live in a war zone.
When I trudge through blood-stained roads, I pass several bodies embedded with deep red claw marks and even deeper expressions of torture. Chunks of their neck and torso are missing as if they had been torn off in haste by a row of desperate, harrowing teeth.
I walk through these corpses by day, hide from them by night. Still, I feel as though I watch them from behind closed windows. The death happens before me, certainly behind me, but I am safe behind glass walls. Nothing touches me. I still live. How does a translucent layer of nothing protect me from fate itself? I turn around to seek answers, feeling a warm and rare breeze upon my neck, but no one is there. Steaming cars totaled by the same claws lay ominously on their backs, a heap of devastation left behind by a very recent battle.
I run from this scene only to come to another.
