Author: Stephen Dougherty

The wind picked up the dust with brutal force. It ripped up the scorched land and tossed it into the never-ending night. Through the dark maelstrom, he could see what he hoped was Beacon Five through the scuffed glass of Beacon Two, its amber light scything through the burnt dust like the beam from a lighthouse in a storm. Joe Resnik shook his head at the thought of going out again and trying to reach it.

He looked around at the tiny confines of the container case that had been his saviour. The interior, dimly lit by a light flickering above him, had been packed with emergency supplies, now almost gone. He would have to go out, and he would have to make it to Beacon Five. He knew there were only five beacons in this sector, dropped by air on the last day of the holocaust to give anyone alive a chance to survive. And he was determined to beat Williamson to the last of the supplies. His ex-army subordinate was perhaps the only other survivor, having clambered out of the missile silo and run off, screaming like a madman. Resnik had made it to Beacon Two after finding One, Three and Four depleted. He sat facing the door, as he had every minute he had been stuck here, gun in hand should Williamson burst in. Sleep was hard, but he had to try; he was mentally and physically exhausted to the point of hallucination.

Against the backdrop of howling ruin, Resnik finally fell asleep for what seemed like hours. He awoke with a jump; a strong gust thrust the door wide open. He jumped to his feet and waved his gun wildly at the in-rushing dust, expecting Williamson to appear in the swirling chaos.

“That’s it.” He pulled down his helmet visor and strode through the open door to face the unending storm. He grimaced. The awful, endless drone of the wind was now wearing him down more than anything.

He had gone a few hundred yards when two small red lights made him drop to the ground. He knew the red lights were the piercing eyes of a military K9 mecha. He could see that it was all black, which meant it was Russian. It started to run at him. Instinctively, he reached for his gun and fired several rounds. The deadly robotic hound rolled and skidded on its side, the red eyes still piercing the billowing dust.

Resnik’s heart was pounding, and he lay for a moment while he summoned the last of his strength. The steady flashing beam pushed him on, and he ran the last half mile to the container beneath the beacon mast.

Williamson was there waiting for him, slumped against the filthy metal casing. Whatever had hit him had pieced his helmet and killed him instantly. The K9 mecha, Resnik assumed. He went inside, opened his visor and looked in disbelief at the amount of supplies he saw in front of him. Pinned to one of the food packs was a handwritten note:

Resnik,
I saved you some food but I’m taking the quad runner.
Good luck,
Williamson

Resnik was taken aback. And he was shocked to read that there was a super-fast military scooter he could use. Running outside past the body of Williamson, he noticed his rucksack and the quad runner in the murky darkness: salvation. Maybe.

“Thanks, buddy”. Resnik sparked up the controls and cautiously moved away in desperate hope through the thickening dust, leaving behind the dead, flattened wastes of Washington DC forever.