Wasteland, USA

Post-attack, Wasteland. USA - Clinging. To what, an old rusty truck and a pile of smut collected from the homes of the dead.

They hit us in ’32. I guess abduction had grown stale and all the information needed had been gathered, calculated and then executed with devastating accuracy.

The attack left rubble, ashes and few survivors.

The ones left, wander a scorched desert-earth. Only enhanced by the air that lingers, still heavy with toxins from the last few hundred years.

Leaders chuckled and rolled when the masses threw stones but in the end, they were the first to go.

Besides the destruction of civilization it’s pretty much the same. Greedy politicians had already sunk their fingers into everything, swaying cultural changes in their favor, a bit like brainwash. We were already slaves. Now, if left alive, you’re a slave to hunger, loneliness and a decision.

Whether to end it all and take yourself out or wait till the inevitable pounces on your ass.

It’s mathematically bound to happen - eventually water, gas and food rations run out and you're left dehydrated and cooking in the seemingly never-ending dessert. No hope of help ever showing up.

It seems a lot quicker and painless to just drive this shitty truck off a cliff and be done with it. I always hated the heat anyways.

- SEWER