Something I wrote for TnB's Terminator Roleplay server. Criticism would be great. I'm attempting to present a harsher, bleaker atmosphere than the server's, but let me know what you think.
[I]I need another cigarette.[/I]
Nothing else ran through Henry Miller’s mind as he trudged up the rocky hill. Illuminated only by the thin, distant beams of the full moon, the ramshackle lean-to perched above took on an eerie glow in the light, ripped straight from an ancient horror movie to land in the blasted wastes of the desert.
[I]Wish it was day. But God knows who’s round here.[/I]
Shrouded by cloth, light glinted off the cold eyes under the hood of the poncho. The lean, weathered man paused for a minute, holding his breath and closing his eyes. The silence was deafening – a cliché, but damn fitting in the still air of the lonely sands. Miller slowly opened his eyes and scanned the area around him with a practised gaze, watching for any movement. All was still across the hill and the long-dry lakebed beside, the mesmerizingly-long stretch of ground marred only by a single, rusted trawler lying forlornly in the dust. Satisfied with the quiet, the man continued his ascent, polished rifle in hand.
[I]I’m probably too late. But you never know.[/I]
Sneaking about in the dark was hardly a new experience. Miller had always been a loner. Only six years old when the civilised world collapsed, both parents dead, he was raised in a cramped, dank shelter until he was old enough to realise just how much more dangerous the busy, defended and conspicuous Tech-Com bunker was then the lawless, shattered wastes. Only a few weeks after leaving his security behind, the shelter was assaulted by Skynet. There were no survivors. From then on, the harsh, friendless life had been all he’d known, and he’d lived by his creed like a fanatic by his idol: Don’t stay in one place, don’t attract attention and don’t trust anyone. And by God, it’d kept him alive over the years.
[I]And here we are.[/I]
Upon reaching the gravelly summit, Miller halted, taking a moment to examine his goal. The hut stood before him, in all its glory – which was to say, none whatsoever. One wall was badly cracked, with crumbling holes in the faded brick revealing a dimly lit interior. Tiles missing, the roof tilted drunkenly at one corner, the supporting frame missing a hefty chunk out of its top. A soft breeze whispered through the shattered, filthy remnants of glass in the open windows, the door long ago stolen by scavengers gone by. It was a shithole. But there might be something, anything worth taking inside. Maybe even cigarettes.
[I]Nice and quiet, nice and quiet... in and out.[/I]
Silver lances of moonlight shining off his rifle barrel, Miller approached the gaping maw of the doorway, eyes alert for any movement. Unwittingly parodying an elite soldier, the thirty-five year old forager pressed himself against the rotting doorway. With one deep breath, he pivoted around the entrance, the barrel of his weapon sweeping the interior in a swift arc.
Filthy, shabby, squalid – there was no other way to describe the hovel Henry had just entered. Rubbish littered the pockmarked scraps of carpet, tin cans and plastic bottles lying askew besides broken pieces of wooden boarding. The only source of light came from a swinging, flickering candle, held to the roof by a crude bracket, which exposed a pile of rotting rags in one corner. A battered, old-style stove and oven rested against one wall, with pride of place reserved for a chest of drawers situated under a windowsill overlooking the dry lakebed. Apart from that, the room was empty, and quiet as the desert.
[I]Not much...[/I]
Miller lowered his rifle, stepping over the worn lintel and into the messy shack. Eyes darting about, he pondered the situation as he approached the chest of drawers on the far wall, nudging scraps of rubbish aside with his boot toes. The pile of rags may be a bed, indicating that someone lived here. And obviously, the candle didn’t light itself. The scavenger bit his lip, feeling a tiny stab of pain shoot through the flesh. Something didn’t seem right... he’d get out of here as soon as possible. Reaching forward with a calloused hand, he yanked on the drawer handle, pulling back the wooden slide.
[I]What the fuck![/I]
A harsh exclamation burst from Miller’s lips as he recoiled back from the drawer. Peeping out from the storage compartment, a human skull stared back at the man in a toothy, macabre grin. Candlelight reflected off the strangely polished surface of the bone, the cleanest object in the room. Empty eye sockets sightlessly watched the startled figure as he turned to leave. He’d had enough.
A low voice sliced through the silence. “Evenin’, boyo.”
[I]Christ...[/I]
Miller lurched back again at the sudden sight of the figure in the doorway. Illuminated by the soft glow of the moon and bleak glare of the candle was an old man, hunched over and slowly rocking up and down. Clad only in a tattered sack-cloth, gnarled bare feet scarred and dirtied, he cut a pathetic sight. But it was the eyes that caught you the most; a relentless, twisted fire raged inside them, the tell-tale fire of something quite insane. Something deadly.
The words lodged in Miller’s throat as he stared across at the older man. “Uhh... this your...”
Dead silence filled the air, before the elderly man replied in a hoarse croak. “Welcome to my humble abode, the little place ah’ call home...” His lips curled back, exposing rotted teeth in a ghastly grin directly mirroring the skull’s. “I hope yeh’ like it.”
The old man’s eyes alighted upon the skull, and he strode forward, roughly brushing past Miller. Stepping back at the fetid stench that arose from the man, the scavenger watched with a disgusted curiosity as the bedraggled figure raised the skull aloft, eyes shining. “I see yeh’ met me friend...”
In the dim light, the bizarre scene seemed almost comical, a mock up of a work of theatre so far removed from the blunt, cultureless reality.
Placing the skull back down with a hollow click, the figure slowly rotated his shaggy head to gaze at Miller. “Yeh’ know, ah’ find it easier to talk to folks when they’re dead.”
Suddenly, a thin blade appeared in the old man’s hand, the tip stained black with blood. “I’d like to talk to yeh’.”
[I]Shit-[/I]
And then the old man was lunging through the air, howling like a demon as he thrust the knife down towards Miller’s bare neck. With a yell, the scavenger through himself backwards, the dirty blade licking at his neck. Miller fell heavily to the ground, the weight of the crazed man atop him. His treasured rifle clattered off to the side. Cackling, the old man raised his knife, plunging down with a wiry strength straight down, aiming for Henry’s eye. Miller threw up his hands, desperately grabbing out for the bony wrist. The plummeting knife abruptly stopped, bobbing in the air as the two men wrestled for control, suspended like the Sword of Damocles mere centimetres from the scavenger’s eye.
“Don’t struggle, boyo, it’ll only make it harder!”
Slowly but surely, Miller watched with horror as the knife drew closer and closer. He could see the glistening tip, and the maniacal features behind it. As the fetid stench of the man filled his nostrils, the scraggly, knotted hair brushed his face, a sudden rush of adrenaline flowed through him, pumping through his bloodstream and lending him a strength born of pure, animal desperation.
He wasn’t going to die.
Not today.
[I]Get the fuck off![/I]
The scavenger lashed out with his knee, smacking directly into the old man’s back. Sudden and unexpected, the blow knocked the hermit from his precarious perch, sending him toppling to the ground. As the hermit released a puff of air from his lips, the wind knocked out of him, Miller drew back one foot, slipping a wicked, serrated knife from his boot, and kicked out again. The steel-capped boot rammed into the hermit’s face with a sickening crunch of broken cartilage as he struggled to rise, sending the rusty blade flying from his hand.
[I]Now-[/I]
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