The Burnt World: Finale Part 1

The Mayor stared at the barrel pointed sternly at his face, the man behind it determined and armored, their face hidden behind a mechanical mask. The sight was horrifying, his ego and bravado was suddenly put into check, fear taking his sarcastic comments before he could make them. Job's voice was distorted now, like the techno songs that pumped downstairs, only this voice conveyed ferocity, instead of joy.

It had been a long time since the Mayor had felt genuine fear. He almost relished the rush, watching the mysterious things that were leveled at his head. He didn't know what they could do, but a large part of him didn't want to find out. The demand was simple, but the delivery was going to be the difficult part. "Alright, thar, boy-o, calm down, now. I'll 'ave some volunteers fer yer lit'le mission. Ease up on tha' thing, will ye'?" 

Job didn't want to let up on the pressure, he wanted to push this as far as he could take it. "I'll calm down when I feel like. Do you have cars? Vehicles? Anything with a running engine?" The Mayor looked lost in thought for a moment before he commented on some old motorcycles out back that might be salvageable. "Bring them to the church before sunset. And if anyone does anything to Jedidiah or the church they WILL answer to me. Understand?" The Mayor answered silently with a smile and a nod. 

It wasn't over. There needed to be an example. The old soldier turned to the rest of the posse against the wall, waiting for them to nod their agreement. All but one did, exactly as he predicted. Muscle memory kicked in, the pistol with the silencer whipped through the air and found the man. There was barely any time to react, on anyone's part, Job pulled the trigger, sending three lethal rounds out. The man who didn't nod took all three bullets to the chest, the wall was sprayed red, viscera clung loosely for a moment and then succumbed to gravity. 

The man slumped over, his head hitting the floor with a thick thud, exposing what was left of his back. Three giant exit wounds showed white bone, a severed and fractured spine, and what was left of his internals. Every face, except the one hidden behind military grade technology, was in terror and drained of all color. Job's robotic voice came again, breaking them out of their trance. "Don't disappoint me." 

Job's exit was quick and unhindered. The church was his base of operations, for now, and then in the morning he would begin to take the steps necessary to find out if he could do anything about this burnt world. As he walked back, taking in all the information from the various displays on his Heads Up Display, the thought of telling Jedidiah he'd killed men today weighed heavily on him, for some reason. He knew the news would come, eventually, but for some reason, he didn't like the idea of the old man knowing. 

Jedidiah was sitting on one of the front pews of the church, his hands atop the cane that helped him walk. The old man looked up as Job entered and gestured for the soldier to sit with him. And he did. With a click the visor came up and the world was back to normal. There was no words coming to the soldier, so he waited. He didn't have to wait long. Jedidiah spoke with the same softness and kindness he'd always had. 

"Job, my boy, I want you to know that I will never judge you. You must do what you must do, as a soldier, and as a human. This world can be cruel, hate-filled, and violent. And one must adapt or be pulled under foot of those who have. I will never begrudge you trying to keep alive, or trying to keep others alive, by any means you deem necessary." He ended his sentence with a soft pat on Job's shoulder, smiling up at him, and nodding. The ancient soldier was grateful for the words, but he felt he was compelled to tell his benefactor.

"Jedidiah. I...have something I have to confess. I-" The old man cut him off, "You don't need to confess a thing to me, my boy. I'm no god, and I am not without my own sins. Just help, if you can, and want to, and live as well as you can." Job was taken aback. Those simple words, free of judgement, and want, made the idea of the old dogma his old life held over his head seem simply vile. Job nodded, "I will, Jedidiah, I will." With that, the white eyed old man stood up and shuffled off into his room, leaving with a smile. 

The sun started it's slow descent into the horizon while Job waited for the Mayor's cronies to show up with what he'd requested. The idea of killing all of them didn't bother him too much, for some reason. He also wondered at the nature of the vehicles they were bringing, and if they could be repaired. Memories of summers with his father and uncle repairing cars and dirt bikes seeped into the edges of his mind, playing old sounds and smells, making the memory of them being gone all the more painful. He diverted his memories to the repairs they used to do, and to his training and education from the military.

Determination started to set in as the sky was turning to the color of wine. Job would play the part of the executioner, and like one, he'd have no mercy. One last deep breath, to steel himself, and he was ready. As soon as he stood, the breath still filling his lungs, sounds of a cart being pulled up the dirt road, accompanied by shouts, started to play. Relief washed over the armored soldier and the deep breath became one of almost total alleviation. He walked out to meet them, taking his rifle and pistol with him, just in case, hoping he wouldn't need them.

Three men, all of their clothes rags and tatters, hauled a cart with what looked like the remains of five dirt bike like motorcycles. They all but ignored Job as they walked by and left the cart in the yard next to the church. The effort was filled with grunts and curses before it was finally done. The complaints continued as they walked off, stares of discontent aimed at Job only brought a smile. The soldier began to study the contents and make his assessment. The parts were all there, but it would take work to make maybe three whole bikes out of the five.  There was even some tools included, all rusted, but they seemed useable. 

Thus Job began his work. For three weeks Job slaved away, tolling almost day in and out. From dawn until the winged things emerged from the sand dunes his work continued. Working on the bikes gave him hope, igniting in him a sense of purpose. The engines were different from combustion ones of the past, but the concept was close enough for the soldier to figure out how to get them to run on some alcohol from the mayor's hall. The first time the engine sputtered to life and hummed steadily Job couldn't help but smile. It was time to collect his crew and do what needs to be done. 

Job walked to the mayor's hall, this time he walked in unencumbered. He took notice of the shoddy job that had been done to replace the lock and the mechanism on the door where he'd blasted it in earlier. He also took note of some of the men trying to armor themselves by tying pieces of metal to themselves. The old soldier wanted to smile, but kept his face straight. The door to the Mayor's office opened before he arrived, the guards all giving him wide berth as he walked.

The soldier took the lead, speaking before anyone else could, "Where are my volunteers?" The visor was down, the voice was distorted, the HUD gave him all the information, there was no wiggle room for the leader of the town to exploit. The Mayor had his hands on his desk and a nervous look on his face, "You've got them, boy-o, you've got them. When d'ya want t'get goin', thar Job?" The plans had already been laid out by the soldier, "We ride out at dawn. I need two people to go with me, that's all. No more, no less." 

Business was concluded, as far as Job was concerned, so he turned to leave, but the Mayor still had something to say, "Sorry, thar, Job. But thar is still some...unfinish'd business tha' ye need t'address." Anger began to rise, but Job kept his cool, turning back to the Mayor, waiting for the rest. "The man ye kill'd not t'long 'go had a brother. An' he wants his pound o' flesh. I kno' tha' yer not from 'ere, but thar are rules tha' must be follow'd. Ye fight 'im. Ye win. Ye get t'go on yer pilgrimage. Ye lose. An' we bury ye nex' t' tha church." 

Job strode back to the desk, his grimace hidden by the helmet. The Mayor shot up from his seat, putting his hands out in defense, "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! This needs t'be done! This ball o' dirt we call home has some rules! Ye may not be from 'ere, but they are!" As much as the man behind the mask wanted to decimate the mouthy mayor, he knew that this was a situation he couldn't avoid. 'When in Rome.' was the old saying. "Where?" he growled through the electronics. "He'll be waiting fer ye outside." Job turned to leave, again, and again the Mayor interrupted, "Oi! Be fair, yea'? Leave yer toys out o' tha fight."

Out  in the dirt street of the little town there was even less people than usual. They'd all sought some kind of shelter, eyes peered out of windows, others hid behind whatever they could grab. In the middle of street there was a giant man, his body was misshapen, mutated by the radiation of this world. His body was twisted up, flesh dragged and stretched out, the right arm was huge, triple the size of a normal mans. On the opposite shoulder the arm was equally warped, but instead of huge, it was emaciated to the point of being almost skeletal. Strands of thin hair stuck out from calcified boils atop the equally warped head, the mouth going from normal to a gaping maw, drool hanging from the separated lips.

The giant arm raised and pointed at Job while the mutant man spoke, "You...murderer. Me..kill. Brother...dead! You...MURDERER!" With that the creature launched forward, closing the distance quickly, bowed and twisted legs carried the man at a rapid pace. Job reacted as quickly as he could, letting his fighting instincts take over, running towards the mutant charging him. As much as he wanted to just draw his rifle and let his bullets rip apart the goliath, he resisted, instead drawing two knives. Where Job's run was steady and straight, the giant's was awkward and stilted. It made the soldier's strike easy to plan.

While the massive limb swung back, ready to come down on the much smaller man, a roar came forth. Job's speed and frame made it easy to avoid the hammer-fall, ducking under and going to his knees, sliding between the goliath's legs. The two knives in the fight made deep and horrific cuts into the flesh of the inner thigh, near the groin of the mutant, instantly bringing huge spurts of blood, and a cry of pain. Job recovered quickly on the other side, turning around and shifting his weight back towards his opponent. Using the built up momentum the soldier jumped on the broad back of the man, burying one knife under the shoulder blade, and using it as a hoist up. Another cry of pain came forth and Job let his voice join in, a furious yell as he brought down the second knife, plunging it hilt deep into the top of the skull of the creature. 

Silence swept through the world swiftly, leaving only the slight whistle of the wind. A sickening thud resounded off the scrap metal buildings, dust kicked up from the massive weight. Job stood upon the fallen corpse, his hands shiny with blood, and looked at the denizens that had come from the club, the mayor included. They all stood in silence and in awe of the spectacle that had just happened. Job's voice broke through the silence like a pane of glass shattered in the middle of a quiet night, "We ride out at dawn." 

The Burnt World: Part 4

Job walked away from The Spire, dizzy with the implications he was going to have to deal with. He'd heard of messiahs and saviors before, in his old life, but in this world it just seemed ludicrous. Voices were murmurs, even the threats that rained down from windows above were nothing but noise, somewhere off in some distant place. He tried not to think of the monstrosities that awaited him, tried not to think of the crippling thirst and hunger that would plague him on his journey, or of the acid rain that could fall from the sky and burn him to nothing in seconds. This was too big for him. He was just a soldier. He wanted to sit down, let the world stop twirling. Job felt like a top, spinning out of control, seeking solid ground, but unable to find it. 

He was leaning against a rusted car when he came to his senses, his shirt was soaked with sweat, his brow was slick, somewhere behind him the soft voice of Jedidiah was calling for him. He wanted to answer, but his throat was dry, his head ached from the sight atop the giant tower. He never considered himself an educated man, but certain words suddenly made so much sense, words he'd never thought he'd use to describe a single thing as long as he lived. 'Bedlam, maelstrom, conflagration' were all real and visceral now, like he could feel the weight of them on his mind and tongue if he spoke them. The old preacher's hand laid gently on his shoulder, letting Job know he was there, “Come on, son, let's get some rest, the night approaches soon and we don't want to be out with the things that go thump in the dark.” 

The disoriented soldier could only nod, following behind the shuffling old man, through the town, back to the church. The sun was diving past the distant horizon, turning the already odd colored sky into an even stranger purple. Job stopped at the steps of the small church, looking back at where the sky gave way to dirt, feeling the weight of the setting day on his shoulders. The last rays of light danced across the dark colors, highlighting the winged things that were starting to emerge, looking for whatever and whoever they could devour. Soft coos, like those of a whale, were carried on the gentle wind that wafted by the stranger in this strange land. He watched the things climb out of the dunes outside of the town, shake the dirt from their heavy fur, stretch their bat-like wings, and take to the bruised sky. Job's thoughts were dark as he stepped inside and closed the doors, wondering why he'd not encountered them before. He scoffed out loud at the though of 'divine intervention'. 

Job stayed up most of the night, after the meager dinner the father had served for them, he let his mind wander, think of all the things he'd have to face. Images played over and over again, like a slide show on repeat. It was a long time before he fell asleep, the sounds of large wings flapping and coos and their echos lulling him into slumber. The sleep was deep, but dreamless, like the world was covered in a thick, black blanket, shielding him from everything. It was comforting, time was not present, it was his own little world. Jedidiah's voice began to pull him out of his world, each word another tug, until Job was awake. The sun was pushing through the small spaces in the wooden shutters, giving the back room of the church an orange hue. Job sat up and finished waking, shaking away the deep sleep, and decided to see what Jedidiah was going on about.

The rickety door creaked open, leading into the main room of the church, the once empty pews now packed to the brim with people. They didn't notice Job, their backs to him, but they sat in rapt attention of Jedidiah as he spoke, “No, my good people. This is a Church of Mankind, not of promised messiahs, or of prophets. Job is only a man, a victim of science, as we all are, in some way. We mustn't go back to the old ways, believing one man was sent to save us.” Job sat quietly in the back, content in the shadows, as he watched the preacher take a more serious tone, “Need I remind you? Look at the world outside our walls. Where were the kind and loving sons of deities when our earth and it's people burned? Where were the miracles our forefathers were promised when our own skin was melted from the acid falling from the sky? Why can't the ones that are lost to the desert, devoured by creatures from nightmares, feel their mercy?” 

Jedidiah's hand, covered in melted skin, reached up to touch his own face, the cheek's damaged texture near identical. “The pain we've felt, the people we've lost, the world that still burns, shows us that we must never believe in a single man again. There are no messiahs, no prophets, no promised ones. Do not let hope falsely lead you into faith.” The soldier at the back of the room observed carefully, watching heads hang, either in shame, or resignation to the truth. Murmurs went through the crowd like a ripple on water, wanting answers, others seeking forgiveness for their presumption. Jedidiah's white colored eyes glanced over his congregation and went directly to Job, standing in the shadows in the back, “Let the man, himself, talk to you and qualm your fears.” He gestured for Job to come forward, “Please, my son.” Every person turned to look at him, the pews creaking in unison, feet shuffling in concert.

Job felt a bit of nervousness in his stomach, but walked forward, anyways, clearing his throat and letting his crossed arms hang loose at his side. Whispers that he couldn't make out followed him like a wake as he stepped upon the tiny stage, replacing Jedidiah. He looked out at the pool of expectant faces. He didn't know what to say, what to do; so he stood there, hands on the altar and stared blankly. It seemed like a few minutes, but a voice came through, a meager, older voice, “Will you save us?” Job felt his heart sink again, he wanted to say 'yes' and mean it, but even he didn't know if the journey was going to be taken. His mind was blank, devoid of all things clever, not even the simple words of his training were there. So he just opened his mouth and let the words pour forth, whatever they may be, they would be the truth, he decided. 

“I don't know if I can, truthfully. I'm just a soldier. I've never really been anything other than that. I don't know if I'll even take the journey to try and restart or fix whatever is out there. I'm new to this world, and it's....frightening. Where I came from the very idea of monsters and acid rain are fiction, things of nightmares. I don't know this world. I don't know any of you. And if you think that's a cruel thing to say just remember that my family is dead.” He paused for a moment, the weight of those words hit him hard, “My friends, everyone I've ever known....they're dead. You care about you and yours, and I don't blame you, you have to. I don't. They're not my family or friends, this isn't my world. But there's a chance I can get it back to good and save you. And in doing so, save myself. Understand something: No matter what I decided. I decide in my own interest. And that has nothing to do with any of you. For that, I'm sorry.” Job didn't raise his head, he didn't want to see the silent faces. He simply stepped off the small stage and walked back to the small room where his bunk was.

He spent the rest of the day in silence, staring at the sun turn the blinds on the windows different colors, then finally set. Jedidiah didn't bother him, not once, and with the words Job said earlier, there's plenty of reason not to. Job's thoughts were swimming, passing through all sorts of possibilities, all the failures that could happen, all the terrible creatures out there, waiting for a meal. His mind glided over the landscape that he remembered from The Spire, trying to plot a course where the monsters didn't roam, but the task was too difficult, he wasn't familiar enough with the territory. With his thoughts so scattered he couldn't get his plan straight, so he decided to plan it like he would a mission, back when he was a soldier. Hours went by as he tediously thought and plotted, changing variables when he could and couldn't, taking stock of what he had. Job didn't even notice that the night had passed as dawn began to break, quieting the soft coos of the creatures that flew in the night and bringing back color into the world. 

A little while after dawn Job could hear the slow shuffles of his host and the gentle placing of a tray of food at the door. Guilt crept into Job and he got up and opened the door, facing the gentle smile of his only friend, “Jedidiah. I'm...I'm sorry.” The kind old man with the half melted face smiled and patted Job on the shoulder, “Don't be sorry, son. You're only human. No one can blame you for your trepidation, even if they had the education to do what needed to be done, themselves, you bet they'd still choose not to go.” With another reassuring pat the old man shuffled off to his own room, leaving the soldier to think in the dark and enjoy his meager meal. All the motivational posters, encouraging words, speeches, everything that he'd heard in the military, came back in whispers, like lost, faint memories trying to make themselves known. They would fade as quickly as they came, leaving only traces, floating in the depth-less moat that had become Job's conscious thoughts. Luckily those didn't hang around that long, either, and soon Job gave in to sleep. His dreams were light, though they were nightmarish, none were memorable. 

The sun came again, just as harsh as before, the quiet coos of the giant bat-like creatures died out as a soft dawn became a blaze of light pounding against the closed shutters. Job cracked open his burning eyes, feeling as he'd only gotten a few hours of sleep, waiting for the soft shuffle of Jedidiah's footsteps, but they didn't come. The quiet lingered, like an unwelcome guest, uneasy and all but palpable. Sound exploded, boots trampled the soft floor of the church, shouts of 'be careful' and 'over there', came. Job hopped out of bed, reaching for his knives when the door to his room burst open, four men poured in, holding a large army crate. They dropped it beside the bed as the old soldier stared on. “Thar ye go, boy-o, tha' only t'ing we found out in tha' dump of a place ye say ye came from. Hope yer happy, boy-o.” The skinniest one, with the worst teeth, finished his speech with a kick to the heavy chest on the floor that did nothing but cause a bit of dust to rise. With sneers and whispered threats they left Job to his new companion. Jedidiah's soft shuffling came wafting down the hallway, “Job? Job? Are you okay?” The soldier answered, “Yeah, I'm just fine, Jedidiah. I'm just fine.” 

Job got to his knees and inspected the sealed crate, knocking off layers of dust and dirt around the rim, revealing a seal and a small label, 'Arms and Armament'. Job smiled, finally feeling like he'd caught a break, just as the old preacher stood in the door, “Job? What did they bring?” The soldier's fingers found the catch, pulled hard, hoping it'd give way, “An equalizer.” Jedidiah nodded and said he'd leave Job to it. The heavy latch gave and resounded with a loud 'CLACK'. The lid popped open just the slightest, allowing air to rush out from the pressurized container. The soldier hesitated, thinking that maybe he was, in fact, frozen and thawed out for the very purpose these people believed. Maybe he was supposed to save this world, maybe none of this had been an accident, after all. Hope flared up in Job's heart as he opened the lid to the box, the heavy plastic hinges creaked and complained as he did. 

Inside was what the soldier hoped for: an M4 assault rifle, a heavy ballistic vest, a Kevlar helmet with a strange attachment on the brow, a .45 caliber handgun, four boxes of ammunition for both the rifle and the pistol, clips, magazines, and silencers for both. A folder, sealed in plastic, lay at the bottom of the crate. After a brief inspection, making sure that everything worked, Job grabbed the sealed document and cut it open. For some reason the smell of the paper and plastic was comforting to him. He opened the folder, inspecting the first sheet of paper, a table of contents that gave no real information, then he turned the page, the first words sank all the hope he'd had: Long Term Storage Test #4189: Cryogenic Freezing of Equipment and Storage. He read on. 'Long term cryogenic storage, test number 4189, rifle, pistol, ammo, HUD helmet, Sensor Vest, Neptunium slow drain batteries. Test set for longest available freeze. To be thawed out and tested at date set on freezer pod. Please report results to local research agent.' The date on the papers was more than a hundred years after he'd been frozen. 

The soldier laughed, tossing the papers aside, finding the entire thing utterly hopeless, but at the same time hilarious. No predetermined fate. Rage began to build beneath the hopelessness, forcing the laughter to the wayside. A decision was made. It took him a few minutes to figure out where to put the batteries, following the overly simplistic instructions. Inside the vest was a web of sensors and wires, all sewn into the cloth of the vest, a cable coming from the top of the vest near the neck, and the pockets ready for the magazines that were in the crate. The helmet seemed to be just as heavy as the ones he was used to using, the only real exception was the strange square plate of technology on the brow and the wire on the back. The vest went on and adjusted itself, tightening snugly to his torso, the helmet and vest connected to each other at the nape of his neck. With the push of the only button on the visor the helmet came alive. It lowered an armored shield, expanding to under his chin and the sides of his cheeks, hiding his entire face behind it. For a moment the world was black, then it burst into colors and text. There were monitors for everything: Heart rate, body temperature, hydration level, injuries, the amount of bullets that were stored in the vest. He picked up the rifle and there were new displays, telling him the amount of bullets in the magazine, even bringing up a digital cross hair to let him know what the weapons were pointed at.

For the first time since he woke up in this nightmarescape Job didn't feel helpless or lost; he felt like used to: Like a man with a mission. He counted his steps, lined them up, while he loaded all the magazines and clips he had. What needed to be done was finally clear, so he would do it, and maybe he'd save this miserable world while prolonging his own life. Odds had finally shifted in his favor and he was more than grateful for it. After all was loaded, said, and done, Job stared at the noon sky, the black clouds, the blue and purple lightning, and thought of all the horrors that awaited him on his journey. He didn't feel the same dread as before, the sense of hopelessness was lost, he now had a purpose. And the first step was to get what he needed from the Mayor of this little town. Job pulled the charging handle on the rifle, chambering the first round, and putting him in a way of thinking that was all but lethal.

Most of the morning had gone, but he didn't mind, he still had time to get to where he wanted and do what he needed. With a full load of ammunition and attitude Job made his way out of the church silently, taking to the road, his helmet visor down, his rifle brandished, pistol in it's holster. As he walked down the dirt path his helmet gave him all sorts of information, even trying to recognize the region he was in, the best it could do was some small town named El Paso, but nothing else. The townspeople that saw him in his battle gear turned and went back inside their rickety buildings and homes, avoiding him as he went down the main road. His destination was that town hall of a party palace, the guards were nothing but targets, this time. His helmet counted the nine individuals for him, but he knew he only needed to take down two.

The biggest of the guards stood as Job approached, wearing a confused look that quickly turned to fear once the armored man's rifle went to his shoulder. Job didn't know what the rounds were made of, but he knew they'd be more than effective. With a short burst of three rounds the giant man's body broke apart like plate violently thrown against the wall, blood, bones, and internal organs splattered across the dry ground. The loud reports drove the rest of the mob back, the gory mess of the giant man took away their fight, and they all backed away silently. Another three rounds turned the lock on the door to shredded metal, sparks joining the barrel flash, lighting up the already bright afternoon. Inside the hall a dance track was playing loudly, the lights were low, but people were cowering away from the commotion instead of enjoying the rhythm. This was the effect the old soldier wanted.

His helmet alerted him of hostile movement from his left, the other guardian, and as quickly as his current setup would allow him, Job dropped to his knee and repeated the same process as outside, turning the man into chunks of flesh and sprays of blood, all colored oddly from the strobing lights inside. The man with the armor and rifle walked uninhibited to the main office, the door opening quietly. “Move to the other side of the room, next to the desk.” Job didn't recognize his own voice, it was projected through the digital speakers, distorting it and making it semi-robotic. Several men, that couldn't be scene from the hallway, followed the order. Job switched the rifle to his left arm and drew the pistol, the silencer making it look much larger than it actually was, but added menace to the weapon. The mayor sat with a smirk on his face, staring at the man in the armor before him, “Welcome back, Job. Seems ye' found yerself some new toys. What can I do fer ye'?” The soldier leveled the pistol at the mayor and let the menacing digitally converted voice carry the threat, “I need volunteers to go save this miserable world.”  

The Burnt World: Part 3

Job slept soundly, the smell of candles and dirt easing him, reminding him of certain childhood memories. His dreams, however, were not so peaceful. The disembodied mind of his swam and sluiced through nightmare after nightmare, exploring each one with wicked curiosity, not bothering to let one end, before plummeting to the next. Somewhere, unconsciously he was fighting back, trying to remember things from before, but couldn't. He was a victim to the abyss, falling through the void filled with horrible images and things his mind had imagined. Cascading down the ever-flowing river of terror was pain, but his mind was somehow at home. Abruptly, it all stopped. 

In the middle of the barren desert, a field with nothing, Job stood, looking around. Above him the bioluminescent creature bellowed and walked, casting long shadows. Off to his right, he heard the chittering of the smaller insect types he'd seen, and it all seemed so odd. Then it began to rain; the same acid rain as before. His skin sizzled and smoked with each drop, but he felt no pain. He watched as his own flesh cooked and peeled away, plopping to the sodden floor, becoming a soft pile of blood and sinew. Before long that, too, dissolved into the wanting floor. Purple, red and green lightning ran through the sky, leaving white streaks in his vision. 

Right after the crooked lines faded away, skeletal hands pushed their way from the mud and grabbed his pants and feet, pulling him down. It happened with terrifying speed; so quickly, he barely had time to scream before the muck he was sinking into filled his mouth and swallowed his voice. The bony fingers grabbed harder, and pulled more. Job found his knife, but the panic was too much, and he awoke. It was a few seconds, but his eyes finally focused on what he had in his hands: the priest of the church, and a blade that was firmly placed against Jedidiah's throat. The man's voice, even with a weapon to his trachea, was still kind. "It's okay, Job. You're safe. Calm down, son. Calm down." A few more seconds passed, and the rest of the world fell into view for the man with the knife.

He was inside a church, with simple grey adobe walls, and bleached-out wood benches. The smell of wax and smoke hung steady in the air. Job relaxed his grip and apologized to the blind old man. "I'm sorry, Father. It's been a rough few days." After a comforting rub where the blade was, the priest smiled down, "I understand, son. This world is something else, considering where you come from." The old man took a seat at the end of the bench, when Job sat upright and sighed deeply, "For a long time, it seems, the people who survived were calling this new world hell. Perdition. And they believed that we'd been thrust into it. But luckily a scientific mind put all that to rest."

Job was curious and couldn't wait any longer to ask, "So you do believe my story? You don't think I made all that up?" The old priest looked over with a big smile, "My son, I live in a world of monsters and rain that will burn the flesh right off your bones. Nothing is too far-fetched for me." Another question popped into the soldier's mind, but his stomach spoke first, growling loudly. Jedidiah laughed and slapped his knee, "Now that's a sound I recognize all too easily, and one I can do something about. Come, we'll eat, and I'll take you to the town later. And we'll see if we can get you some more answers." The meal was meager, nothing more than bread with some kind of gravy poured atop it, bits of sausage in the concoction. As he ate and gulped down several cups of water, Job decided it was best not to ask where the meat for the sausage came from, and so the meal went quietly. After helping the old preacher with the dishes, it was time to meet the locals and search for more information. The entire thing had Job on edge, not knowing what was going to happen, or if he'd even be welcomed. 

The afternoon sun was no less harsh, blasting Jedidiah and Job with yellow rays and heat, punctuated with sharp sand kicked up by small gusts of wind. The church stood on a hill overlooking the small town of about a dozen buildings, built from rusted and rusting pieces of metal, adobe, and whatever materials the inhabitants could scrounge up. People walked about, covered almost from head to toe, sunglasses hiding their eyes. Hardly a glance was thrown their way as they traveled, as everyone seemed occupied with their own business. 

Job finally saw their destination: what could only be described as a town hall. The closer they got, and the denser the crowd of people grew, the more nervous the stranger became. Familiar sounds began to play for him, even in this distant future: people begging, cackling, mocking laughter, moans of the suffering, or those pretending to suffer, gruff bullies, and their bullied. Smells returned in a flood as well: stale urine, alcohol, and one thing or another being smoked. Job's fingers curled around a knife handle tightly, ready for anything that could go wrong. Time was relative; the more he noticed, the more it slowed down, and it felt like hours until they reached the front door.

The largest of what could only be construed as bouncers put their hand up, stopping both Jedidiah and Job. "What are you doing here, old man? There ain't no appointment set for you in the books." Job considered the big, meaty hand connected to an even beefier wrist, following it all the way up the muscle-thick arm, attached to an equally large body. This man would've been considered a specimen of fitness in Job's day, even with all the scars, the split lip, and the flesh of his left arm burnt and melted. As Jedidiah was about to answer, the large man leaned in close to Job's face, inspecting him. "Black man. Pretty, too. We ain't got many of you around. I hope I get to go first when they start to rape you silly." Laughter and cat calls poured forth in small waves from other men hanging around the door, some even finding their feet, and swaying as they slurred sexual and physical threats. 

All the alarms went off, all the red flags raised, and Job's mind began to commit to the deed of cutting his way out of this place, if he had to. In the midst of all the commotion, it was Jedidiah's calm voice that cut through it all, and restored attention to the matter at hand. "Why would you want to harm the man that is going to save us?" Several asked the meaning of the question, but Jedidiah played it close and quiet, "Why don't you let that information come from The Alderman, hmm? Why don't you go tell him our saviour has arrived?" Sneers of disappointment set into a number of faces, and with a nod from the biggest one, a shorter man ran inside the doors. They all wore the same kind of burlap clothing, each fashioned differently, although one had a decent version of jeans. For some reason, though, this made Job grateful for his clothing, which was simple, but well-built. As they waited, the lewd gestures returned, all aimed at the one man who didn't seem to have been burned by this world, and Job's hand returned to the handle of one of his knives.

The doors cracked open and the smaller man poked his head out, whispering to the giant man, who had to bend at the waist to get his ear close enough to hear it. With a sneer on his split lips, the big man opened the doors and pushed Jedidiah and Job inside. The world exploded into color. The town hall was more of a party palace than a hall. Two stories were packed with people, some scarred, some not, but all wore very little clothing. The lights were low, and the windows shut. Colored bulbs and spinning balls painted the dance floor in the room's center, packed tight with people grinding and singing to the song playing from the two giant speakers that doubled as pillars for the second floor. It was excess, and wanton. For some reason, it upset the soldier greatly.

A man dressed in "normal" clothes - jeans and a button-up shirt, neither made of burlap - appeared in front of them. He shouted over the music for Job to follow him, but leaned in and gently took Jedidiah's hand, whispering into a cupped hand the same. The old man complied with a smile, patting the man on the shoulder. The three men cut through the crowd, finding a staircase, then strode down a hallway with another two men standing guard. Finally, they stepped into a private office, isolated and insulated from the noise outside. The doors closed, and the commotion stopped.

Behind a desk, of bleached and damaged wood, sat a well-built man with grey streaks in his short-cropped hair, and a scar running from dark hairline to jawline. His clothes denoted that he was, indeed, the man in charge of this little town. When he welcomed his two guests, a thick Irish accent came forward, "Well, come in, then. S'not every day you get t'meet the saviour of the world, is it?" He laughed as he gestured to two large chairs stationed before his desk. Jedidiah seemed to know where it was, and sat down with a huff, Job following suit. "So tell me, Jed, 'ow is it this man is our saviour, eh? You wouldn't be pulling me leg, now, would 'ya?" A small smile never left the old man's lips, his demeanor still that of a patient grandfather speaking to a haughty grandson. "Nice to see you, too, Alderman. This is Job." The Alderman's eyes darted back and forth between his two guests when Jedidiah didn't go on, then he got the hint. "Oh, fuck me! Right! Where are my manners, huh?" He stood up and gave a small bow, "I'm Jason Alderman, the would-be king of this li'l circle of dirt we call home." Job stood and returned the bow. "I'm Lieutenant Job Jordan, uh, Army Corp of Engineers, retired, I guess." Alderman and Job sat down at the same time, but this time the room went silent. It was then that Job became aware of the two men behind him and Jedidiah, standing silently, and the heavy door, locked with several measures that would be difficult to undo under duress. 

Alderman chuckled a little bit. "Are ye' fucking kidding me, father? Your church f'nally delivers on somethin'." This made the hair on the back of Job's neck stand up. "What does that mean?" Jedidiah turned to answer, but Alderman cut him off, "I take it he 'asn't told you about his little church, there, Job?" The soldier shook his head as he found another knife handle, ready for anything, as the leader of the town continued. "The Church of Humanity. Science's shining beacon of hope left to us at the end of the Holy Wars. You see, there, boy-o, we nuked the planet; God's gift to us, some say, and in doin' so, nuked that fluffy bastard right out of the heavens. But the lonely folk still needed something to believe in, didn't they? So some scientist, all those years ago, said with all the religions gone from the world, we 'ave no choice but to believe in ourselves. Believe in the accomplishments we can now do without the shroud of judgment hangin' over us. The world was still burning, ya' see, and the skies were growing blacker by the day, and they said they found a solution: terraforming the Earth back t'normal. However, they were all scientists, not builders, so their inventions ended up being a relic. And the world continued t'burn. And folks, still needing something to believe in, didn't have the strength t'shrug off the failures of yet another church."

The more Job listened, the more lost he grew, wondering what all this had to do with him, why he should care, and why his branch name sat them back on their haunches. He opened his mouth, but again was interrupted by Alderman. "Now, the trick to a religion is t'always give some kind of prophecy, some idol, or somethin' like that t'hope for. And those founders did just that, saying one day there'd be a man who could fix the machines they built. And, boy-o, you fit the bill. I dunno what an 'army corp' is, but I do know what 'engineer' means." The big man sat back, studying his two guests, dry washing his hands, as he thought. The smile on his face seemed sinister and curious, and it further put Job on edge. Finally Jedidiah spoke, "I have faith in you, Job. Do you think you can try? I'm sure The Alderman would help in any way necessary." The soldier's mind raced with questions, but only one needed to be asked. "I'll try, on one condition. I need to find out what happened to the facility that was holding me. It's a day and half travel west from the church." The Alderman laughed, hard and loud, "It's your funeral, Job Jordan. I believe in fairness, so I'll let you get a look at what you're going t'be up against. And yeah, your condition will be met, you have me word on it." With that same wicked grin, the leader turned to a man behind Job and indicated with his head, "Take him to The Spire." Jedidiah began to protest, but Alderman quieted him, "He's going t'have to know, Father! You cannot send a man out there armed with only faith! Now pipe down and let the man see his fate." 

The man and Job walked for an hour, well beyond the fences of the town. Both passed an enclosure of creatures that could only be descendants of cows, fur replaced with leatherlike skin and thick protrusions over their eyes as shields from the sun; chickens; and a giant metal tank with something sloshing in water that he didn't want to know about. As if out of the rolling dirt and sand, there suddenly stood a structure that looked like a radio antenna fortified with parts of other things, but much, much taller. There were plane parts, ship parts, car parts, other antenna, and a door that he and the silent man walked through, and onto a small platform with two ropes on either side. The man passed one rope to Job and counted off. Each man began pulling, the platform lifted a few feet, and some hidden mechanism locked into place to keep them from plummeting back down. They repeated the process. It seemed like hours and felt like they climbed miles, when the platform finally clicked to a stop. The Spire creaked and swayed from powerful winds pounding mercilessly at it. The silent man waited between gusts to open the small door, and they both stepped through. 

What Job saw took his breath, and nearly brought him to his knees: miles and miles in each direction was nothing but sand, hills, and more clouds spewing acid rain upon the world. Job felt the crippling truth of how dead this world truly was, and wondered if there was, in fact, a way to fix it all. The more he stared at the nightmarescape, the more he saw: creatures that weren't there before frolicked on the sand, and the earth undulated like water as things moved beneath it. A tear escaping his eye burned all the way down his cheek until it evaporated.

The man pointed to a black pyramid that barely peaked the horizon, the distance indiscernible. "There. Machine." Job began to remember a book he'd read when he was a kid, about aliens invading Earth and killing all of humankind. That never bothered him, but the last line of the book had stuck with him, even when he'd grown up, even while he fought overseas and witnessed horrors he'd never speak of. It was those words that came screaming forth in his mind, bubbled up from his soul, found his mouth, and tumbled out to be carried away by the winds: "Truly the world is lost, and truly we are the damned."