Lone Survivor of a World in Ruin #2
For a long time, I leave the electronic devices where I find them.
I distrust them deeply, since my studies revealed that power, machines, and the unchecked ambitions of man played no small part in the world’s downfall.
They were instruments of progress once, but also of destruction.
I see little reason to place faith in the very things that helped unmake the world.
But necessity has a way of reshaping conviction.
In my searching, I uncover information that challenges my assumptions. Not all devices were bound to the world’s power grid or linked networks. Some function independently, sustained by simple batteries—items still scattered in abundance among the ruins.
The discovery unsettles me, yet curiosity wins over caution.
Through trial and error, I begin testing what I find. Many remain silent and lifeless in my hands. Others flicker briefly before falling silent and still. Eventually, one responds.
Alarm and elation strike me at once. I hear a voice, another human voice, for the first time in more years than I’ve kept track of.
Echoes of lives once lived.
Music spills from the small device—soft, distant, achingly human. Recorded messages follow: fragments of ordinary moments that somehow survived. Laughter. Words.
I hoard them like sacred gems and holy text, intent on carrying them with me so they too do not fall to ruin. They become a new collection—things I safeguard for the future and can not only help me pass the time but also find joy in.
And oddly, I feel as if I am no longer alone.
The deserts are the most difficult regions to cross. They present trials unlike any other.
There is no shelter from the storms that sweep across the land. No escape from the relentless sun or the mirages that shimmer in the distance on the hottest days. As I trudge through endless miles of white landscape, I rarely encounter anything of note.
It is as though life never truly existed here at all.
The red sands that once defined these regions do not reveal themselves easily. I have to dig through layers of ash to find proof of it and feel the texture with my own two hands.
A different kind of sand than that near the ocean, yet the color and coarseness of it intrigue me. It’s a shame it’s buried beneath feet of white. That the rocklike mountains in the distance are as well. I can only imagine what they looked like many years ago, undoubtedly a wonder all on their own.
Here, the ash also spins in sporadic wandering cyclones, drifts constantly on the wind, settling over everything in a fine, suffocating veil.
Even I’m no exception. It seeps into every breath, constraining my lungs, which has me returning to the protective layering and mask I had abandoned while on the coast.
Farther inland, the world is whitewashed—death on the breeze blending all that’s been left to ruin into the haze until all things appear ghostlike and indistinct, even myself.
When at last I emerge from the worst of the desert and reach regions where the ash has settled into the earth itself, I begin to notice disturbances in the pale soil. Marks. Impressions.
Footprints.
Some are fresher than others.
I follow them. On rare occasions, they lead me to sealed entrances hidden among the landscape. Most are carefully concealed yet still discoverable by those with patience and tracking skills, or by those who know what to look for.
These doors, when I find them, are far more formidable than those of the old monastery—reinforced metal, thick and unyielding, marked with symbols of warning, and fitted with strange devices above their frames.
Red lights in the top corners glow beside what I believe are video cameras, their glass lenses focusing on the entrance.
Underground bunkers.
Places where humanity sought refuge during the fallout. I’ve read of them, but this is the first I’ve encountered.
More proof of life.
Desolate landscape be damned, it exists here under the surface.
I never attempt to enter. There’s no way to anticipate what waits beyond those doors, so instead, I mark their locations on my maps and leave them in peace.
The survivors will emerge when they're ready, and my arrival might make them less inclined to do so.
In time, nature reclaims lost ground.
More green.
More Red.
More Pink.
And hues of yellows and blues.
Life blooms back from the brink of death in a variety of colors and ways.
The most notable change is the reemergence of animal life.
There are faint tracks. Not just human prints now…
but paw prints, some small and delicate, others large enough to give me pause.
I search them out, finding more evidence as I go: droppings left behind, nests tucked into branches, dens and shelters built from the roots of trees and hollowed-out ground.
Eventually, I walk through sections of forest filled with their movement and sound—insects humming past, small creatures scattering when I disturb their quiet sanctuaries, birds calling to one another in bright, living notes.
They may not know it, but their cries—even when indignant—become a chorus bringing a quiet kind of joy to my days. Something I didn’t realize I missed until they once again fill my waking hours.
With the return of wildlife, the world’s scent changes. Subtle at first, then not.
The clean, green fragrance of leaves warmed by the sun.
The faint sweetness of wildflowers pushing through ash.
Bark, damp earth, and something softer were woven between them.
The first budding fruits added a sweetness to the air that wasn’t there before.
Coloring the breeze with new aromas as well as the world.
Then years later, a stark new smell triggers another significant shift.
It overwhelms all others, and though it’s distant, it’s unmistakable.
Smoke.
Wood burning. Then later, whiffs of cooked meat. Remnants of temporary camps. Proof that others are attempting to brave life on the surface. It takes some time, but eventually, I find them.
I remain apart, observing from afar, partly in fear, but also because solitude has become my safeguard, and distance my teacher.
For years, I am alone. In degrees, that too changes.
My silence is breached as humans make the world their home once again, spreading out in scattered numbers across the land.
They establish settlements—small towns and makeshift camps.
Some take refuge in ruined structures that still cling to their shape, boarding up collapsed sections so those are no longer exposed to the elements.
They rebuild. They set down roots in places less severely damaged.
Most move in groups, much like the animal kingdom, as though they prefer to live in packs, and it is very rare for me to encounter a lone survivor like myself.
I only venture closer when I deem it safe, learning from them without being seen. I study their mannerisms, languages, gestures, and daily habits, which are completely foreign to me.
As I travel, I work to bridge the gaps in my understanding.
I seek knowledge of humanity—its behaviors, its psychology, its cultures.
I visit abandoned libraries, buildings, armories, and stores, salvaging not only supplies that might be useful to me but also gathering materials to give me more insight into how I might interact with them in the future without raising any alarms.
At night, by firelight when it’s safe, I read, trying to understand a world I walk through but don’t yet fit within.
It takes months to acclimate. To learn how to mirror them.
The ash is still present, camouflaging the world, but less so than before.
Occasionally, great gusts of it ride the wind, arriving from places unknown, but it no longer impedes the brave souls who face it.
At first, it made them sick when they were overexposed to it, but like me, they quickly learned to shield themselves from it.
Now, they dress much like I do, cloaked from head to foot, masked up, which has helped me blend in a great deal.
My first attempts at contact don’t go as planned.
Not all are failures. But the ones that are, I make note of to see how I may have handled the situation differently.
Though some approach me, not all of them have good intentions.
A lesson I learned the hard way. After several unpleasant encounters, I grew more cautious, taking greater care with strangers and choosing which towns to visit and which to stay clear of.
Years pass before I can walk among them without drawing attention. Longer still before I master the art of moving unseen—of listening, watching, and gathering what knowledge I can.
And always, beneath all of it, my purpose remains.
I search.
For the whereabouts of the Horsemen. The Harbingers who ripped into this world and now roam it freely. The four who will bring about The End.
I watch for the signs—those subtle markers that set one man apart from all others.
I keep my ears open and listen to the happenings around me.
Stories told in boisterous voices around guarded fires.
Unexplained devastation. Sudden shifts in power.
The rise of figures who inspire both reverence and fear.
Until I finally find a recurring theme of a man who stands apart from the rest. That man, being a leader in a settlement rebuilt from the bones of an old city.
A man whose presence bends loyalty, whose words reshape the hearts of those who hear them.
One whom others speak of with reverence and awe. With devotion.
A savior, some say.
If he’s who I suspect, he’s anything but.
So yes, he’s the first I find.
The White Horseman.