The Corpses of Civilization

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. Michael belongs to Matt, my almost-brother who allowed me to post his wonderful story on to this site. All things this story contains belong to him or J.K.R. Do not sue. :-)

Please let us know what you think. Matt will be happy to hear your opinions. Please email him at lamashki@axint.net or click that little link that says Review! and I'll be happy to send it to him! :)

on to the story!

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The Corpses of Civilization





A cold wind wailed across a desolate, crumbling city. It was covered in ashes, the bones of the dead littered the street, and the shells of the once mighty buildings reached ominously to the sky; they were all that remained. The city had once been a bustling center of livelihood. Now, the parks, the markets, the offices, the busses, the cars, the subways, the schools, the homes—they were all silent. In one of the forsaken squares, a series of light taps conversed with the wind.

The taps were the footsteps of a young man, barely turned 19. He was thin, but well built. Wrapped up against the bitter cold in an assortment of rags and armors, he carried but two things: a rifle and a small bag. The wind grabbed the remains of the cloak he wore. Little flaps punctuated the silence. The man’s eyes darted to and fro nervously. Cities—no matter how dead—were not on this man’s list of “favorite places.” For him, it was too cramped, and an ambush could be waiting anywhere.

He continually searched the grey, desolate ruins as he walked, avoiding any places that could easily conceal a foe or anything that could be a trigger. He, his kind, muggles, were loathed and despised—they were hunted as pets, as toys, or for leisure. Ever since he came to power, whoever this he was, the world—his world—had gone to hell.

The man held his silent visage behind the mask that protected him from the ashes, walking steadily and cautiously onwards. He passed a skeleton so mangled and burned that it was hard not to guess what had happened to this one. Demons. Pictures flitted through the man’s mind, pictures of grotesque imitations or deformations of humans. That skeleton belonged to someone—a woman, to be precise—who was burned alive as a demon devoured her.

The skeleton brought back the last four years of his life. They emerged out of nowhere, like ghosts, those damned Death Eaters. They were hell bent on eradicating those they called “muggles,” or non-magic folk, in layman’s terms. And it wasn’t just them alone—they brought all manner of evil—goblins, giants, vampires; anything you could name in the name of fantasy, they brought with them. Even demons came with them. Like a plague, they descended on the muggle world, maiming, killing, raping—anything their sick and twisted minds could fathom, they did. At first, the world laughed—giants? Impossible. Magic? What the hell are you talking about? People brandishing sticks were of no concern to muggles, so certain of their superior firepower—that is, until those people leveled New York.

But they weren’t content with that display of power. Even after all the nations of the world had surrendered, or their Imperiused leaders had made them welcome, they kept on slaughtering. No one was safe, not even children. In desperation just before the United States fell, the President, as a last resort, ordered the use of nuclear weapons. A grim day that was—no one had smiled, no one had laughed. Under the fires of a thousand suns, the invaders burned—and so did the land on which they stood. Over half the nation, if not already crippled, was destroyed, reduced to nothing more than a burned out ember.

The man thought of that day—how so many had perished, and now, the ground on which they fell would lie fallow for hundreds of years. He wondered why he had survived. The Death Eaters and their minions were on his state’s doorstep, in full force, ready to lay waste to everything the muggles held dear. Why? Why did the president not nuke us? The man wondered. He remembered everything—everyone at home had been ready to die. When the announcement was made, they stayed where they were—expecting and welcoming the inevitable.

But the inevitable never came. The minions of evil—an evil with the name of Voldemort—poured across his home. Why had he not died then and there? The memories that stood on the brink of flooding his mind were too ominous, and he forced them from his mind to return to the present.

He left the square by a small side street, not only concerned with potential enemies. He looked and walked for an hour which seemed never to exist—time had no meaning to this man, only the position of the sun did. He finally spied his goal.

He stood looking at a small damaged building. Its shattered windows had bars across them, and heavy locks on the door. It was smaller than the other houses and shops around it. Undaunted by the fortifications, the man strode quietly up to the door, and kicked it down. The falling timber sent a spray of ash into the air. He shut his eyes and waited for the dust to settle. When it finally meandered back to the ground, he looked around. A series of racks held dust-encrusted weapons, a glass case beneath held ammunition. The building smelled as it looked—burnt and dusty. He walked over to the case, and looked to see if they carried anything that would fit his rifle. Thankfully, they had four unexploded cases of it. Quickly and quietly storing it in his pack, he turned and made for the exit.

As he stepped outside, he smelled something out of place—nothing should smell alive, at least, not where he was. He unslung his rifle, and loaded it with an all too familiar ease. Bringing the firearm to his shoulder and looking down the barrel, he crouched low and made for the shadows of the nearest building.

Now… to get out of here…