Revelation

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It’s been three months since the fall of Bunker 108. In that time, I’ve survived raiders, gangs, empires, cold, hunger, and monsters. By all rights, I should be dead. We all should be. It seems impossible that we aren’t. Impossible that we are still fighting this.

I just wonder how much longer we can last.

The odds are stacked against us. At every turn, the xenovirus gets more deadly. The number of Blights in the Wasteland has tripled. The monsters it creates are more dangerous. Crawlers roam the dark, cold nights in packs, killing any they find. Anyone without a wall, without a home, is as good as dead.

The Great Blight has expanded one hundred miles further west over the past two months alone — a rate which will see the entire Wasteland covered by this time next year.

And, somehow, we are expected to stop all this. The four of us are expected to be the world’s saviors. We are all too young for this job. I’m sixteen. Makara is nineteen, Samuel twenty-three, and Anna is seventeen. That’s too much weight to rest on our shoulders — hell, too much weight for anyone’s shoulders. Maybe, we aren’t kids anymore. Responsibility is enough to make an adult of anyone.

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