SCAR
Chapter I

Journal entry 1: May, 2018

Four years.

It's been four God forsaken years since North Korea made good on their threats of nuclear attack against the United States of America. In that time, I've seen buildings looted, children executed, women raped, and people starve to death. I always intervene when I can, although it's not a perfect world, and I have to look out for myself first. What good am I if I just got riddled with bullets trying to save one girl?

Maybe it sounds cold, but I can't be bothered to care.

This is not a video game, like I always expected it might be. I prepared, a little bit. A green handled Ka Bar knife was the first item, followed a month later by a SCAR-L. I did it right, went through firearms handling classes, filled out the proper background checks and paperwork to own the assault weapon; the paperwork didn't help much in the long run I suppose. Although I've yet to ask a bandit if they'd like to see my permits.

I got good at using the rifle, which I guess is the important thing. I can fire the 5.56x45mm ammunition from one hundred yards and hit every time, I'll never claim to be a sniper, although if I had some kind of optics beyond the model 552 holographic sight, I might surprise myself.

So there I was, SCAR-L all shiny and new, mounted fore-grip and holographic sight, Ka Bar combat knife, a matte black blade with a neon green handle and biohazard logo. A Cutco model to be specific, one I got from a friend when she had a summer job as a salesperson for the company. Only $160.

. . . Damn was I wasteful back then.

Oh well, paper currency only counts for fire starter these days.

And let's not forget my pistol: a Sig Sauer P226, firing .40 rounds. I only have two clips for her, both holding 15 rounds apiece. I've also got four STANAG magazines for my SCAR, holding 30 rounds apiece. Running low on 5.56 rounds though, going to have to make an ammo run here soon.

Oh, I suppose since this is my first entry, I should at least write who I am. My name is Geoff, that's all anyone reading this needs to know. Only my family knows my last name, and they're all dead. I think.

I grew up in a town in northern Arizona, a little place called Winslow. It wasn't touched by the bombs, but there was literally nothing there anyway.

I'm off to town now, hopefully the Wal-Mart here has some ammunition. Wouldn't count on it, but I do know of one crazy prick who lived around here. He was the "prepper" that got me started with my weapons, his name was Jack Thompson. I know for a fact that he's long gone. Woke up one morning to a note in my old house's mailbox that said he went east and left some supplies for me in his personal fallout bunker.

I pray that it's not just a shit ton of saltines.

If anyone finds this, and I'm not back by sunset, feel free to write in here. Leave it for the next person to come along though, tell your story, where you're from. Maybe we can be friends, I think I'm starting to lose my mind thanks to the lack of human contact.

I descended the stairs of the watch tower, originally built to watch for forest fires. Taking a deep breath, I headed off toward the town at the bottom of the mountain. I had no friends, not even any allies, but after finding that dusty old leather bound book I decided to write down my thoughts. The tower would make a decent base of operations for him while picking the city clean, and it'd also provide a place to store extra food and water.

I let my thoughts wander as I descended along the trail, keeping half an ear out for any signs of movement that could indicate a threat. Mt Elden I think the mountain is called, it lies just north of the city of Flagstaff, Arizona. There's even a marked trail leading up to the top. I grew up around this place, coming into town on the weekends with my dad to get some hardware or going school shopping with my mom. My grandparents lived somewhere around here, I need to see if I can remember where their house is.

There's also a lake fairly nearby, probably a day's journey there and back. Less if I can find a bike or *scoff* a working car.

I marched on silently, double checking my holster and combat vest a few times. I'd picked up the vest at a sporting goods store, where it was advertised as an air soft accessory. Didn't stop me from repurposing it to hold my extra magazines though. I kept my SCAR at my chest, always pointing down into the dirt. For this trip, I'd wrapped my Ka-Bar handle with an old shirt sleeve, just to hide the neon green from anyone looking for targets.

Leaving the trail when I neared the bottom, and creeping through an abandoned neighborhood, I exited onto an old road. There were many cracks and blemishes on the surface where different grasses and weeds had grown through.

There was a road sign on my way in, built with some sandstone and metal, it read "Welcome to Flagstaff, where we're building an inclusive community!" It was the first time I'd laughed in weeks.

The laughter reminded me of my dad's laugh. Somehow I'd ended up with his belly-based guffaw style of expressing humor.

As soon as the bombs fell it was every man for himself, DC had gone up in flames, they didn't even pick up the missile before the blast. The government was obliterated in seconds, no word from the President or any officials. The first blast had rocked the world, the dozens that followed it just rubbed broken glass in the wound.

Amid my laughter a bucket rolled down an embankment beside the road, making a noise that snapped me back to reality. I dropped to my stomach, shouldering my rifle and scanning for threats for a whole ten minutes before deciding that it was just the wind. I still get freaked out by unexpected sounds, the first time had been just a couple hours after leaving my home to search for help or supplies.

That time, it wasn't the wind.

A young man strolled down the middle of a street, temperatures that day were in the 90 degree range. He was sweaty and tired, hungry and dehydrated. Almost everyone had left town, opting to head inland to avoid the bombs along the coast. The kicker for most of them had been when Phoenix and Las Vegas had gotten hit.

A rock skidded across the ground, barely drawing a glance from the boy in his zombified state of mind. He took three more steps before a gravely, slurred voice called out behind him.

"Hey! You got a few bucks, kid?" A clearly drunken man walked up behind him.

He wasn't frightened, drunks were all over the place in his town. The most they'd do was cuss a few times and waddle away to clean the shit out of their pants before passing out beside a road. He turned around, backpedaling and throwing his arms out to the side nonchalantly, "Naw man, sorry. All the shit recently hasn't given me much reason to carry money."

This drunk though, apparently was not to be dissuaded so easily. "Come on man, help a brother out. I gotta get a bus ticket back to my family in Iowa."

Geoff sighed, idly placing a hand on the grip of his Ka-Bar, "Look, I'm sorry man, but I don't have any money at all. Besides, there hasn't been anyone in town for a week and a half."

He turned his back on the man, picking up his pace a bit and undoing the strap that held the knife securely in its sheath. He heard the man grumbling something incoherently behind him, seemingly discouraged enough to quit pestering him. With a smug smile, he walked on.

"GREEDY LITTLE BASTARD!" The sudden shout from the man startled Geoff into turning around, just in time to catch a fist to his face. He fell back against the burning concrete, dropping the knife, which skittered across the ground and stopped beside his head.

His vision swam as he tried to get the weapon back, but the drunken figure on top of him grabbed it first. "Damn kids these days, not wanting to share their blessings with other folks. When I was your age, we'd get beat up for not sharing!" He rambled on, turning the knife on Geoff's face.

The young man hissed in pain as the razor sharp blade bit into his cheek, causing a stream of blood to roll down the left side of his face. The man laughed bitterly, drawing back and punching him again. Geoff could feel his right eye swelling shut from the hit immediately. The man mumbled something else about kids and how they were all pussies compared to his generation, before driving the blade down into his left bicep.

Geoff screamed in pain, praying in the back of his mind that someone not crazy would just shoot the guy and let him live. The drunk started laughing, screaming at the boy, "I was in 'Nam! I FOUGHT FOR YOU SNOT NOSED BRATS AND WHAT DID I GET? I GOT A LIFE SENTANCE FOR KILLING THE PRICK THAT PUNCHED MY FRIEND!" The man brought the knife to Geoff's ear, "I got fucked plenty of times in that prison, maybe it's time I return . . . the . . ."

Finally, the drunk passed out. He slumped forward onto Geoff's face, forcing the young man to push his limp body off him. He grabbed his Ka-Bar, favoring his left arm as he pushed himself up. He immediately hobbled back to his house, a small trailer in one of the suburbs of Winslow. The entire time, he had tears staining his cheeks, stinging the gash cut into his face.

I shuddered after recalling that event. For months afterward I never went anywhere without my rifle, and would hide for hours at the first sign of trouble. It had taken seeing a little girl, no older than twelve, attacking a guy my age for me to finally sack up and do something. I'd shot her right in the chest to save the guy's life, hoping to gain a friend and partner out of it.

Turns out that she'd been stabbing him because he had shot her dad in cold blood. I'd killed the attacker, who was taking revenge on a piece of shit murderer. When I found out, I shot the guy twelve times in the chest. He'd had the gall to brag about the event like it was some video game achievement.

I crept down the side of the highway, using the ditch to conceal my movement. I passed the Flagstaff mall, a pitiful little shopping center that didn't hold any promise. A few minutes down the road, I came across a used car dealership. I doubted any of them ran, and all of the tires were deflated and cracked from four years of sitting still. I still scavenged for useful things, taking some copper wire and rubber hoses from the ones I could get into.

An hour later, I entered a Wal-Mart. I went to the food section first, making sure there wasn't anything useful there. I did manage to find a gallon of drinking water and a bag of potato chips, so the trip wasn't a waste at least. I grabbed another pair of pants also, ditching my old hole filled rags for a new pair of black Dickies work pants. The pockets on the sides would come in handy.

I rounded the corner to the sporting goods department, and my heart sank a little bit. The ammo had been stripped from the shelves, the only evidence that it'd been there in the first place was a few stray .22 rounds on the floor. I did manage to get a roll of fishing line though, I knew of a couple ponds in the area that were stocked with Rainbow Trout before all this. Maybe they'd supply me with some food.

Checking around some more, I found a portable IPod charging station, as well as a few batteries to power it. I was glad to see the batteries, most other places were fresh out of the precious little capsules, and I'd at least have something to listen to my music with. Before heading out, I decided to grab a couple magazines from the news stand, I didn't pay much attention to what I got, just something with hot women, guns, and big trucks.

Also found a Twix bar on one of the shelves. Awesome day.

I took inventory before heading out, my once empty backpack now filled with a gallon jug of water, copper wires, rubber hoses, half a bag of chips, reading material (and let's be honest, masturbation material, don't judge me, it's been two and a half years since I've seen a grown woman) fishing line, a couple lures, 30 AA batteries, and my new IPod dock.

All in all, not bad for a day of scavving a single store. Shaking a can of spray paint, I started marking the wall beside the door. A simple message: "Looted" was all. Just to keep my numbers right and not waste time checking the same place twice. I knew that there'd be more in other places, and there were some sporting goods stores to hit also. I'll hit Jack's place tomorrow and see what the crazy bastard left for me.

The hike back was uneventful, although night fell halfway back to the mountain. I got back to the tower alright, sorting my gear into piles to store until I either used everything or decided to move on. The tower still had working lights, which were on a mysterious timer that I couldn't find, so I opted to leave my gear in the tower and set up my tent a couple dozen yards away in the tree line.

I set a trip wire at the bottom of the steps, using a bit of fishing line to tie some tin cans together. They would rattle around if someone got caught in it, alerting me that my equipment was in danger. I would've moved it with me, but after a year of not seeing anyone there, I simply didn't give it much thought.

Sighing, I shuffled down into my sleeping bag, ensuring that my SCAR was at my side and loaded just in case, and drifted off to sleep.

Entry 2: June/July?, 2018

So it's been a while since I wrote in this thing. I'm still in the tower outside Flagstaff. I went by Jack's bunker to check for supplies, turns out he actually left me most of his stash. I've got a few cases of water bottles now, getting them up here is the hard part. I've gotten three of the twelve up the mountain, one every few days as needed. He also left me a ton of Army MREs. I've been limiting myself to one per day, since I figure they were made to fuel a soldier through a day's worth of fighting.

He also left me some ammo, I've now got all four magazines full with 5.56 rounds, as well as another 180 in my pack. They're extra weight, but I can deal with it for the security.

I honestly can't complain, there's not anyone to fuck with me here, and I have food to eat and water to drink. I built up my magazine stash a bit, and now have about ten of them, including a Playboy that Jack left just for me.

I love that crazy old geezer.

I've almost gotten the radio on this tower working, it was a bitch to find a manual on electronics to fix it up, but the Radio Shack here had a bunch of components so I've been able to grab whatever I need.

I think I'll leave a case of water buried here under the tower when I leave, and a few meals. If you find this book, leave your name, the date, and your story if you feel like sharing. Look for the rock pile under the tower, there will be supplies there.

I closed the book, setting it back on the table in the observation tower. For a second I thought I saw a flash further down the mountain, but after twenty minutes of staring at the area, I brushed it off and went back to work on the radio.

"Let's see," I mumbled, "This wire goes. . . here? No, here." I set the wire in place before staring at the circuitry for a few moments. All of this effort to get this shit here, and I'd forgotten that I'd have to solder the damn cables. Not to mention that I had been bullshitting my face off in the journal. Those twelve cases had really been four, and the ton of meals had been around fifty. I wasn't eating one a day, but one every three days.

My body was showing signs of malnourishment, I was hallucinating fairly often. Yesterday, I thought that there was a Playboy bunny walking across the clearing toward me, but it was really a mountain lion. I shot the bastard before he pounced, so that would feed me for about a week, but I'd have to eat it before it began to rot.

I was still planning on leaving some supplies behind, not because I couldn't use them all, but because I just didn't give a fuck any more. I had ammo, yes, but I was taking that shit with me. I'd found a nice grove a few miles away, and it seemed to be a nice place to die.

In a fit of rage, I brought my fists down on the radio in front of me. I was planning on making one broadcast to see who I could reach, but my fist saw that plan shattered. The pcb that was the heart of the radio split into five pieces, and I was left with several pieces of metal and plastic stabbing me in the hand.

Sucking on the wound, I grabbed my second IPod. I'd found it in a house I'd decided to go through, and it had some decent stuff on it. Not what I'd normally listen to, but it fit my situation better than the rap and techno I used to listen to.

That was by far the highlight of this whole apocalypse. Discovering metal. Sure I listened to rock before, who hasn't? But there's something about double bass and high gain guitar that made it click with my daily fight for survival.

I sighed, picking up my backpack and throwing my standard kit in; four MREs, four water bottles, ammo, spare batteries, IPods, speakers and headphones for said IPods, and magazine collection. I stood and thought about it for a minute, then threw two of the MREs back into the pile. I wasn't planning on coming back from this trip.

I left my campsite as it was, not bothering to clean up after myself. After five hours of stalking through the woods, I finally came to the aspen grove. It was beautiful, a steep valley filled with the white trees. Sunlight filtered down through the canopy, casting a warm glow throughout this little sanctuary. I saw a deer bounding through the trees, scared away by my scent or the noise I was making.

I pulled out the IPod speakers, scrolling through the song list on this new device. There was a big selection, around 7,000 songs. I still don't know how people have that much music, most I ever had was 1,200 on mine. I scrolled through the songs, looking for a title that would catch my eye. Eventually I found one, 1,000 songs in and only on 'C'. I hit play, the title reading Come Little Children.

As I sat there listening, I pulled out an MRE. I began to eat and listen at the same time, taking time to actually enjoy the meal rather than just shovel as much into my mouth as I could. The view was serene, with the soft female voice echoing gently from the valley walls. I sighed as the song neared its second ending, packing up my speakers and allowing it to repeat a third time. I sat back against the rock, deciding that the song would repeat until someone found my body or until the IPod ran out of battery.

I took one last glance at the sky, clear blue met my gaze. It was so peaceful, and for the first time in years I was actually relaxed. I wasn't constantly tense, looking around for anything that could kill or injure me if I wasn't alert. I finally had an end in sight, and for a moment I figured that thousands of others had taken this way out too. I brought my pistol up, placing the barrel between my eyes and closing them.

I began to sing at the end of the song, "Come little children, the time's come to play, here in my garden of sha~a~dows~." I listened for a little longer, allowing the song to finish its last beat.

POP

Twilight Sparkle dragged herself out of bed, a long night of studying causing her to sleep well into the afternoon. Her library was a mess, a mess she really didn't want to clean. She glanced around the room, noticing that Spike was still passed out in his basket.

She smiled happily, content with her life and all she had. Six amazing friends, a fantastic assistant, and her teacher was the Princess herself, almost a second mother to the purple mare.

pop

A distant noise caused the sleepy pony's ears to swivel toward the Everfree Forest that encircled half of the small town. Her curiosity piqued for a moment, before her stomach growling called her to find food. She shrugged, levitating a brush to tame her bed mane, before venturing down to the kitchen.

Author's Note

Just a side project, I'll not be updating this one very often, still have two other stories to write for and all that.

Comment and stuff, I read them all.