Path To Nowhere

I remember my mom always saying that the moment a crack appeared on dishware, it would spread until it completely broke. And well, I tend to agree with that, especially after what happened 34 years ago. The world went to shambles—the ecosystem, the weather, even the plates—but that was the least of it.

Humanity paid the price, with the blood of our race flowing like wine. Whether from different races, religions, or any other distinctions, it spilled and overflowed until it seemed never-ending. We simply summed it up and named this period "THE GREAT RESET."

In a dimly lit bunker deep within the lower levels of a military base, I found myself surrounded by groups of individuals from every background. We were all donned in hastily assembled, battle-scarred reinforced carbon alloy armor, each of us assuming a weary and degrading stance. The flickering light cast dramatic shadows across our rugged gear, showing the splatter of blood, dirt, and grime.

"Tonight, we conquer! Who's with me?" shouted an older man with fair, grimy skin. His black hair was streaked with white, and his long goatee resembled a billy goat's beard. His face and skin were scarred with cuts, burns, and injuries. One of his eyes was gouged out, covered by a black leather patch, while the other was red from blood seeping in. He held his forged spear high in his right hand and carried a black, roughed-up helmet in his left.

"Yeahhhhhh!!!" we roared, thumping our weapons—maces, spikes, hammers, and swords—in preparation for the fight of our lives. Tonight, it was our turn to go to the other side.

Everything we had was gone—our children, parents, partners, and friends. Some lost their money, homes, and motherlands. It wasn't by chance or choice; it was the result of those who craved war, immortality, power, control, revenge, and godhood.

"Let's fight for our dead children, for our dead parents, for our friends, for our partners," the older man continued. "And last of all, let's fight for our survival. Who's with me?"

"Yeeeeaaaahhhh!!!" we shouted, though some cried from the pain of remembrance, and others shed tears from trauma. We looked at our blood-sewn scars, burns, and fractured bodies. We were ready, prepared, and determined.

We began to march out from the bunker, 200,000 strong. The north left wing, the east left wing, the south and west—all moving in unison, with mecha and weapons in hand. This was war—an unrequited war of survival.

"We are the last stand! Let's go! If we die, we die together!" the older man rallied us again.

"Who's dying with you?" a young man with dirt blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles shouted from behind, causing us to turn and face him. The green moonlit field fell into abrupt silence, with only the rustling of wind and leaves breaking it. The tension gave way to hearty laughter that echoed across the open expanse.

"We will not die. We shall drink tonight," the older man declared.

"Yeahhhh!!!" we echoed, just before radioactive mutants, zombies, Titans, and unseen beasts lined up and circled around us.

Meanwhile, on the lush fields atop the hills, I watched. I watched as they fought with desperate determination, as they got torn limb by limb, their flesh and muscles sliced up, and their blood flowing like a river. I watched as some breathed their last, as others became what they were killing, and as friends and partners turned enemies were slain in cold blood.

It sent chills down my spine. It was intriguing, disgusting, pure blood and gore—a slaughter, nothing less. It was the end of humanity. My stomach churned, and I wanted to barf. This was just the start, but the end had already been spelled out.

30 minutes... 1 hour... 2 hours... 4 hours... 6 hours…

The air became murky and stiff with ashes, cinder, smoke, and blood. The screams, cries, sounds of metal, and groans filled the air as everyone below the mountain struggled to survive, clinging to minuscule hope. I wanted to fight, to save them, but I couldn't join. I watched until the last man breathed his last, and the land became barren.

The only one left was the same old man, he stood atop corpses, he stood atop the bodies of the men and women who fought, in his hand was not his spear, but a black shotgun; he had lost his second eyes and had lost his right arm and ears. He could neither see nor hear a thing but he could smell the scrid metal blood...

Before I knew it, I heard a shot—BANG. He had died. He had committed suicide, with a shot to the head. It was a sad moment. I wanted to cry, to shed a tear, but this was just a simulation. I would change something, survive, save as many as possible, and fight till the end. But was this really the end?