Somewhere in Kansas, trouble is brewing for a small settlement eking out a living on the plains.
Jim turned at the sudden roaring of engines that filled the quiet plain, the scrawny rabbit he had been about to shoot for breakfast gone in a flash. The sound was coming from behind him, so he turned. He could barely make out the glow of many headlights in the distance, though the sun had not fully risen and he couldn't make out much more than that.
Whoever it was, it probably wasn't good. Jim slung his bolt-action .22 rimfire rifle over his shoulder and began jogging through the tall prairie grass towards the beaten dirt path that led to the small town of Grey Oaks. He had to warn his wife and newborn child of the possible danger.
Once he escaped the entangling stalks of grass, he went straight to the old mountain bike that he had concealed in the brush. He hopped on and began pedaling quickly up the road. Behind him, the engines got louder and louder.
He was within sight of the village. He could see the lights in the windows, the yellow, flickering glow of the home-made candles in the windows. He could see his own shadow lengthening in front of him as the light grew. But when he glanced over his shoulder, the sun still hadn't risen. With a start, he realized the roaring was reaching a crescendo. He fully turned his head, only to stare right into a single glaring light that was fast approaching him up the trail. He pedaled faster, fear lending his legs strength. Over the sound of the motors, he could hear frenzied shouting.
Once again, he glanced over his shoulder to check his followers' progress, but before he could turn his head past 45 degrees, he felt an impact on the back of his skull, and his world went black. Bonelessly, he dropped from the skittering bicycle and fell in a limp pile on the side of the road.
His assailant's whooping and hollering was muffled by the gas-mask he wore affixed over his face, lank hair hanging out from under the melded-metal helmet on his head. He blasted past the fallen corpse, waving his nail-studded bat in the air.
Minutes later, poor Jim's unfeeling body was crushed under the wheels of a large truck loaded with battle-hungry raiders. The sun blossomed in the sky, finally cresting the hills on the horizon. The town in the distance burned with a similar hue.
Jim turned at the sudden roaring of engines that filled the quiet plain, the scrawny rabbit he had been about to shoot for breakfast gone in a flash. The sound was coming from behind him, so he turned. He could barely make out the glow of many headlights in the distance, though the sun had not fully risen and he couldn't make out much more than that.
Whoever it was, it probably wasn't good. Jim slung his bolt-action .22 rimfire rifle over his shoulder and began jogging through the tall prairie grass towards the beaten dirt path that led to the small town of Grey Oaks. He had to warn his wife and newborn child of the possible danger.
Once he escaped the entangling stalks of grass, he went straight to the old mountain bike that he had concealed in the brush. He hopped on and began pedaling quickly up the road. Behind him, the engines got louder and louder.
He was within sight of the village. He could see the lights in the windows, the yellow, flickering glow of the home-made candles in the windows. He could see his own shadow lengthening in front of him as the light grew. But when he glanced over his shoulder, the sun still hadn't risen. With a start, he realized the roaring was reaching a crescendo. He fully turned his head, only to stare right into a single glaring light that was fast approaching him up the trail. He pedaled faster, fear lending his legs strength. Over the sound of the motors, he could hear frenzied shouting.
Once again, he glanced over his shoulder to check his followers' progress, but before he could turn his head past 45 degrees, he felt an impact on the back of his skull, and his world went black. Bonelessly, he dropped from the skittering bicycle and fell in a limp pile on the side of the road.
His assailant's whooping and hollering was muffled by the gas-mask he wore affixed over his face, lank hair hanging out from under the melded-metal helmet on his head. He blasted past the fallen corpse, waving his nail-studded bat in the air.
Minutes later, poor Jim's unfeeling body was crushed under the wheels of a large truck loaded with battle-hungry raiders. The sun blossomed in the sky, finally cresting the hills on the horizon. The town in the distance burned with a similar hue.
