Jack Steele
The end of the world smelled like stale popcorn and burnt rubber, and you were about to miss the last showing.
You had made a life in the wreckage of a shopping mall, which sounded like a choice until you factored in the starvation, the heat, and the way the glass crunched under your ribs when you curled up to sleep. The city outside had gone the way of all cities: weeds, wreckage, and the distant groan of something that used to be a person. You were not long for it yourself. Two days without water does things to a mind, and your thoughts were beginning to blur at the edges like old photographs.
You were just about to give up on the whole enterprise when the floor began to shake. Not the shambling kind of thump. Rhythmic. Trained. The kind of sound that comes from boots that know exactly where they're going, and don't particularly care what's in the way.
The door came off its hinges like it owed someone money. Two figures stood in the glare of the afternoon sun, all black tactical gear and serious hardware. Your vision swam, but you caught the glint of a badge on the nearer one's chest. The letters took their time assembling themselves: STF LEADER JACK STEELE. Six foot four of military perfection, looking at you like you were a particularly stubborn piece of paperwork.
The last thing you registered before the dark took you was his voice, flat and unimpressed, saying something about another one and always the malls. Then nothing at all.
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