American Tragedy
West Coast of United Nations of California
Year: 2013
Dirt. That was all I could see through my mask. I have been traveling through this desert without shelter and water for many days now. I left the cities behind to seek an adventure that no others dare to do. I was 18 that day my life had been through a lot more than any regular person in the broken superpower that was America. My family had been part of a master drug raiding group and like many other family’s couldn’t dream of the day that they could leave their make shift houses that were nothing but dirt and rocks.
My name was then Spike. My alias at that time was known as Spiked, I had become over the course of my early teens a paid killer or “repo men’ as they were addressed in that time. Many feared the sight of these people man or women could become repo men. All that was required of me was I had to have the three things anyone in the Baja had. Guns, ammo, and a will to kill anyone and everyone they were paid too and not have any personal feelings or economical feelings come in the way of business. I had earned my reputation through a series of killings in the city of San Diego ounce the home to millions of people now less than a fraction of a thousand people reside there. There was a drug cartel that based their after the third cold war had ended the lives of China, United States and Russia. Their leader had been the second most powerful person in the city after a series of how shall we say “accidents” occurred over the following days he was found dead in the base front office. It took many weeks of planning to come up with that operation but the money was good at the time and helped me greatly going too Vegas now the basic capitol of the Broken America’s. Money flowing like blood across the sand stained with more than a million years of bloodshed and war that has scared this place.
Vegas was the capitol of the drug running business if you needed anything to either boost you up or power you down this was the place you went too. And the man that was responsible for all the killings and smuggling that was scaring the city one block at a time. Mr. Anderson or “Ole Al” as everyone on the black-market knew him as. The man of the hour, which now lasted a lot longer than the normal hour as the past, was seemed to know as. Men were running stuff out of the city and selling to the surrounding cities like LA and San Francisco that were paying top dollar for anything and everything that old and would guarantee the numbing feeling of the pain that had seemed to plague this world after the bombings of all the major cities in the United States of America. Many died instantly in the center of the cities others died slower because of the lack of food and clean drinking water. Many before the disaster had tried and failed at warning the numerous people that had dismissed the calls and signs of the worlds end like many I was one of those people that had thought nothing of the threats and things that had been standing right in front of me to warn me. Luckily at the time of the explosions I was residing in the lower parts of the bank I had been working with counting the money and now here I stand on a mound of sand looking down on the city that was said to be the “promise land” for us travelers. I pray that my family lives in riches after all the pain and sacrifice that I have endured to get to this city which looks like anything in the Baja as of late. Cites that used to be centers of trade and power were now reduced to rubble and crumpled dirt.
Now with me I carry the only things I need my gun, my ammo, and the will to kill and I set off for the city of promises.