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Gangs Of The Aftermath by Dave Cline

They rove in hordes, packs on the hunt, rot and decay their realm. Their station has shifted, not up, not down, but sideways, mycelium tendrils infiltrating every nook of the derelict cities and towns where they now rule. Once society’s rejects—castoffs unwilling to break their backs conforming to the gears of the economic machine—they now strut abandoned avenues daring any to challenge.

Doom Crawlers, excavating discarded treasures found within posh village mansions where manicured topiary once regarded them with snide disdain.

Hellfire’s Kiss, their tactical swarms penetrating suburbs where terrified mothers huddle within cupboards, shielding babes who’ve never known a warm smile, a wormless meal.

And the notorious TDDUP, ‘til-death-do-us-part, wreaking their bloody mayhem against foolish vigilantes who knot in nervous clans brandishing makeshift weapons thieved from garden sheds and mechanics shops. As a haughty kindness, the TDDUP announce their ‘no mercy, no quarter’ promise before they encircle any hapless survivors of the apocalypse.

Gangs of the Aftermath, the scourge of precincts the land over, arise like a toxic foam that coats the remnants of civilization in a sort of deserving retribution. Revenge. For, was it they, the oppressed and foundering youth, who tore at the Earth with rapacious avarice? Was it they who promised a green revolution only to squeeze black profits into towering banks and political deceptions?

“Where are the rich, now?” bellow the gangs, the new owners of this failed world. “What use your diamonds and gold, your yachts and jets?” They jest.

The Doom Crawlers scavenge the farms and ranches, relentless, they seek meat and succor. Yet, some among them stay their blades, “save a few for tomorrow,” they advise, “for the coming winter.”

Hellfire’s Kiss sends teams into warehouses and factories, categorizing and collecting what they might, resources for the barter, trade for trade, they’ve quickly learned.

And the vicious TDDUP, their eyes and ears close to the pulse of the dwindling masses, taste the notion of information as power. Ye who knows, controls.

In the aftermath, who’d have thought the downtrodden, the disaffected, the disavowed would someday rule the land?

Yet, was it not always written—who shall inherit the Earth? The meek?

Who’s meek now?

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1 comentario

06 feb 2023

Is there a story here? Or is this the send 'em to the dictionary prologue?

“This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.” — Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.


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