Cola

Cola
By Richard Stokes

　　　　Running. You are running. Always running- never safe. Whether it is running from the bullets of raiders, or towards the promise of provisions of any kind, you are always running. Your pack, slung over your shoulder, beats rhythmically against your side as you put one foot in front of the other.
　　　　In this case, you are running for your life- while searching a pre-war supermarket for food, you accidentally set off an old anti-theft alarm and irritated a den of mutated ants, which are currently hot on your tail as you duck and weave around the back alleys of the ruins of Washington, DC. All you wanted was a cola... The only cola you ever had was the greatest treat you ever had.
　　　　You quickly glance over your shoulder. Despite their large mass, they are able to keep pace with you easily, crawling over and around the chunks of concrete and rubble from fallen buildings. You breathe heavily behind your gas mask as you fumble for the pistol on your side.
　　　　It's pre-war, like everything else, but fixed up enough to make it a big enough threat for most dangers of the wastes. Not much ammo to scrounge around, though.
　　　　You burst from the alleyway, and slide over the trunk of a busted car. The tail fins nearly catch your coat, but thankfully you do not get stuck. You turn around, and aim your gun as the ants clamber on top of the rusted car. BANG! BANG! A lucky shot. One of the ants fall. The other continues it's charge, closing in.
　　　　Fifteen feet.
　　　　Ten feet.
　　　　Five.
　　　　You fire off three more shots- all of them miss. The ant lunges, it's weight collapsing on top of you. You barely manage to keep a grip on it's carapace, in an attempt to keep the terrifyingly large pincers from sinking into you. Venom drips from the protruding mouthpiece, and with a desperate heave, you flip it on it's back.
　　　　Knees straddling on the underside of the gross mutation’s head, you take out a knife and let the blade sink into the armored hide with a sickening crunch, and keep stabbing until it stops struggling.
　　　　Ichor drips from the knife. You drop it to the side, breathing heavily. The lenses of your gas mask fog up slightly, but you dare not remove it. You grunt a little, and lift
yourself off the ant.
　　　　Picking up your knife again, you carve open its hard shell and harvest some meat off the inside of the monster’s exoskeleton. Eat or be eaten- that is the way of the Wasteland.
==>
　　　　You pause at noontime, your meandering search halted by the rumbling of your stomach. Briefly scanning the area, you jog over to a mostly intact apartment building nearby. The retro-style door frame holds a sturdy, plain oak door, which happens to be locked. Locked- how in fifty years is a door still locked with all the raiders and scavengers?
　　　　You sigh, and pull out a screwdriver. With quite a bit of fiddling, the lock clicks, and you creak the door open as quietly as you can manage.
　　　　The lobby is fairly plain: dirty wood floor, peeling and gaudy wallpaper; the usual for surviving post-apocalypse buildings. The cracked casing of a machine- from the lettering, a ‘Service Bot 3000’- lies limp on the floor- its anti-gravity pack probably shut down with the rest of it when the EMP blast from the bombs hit the city. It’s compact, orb-like body was nearly split in two, and it’s half a dozen tiny manipulator arms were crushed under its own weight.
　　　　Shutting the door behind you and drawing your knife, you start scoping out the place for any hidden threats. The landlord’s office is locked, so if anything is in there it’s staying there.
　　　　You briefly glance over a poster for the opening of the new Clinton Memorial- shuddering at memories of the mercenary gangs that now call it home. The rest of the ground floor also proves to be clear.
　　　　You head up the stair well, more dark-green and destroyed wallpaper greeting you. You wince at the odd creak every other stair makes, and stick to the outer wall to minimize it.
　　　　The landing leading to the third floor is blocked by rubble, so you stop there and investigate the second floor.
　　　　Most of the doors are unlocked. Those that are still locked, you leave that way. Curiosity, the cat, and all that. In one of the rooms, you manage to find a jar of honey- that stuff keeps forever. You stow it in your bag, and catch a glimpse of the Senate building in the distance. Its roof has caved in, and many of the marble columns have cracked under 200 years of neglect. You only regard it for a second- an old relic from a time far before your own.
　　　　As you near the end of the hallway, you hear a scuffling from one of the rooms ahead. Crouching low, you tip toe your way to the door. It’s already swung open, and you peek inside.
　　　　There was a man in there- at least, you assume he used to be a man. All his hair has fallen out, and his pale grey skin hangs loose and sloughs off at points. His clothing is shredded and completely beyond repair.
　　　　As he shuffles through the debris in the room, he gargles lowly and scratches at himself, peeling off more skin. You shudder in disgust. Poor bastard, the lucky ones who get irradiated just die from poisoning. The rare few that get like this... You pray to god you never find out what it’s like.
　　　　You slowly stand up, readying your knife. These guys are extremely dangerous- better to mercy kill him before he tears open your intestines. Just as you slowly sneak up behind him, a floorboard creaks.
　　　　The creature whips its head around, shrieking. You lunge, and plunge the knife through his jugular. Black fluid sprays from the wound, and you bring the knife down again on his skull, cracking his brain pan open.
　　　　You hurriedly back away, dropping the knife in your panic to scrub the black, radioactive grunge off your person. Grabbing a window curtain and yanking, you manage to rip off enough cloth to scrub what you can see off of you.
　　　　Your breathing is panicked and gasping, and you shakily reach inside your long coat’s inner pocket. Fumbling with a small pill bottle, you shake out a pair of iodide tablets and lift up your mask, swallowing them. You don’t think any of his tainted blood got on your skin, but better safe than irradiated.
　　　　You conclude this apartment isn’t the best place to hunker down for a meal, and you abscond the hell out of there.
　　　　==>
　　　　It is hours later, what little sunlight that peers through the constant nuclear cloud cover dips low over the horizon.
　　　　You quietly walk through what used to be a park, before it was engulfed in atomic fire. All that’s left of it is the dead, wiry husks of trees and dusty, dirty ground. You scan around for any other promising, intact shelter- the run in at the apartment still leaving you on edge. That’s two life threatening encounters today. As you think about all these close shaves, you stumble upon the entrance of an old subway system.
　　　　You pause. There's always a certain amount of risk and reward when entering the subways. Pros and cons, if you will. On one hand, there's usually a good chance the subways are already inhabited- either by raiders or other... dangers. However, there's also a good chance of finding an intact vending machine, or better: some cola.
　　　　You almost turn away. Two near death experiences a day are enough for one person, but you pause. Something seems... promising about that station. Maybe you were just crazy, but maybe your quota for dangerous situations per day was already filled, and your luck will turn?
　　　　Sometimes you just need to take a risk and go a little crazy, and everything will turn to gold. Maybe there is a cola in there- and maybe it’s the last damn cola on the planet. And it’s gonna be yours. It’s a silly thought, but it fuels your courage, and you delve into the darkness of the tunnels.
==>
　　　　The lights are dim and flickering, the solar panels that powered many cities before the apocalypse still managing to function even in dim conditions, albeit barely.
　　　　Underneath the city streets, the air is somewhat safer. At least, in large enough areas for you to take off your mask and clean it a bit. The lenses are a little grimy on the inside from your sweat and tears, and are quickly wipe it clean with a dry scrap of cloth, having snagged it from a tattered flag you found.
　　　　You strap the mask back on- don’t want to take any chances. You weren’t always sure if it kept out the radiation, but you felt safer with it.
　　　　Not far in, you find a pre-war soda machine. With a little persuading (and the help of the remains of the now flagless miniature flag stand) the case opens up.
　　　　If you weren’t as level headed, you would have shouted for joy. Against all odds, you find a single intact bottle of cola. You smile, and stow it in your bag. Better to save it for later- as a special treat.
　　　　Slowly and deliberately, you make your way through the ever-descending tunnel. There’s signs of previous inhabitancy- the tell-tale bloody graffiti on the walls left by raiders, saying all sorts of unrepeatable phrases. A few very choice words were placed on top of a wartime “I Want YOU To Join the Army!” poster.
　　　　You take a look at it and shudder. It’s old, though- a sign that the raiders are either gone, or dead. Hopefully both, as far as you’re concerned.
　　　　As you near the turnstiles, a video advertisement on the wall flickers to life, activating at your presence and startling you as it spouts its message across age-old speakers, “Enjoy Kellog’s new Atomic Sugar Blasters! An explosion of flavor in every spoonful!”
　　　　The happy tune to the ad warps and distorts as it tries to play, the data long corrupted by exposure to radiation and the elements. In the distance of the tunnel, however, you hear something. The tink of metal against concrete.
　　　　You are not alone.
　　　　Your breathing quickens, and your hair stands up on end- you scramble for your gun, and duck behind one of the turnstiles while trying to reload it. You fumble with a round and it clinks to the ground, and you scramble to pick it up.
　　　　You hear movement- footsteps now. Running. You whip your head around- three figures across the metro’s lobby. Your lenses are fogging up badly- you can’t make them out too clearly.
　　　　“Hey! Who’s out there?! Show yourself, mutant scum!”
　　　　The voice is rough- but clearly female. Sounds like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. Your mind screams “Raiders!” at you. You manage to slip the bullet in the chamber, and click it closed.
　　　　Your breathing is panicked again- you scan around for someplace to hide and maybe just pick them off. Your lenses are still too fogged up.
　　　　Then, for a brief moment, you have a sense of clarity. Adrenaline hits your system, and time seems to slow down to a crawl.
　　　　Your grip tightens around the pistol, your breathing calms, and you turn your head over the barrier of the turnstile. You can make out three separate figures, albeit very blurry. You close your eyes, count to three, and leap over the turnstile.
　　　　BANG! BANG!
　　　　ZAP!
　　　　You fall to the ground, flopping short over the turnstile’s bars.
　　　　“HOLD YOUR FIRE! HOLD YOUR DAMN FIRE!”
　　　　You lie on the ground, dazed. You blink, not quite sure of what happened. Why was it so hard to breathe? You gulp in air faster, but it does nothing. You feel almost like you’re  drowning- you cough, and red splatters the inside of your gas mask.
　　　　Your hand trembles over your chest, and you feel something sticky on your fingers. More red.
　　　　Your breathing hitches for a moment. You hear something approach, a distant thud in your ears. Muffled voices.
　　　　“Oh shi- he’s a civvie, Captain!” a voice, male this time, says.
　　　　“Jesus, why did he shoot at us? Can’t he see the armor?” a different, deeper male voice says.
　　　　“It’s the Wasteland- shoot first and ask questions later is the SOP.”
　　　　“Stow it, both of you! This is FUBAR thanks to you, Lewis!” the woman’s voice says.
　　　　You feel someone put pressure on your chest. Your vision is starting to creep, but through the streaked red blood on your lenses you see a face of angelic beauty.
　　　　“Come on buddy, stay with me- Lewis! Get me a medical kit!”
　　　　“Cap... that’s a 5-centimeter laser burn, auto-targeted straight through the lung... Medical kits aren’t gonna patch him up.”
　　　　You cough, feeling the warm metallic ooze of blood trickle down the side of your face, and you try to speak. The woman looks at you, “What? What is it- stay with me!”
　　　　“C-cola...”
　　　　You weakly tap your hand against the bag on your side. You feel someone fumble around with it, and the familiar sound of metal bending away from glass.
　　　　A strong hand pries your gas mask off, and you can see a little more clearly now. The angelic woman puts the bottle to your lips, the dark and fizzy beverage pouring smoothly down your gullet.
　　　　“Come on, buddy- drink up. There you go, everything’s gonna be fine,” She starts saying more, but by this time her voice  completely fades off.
Your eyes wander upwards, and through your continually darkening vision you see the flickering subway lights up above. The last remnants of the cola hang on your tongue. A little flat... If you could get one more tas