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I remember the exact moment when I knew I was going to die. It was 9 months after the Nuclear war, and by that time the radiation had set in. I was the only one who made it to the bunker alive, and I emerged to a horrific landscape, devoid of vegetation and life. The only thing that broke the monotony of the charred earth was the occasional foundation of what was once a proud home and rubble strewn from the impact of the nukes. It took many days to get used to this new world and the idea that everyone I loved and knew was most likely dead. In the following two months, I amassed the tools and equipment needed to survive the mutant hordes and lack of food while traveling as far away from the fallout zone as possible. The further I went the more the terrain changed. Soon I was in a desert with dunes as far as the eye could see. Several days later, I found the remnants of a mostly intact stone building, which I made my home. Weeks later, I ran out of the precious little water I had brought, and I realized there was no hope. The radio I had built was not picking up a single signal, and I had exhausted my rations. That was when I felt death, leisurely closing in on me. And I did not fight back.


A somewhat dismal backstory, but I feel it fits. Enjoy!

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Taken on June 21, 2010