Someone failed to protect us. And so it ended. And here we are.
It's been eight generations since the fall. In that time, we've lost what we once knew and we have been changed. Who knows what things were like before the "Breech of Kontaymon"? We hang on. Not because we should, but because they feel guilty.
They help us now, holding back the big monsters and guiding us to safety. We keep what we scavenge, the guns and the shrooms. The shrooms are everywhere now. They grow on anything that dies. They are good to eat.
No-one has slept for a hundred years, the elders said. What is sleep? It is a little death when you are tired, and you come back afterwards not tired. It sounds miraculous.
There is a place which still stands, a white city in the wasteland. Everyone seeks the white city. Some say it is a route back to before the End.
I grabbed another handful of the shrooms from the dead tree's bark, still glancing from side to side.
The mucus trail of a goreslug ran along the ground, dark red but very visible. Very close by.
I took my rifle and readied myself, looking around. Sure enough, it was watching me from a branch, slavering burning juices which bit into the ground.
It spoke to me.
"Good morning, young sir!"
I spat and aimed the gun at its head.
"No need for such rudeness. Please, put it down. I only wish to talk."