sketch 3

Tom was reading War of the Worlds.

It told of conquerors from another planet, complete helplessness, and survival amidst total horror. It was something Tom could easily relate to, especially the part where the only solution Wells could think of was to live like roaches beneath the feet of crushing defeat. The only difference between its world and now was its optimism. The earth won, but humanity had nothing to do with it.

He was about a third through his dog-eared copy, probably the only book he'll ever have. This was the sixth time he had read it and the story never changed. He never tired of it. It was the first to teach him hope and that was the only reason he needed to keep it close.

The earth would live on, the book said, like a dog after the fleas have gone. Hope said he wasn't a flea.

"How much longer?"

"Three weeks if we split the spam and not think about it."

"Hmm, George?"

"Might as well," George tossed ten bottlecaps into the pot, "Three weeks won't make much of a difference. Their signals are still very strong, still very loud. Must be some relay they have walking around to penetrate the walls this much." An earphone lodged in his ear and jacked into an earring--a crystal radio detector.

A game of cards kept their mind off hunger. They were survivors, the only ones who could actually survive cos they didn't have electronics for body parts or other such inserts. They were harder to find, but it also meant they needed to eat and sleep.

There were five of them in their little posse; Big Sis Sally, Old Man Paper, Old Man George, Tom, and Huxley. Tom and Huxley were Old Man Paper's fosters, taught the ropes ever since they learned to walk. Where Old Man Paper went, they tagged along. Old Man George was Big Sis Sally's uncle. He took over her education after Old Man Davy died to cancer.

They were out on a week long hike when their way back got cut off by nanoswarms and reapers. Good thing Old Man George caught the signals before they tripped on themselves. Arcologies were tricky and labyrinthine, even more so now that everything got shot to hell. One wrong turn mean getting trapped, flesh eaten by the swarms, skulls taken by the reapers. Huxley was the best bet they had for finding the way out. He'd been gone three days already. Tom was a little worried. Huxley was practically a brother to him. This wasn't the first time they've sent him rat a way out, but he worried nonetheless. Besides, his body was started to ache from too much sitting anyway. He needed to stretch, have something else to do.

"Had enough?"

"If you got the caps, there's a place for you here."

"I suck at gambling, Old Man. I'm keeping my caps."

Tom stood, stretched, and yawned. Yawning was a bad sign, meant they were running out of precious, breathable air. Hux