I have been writing a little story as of late...
It's about some people riding around in a convoy, scavenging goods and stuff.
The apocalypse is not nuclear or epidemic, but rather technological, eg. they reached a level where technology began improving itself exponentially, and then humans became computers.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Rúni, we're leaving,” the radio crackled.
He ran through the old part of the library, picking out books. His brain overworked itself, what should he bring? Old manuscripts? Science journals? History? Something immediately useful? He knew he already had over seven thousand on each of his six pocket-storage blocks, but he might have to wait a long time to see a terminal if his laptop broke. It all added dead weight.
“Rúni, get a move on!”
He picked out a philosophical work, an obscure horror novel, a collection of children's bedtime stories. Every choice was painful.
“Rúni!”
“Roger, coming right over. ETA before you know it,” he answered.
Rúni ran through the the heavy metal door sealing it with a button press. He ran through an office block, taking with him a large stack of blank paper, mechanical pencils, spare leads and erasers.
He emerged into the main hall.
“Rúni you scallywag, don't you know what a deadline is!”
“I do, but I can't say I know how to hold them.”
“We can only delay it because you're invaluable... But this happens every time!”
“Sorry Marcus, it is in the name of knowledge.”
The large militarily-dressed man turned around and began shouting directions to the other people in the caravan.
“Damn that bibliophile,” he cursed under his breath, picking up a bag of nondescript goods.
Rúni threw his bags into the back of a truck, putting on a woollen sweater and wind proof jacket, tugging a gun, with the safety latch on, into the back of his pants.
“You with us, librarian?” The truck driver yelled.
“Rock and roll!”
The seven trucks left the dome shaped building complex silently in a cloud of dust.
“You ain't hungry kid?” A very androgynous middle aged lady asked him, holding out a sandwich.
“Not really...”
“It's chow time, put down that book and have a tuna sandwich.”
“I said I'm not hungry Jeanne.”
“Listen, you're my responsibility here in group three and you're thin as a twig. Eat.”
Rúni reluctantly took the sandwich from her hand.
“Man can not live by bread alone, Erza.”
“But it sure helps in the long run,” she added.
Her radio beeped twice, she plugged her ear and answered it. Rúni fell back to his book and absent-mindedly began eating the rather ordinary sandwich. He liked reading. A lot. He did whenever possible, whenever he had time. He had some bleak memories of once having an entire library for himself, but he wasn't sure if that had all been a dream.
It was a good horror novel. The plot was intricate and challenging to understand and involved many stories woven into each other. A parental relationship, a suicide investigation, an academic review of a documentary and the story of the house that said documentary was recorded in.
“Good book?” An old man across from Rúni asked.
“Yeah.”
He became less focused on his surroundings and gradually slipped into his own little world of written words. He barely noticed Erza going up to talk to the driver.
“Listen up people. Chief has spotted something that looks like a caravan.”
Groans were heard from the other passengers.
“We'll be meeting them in about twenty minutes, so gear up, expect the worst and hope for the best. Rúni, you'll be needed up front.”
He reluctantly put down his book and picked up a military grade helmet Marcus had once given him.
Marcus ordered a full stop just before the other convoy came within firing range. Rúni jumped out of his truck and ran up to the front where Marcus and a few of the gals who was good at diplomacy stood. He noticed some of the military guys unpacking a machine gun in the front truck, ready to tear off the awnings and open fire. Everybody was on their marks, the air was so tense you could cut it with a knife.
“Hey rookie. You good to go?” Marcus asked in a serious tone.
“I got about a hundred sheets. I'll be fine,” Rúni said and took out a piece of paper from his satchel.
“Expect the worst, hope for the best,” Marcus said and took a deep breath.
The other convoy consisted of a single truck with two trailers daisy chained. It came to a halt and the paper sheet Rúni held stopped waving in the wind and became stiff and rigid.
Nothing happened.
They stood waiting for almost a minute before the cabin door opened and a man stepped out. He was dressed in rags an looked at the assembly lazily.
“Don't slack your guard, this might be a trick,” Marcus hissed.
“Don't... Go...” The man spoke.
“Shush! He's going to say something.”
“Turn... Back... Please.”
Chatter spread through the group, but it was abruptly cut off by the next action the man took. He took out a pistol.
“Sir, drop the gun!” Marcus yelled and drew his own, taking aim along with every single of the other militants.
The man only gave a tired wave and a smile in reply, he then licked his lips and put the gun in his mouth.
“Hey! Wait!”
A muffled gunshot was heard.
“All right... Anyone who needs to get over what they just saw, take your time. Everyone else, come with me.”
Rúni had fallen to a sitting position in the dust of the dirt road. He had not expected to see what he presumed was a sole survivor committing suicide.
“Rúni, get up and come along.”
“But he said I could take my time! I'm not from some crazy place where people go around and shoot themselves!”
“We don't know what's in them trailers. If it's something that shrugs off bullets like water droplets, you're out only chance.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Now the plan is that they find something in one of those trailers, but I am out of ideas to what that something might be...
